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acatalystrising · 1 year

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I, unsurprisingly, am having more Boba thoughts and after pondering his losses and just wanting to SHOWER this traumatized tin can man with love, had to write a new oneshot.

@rexxdjarin and I both agree that Boba deserves love, not simply to give it, but to receive it as well. This was also inspired by the song ‘The Way that You Were’ by Sleep Token. So I hope you enjoy this little drabble and all the feels that come along with it.

This is for mature audiences only! Light NSFW below the cut. Minors DNI, thank you!

Oneshot: Love Like Yours

“Come on, tear off the bandage

The way that you were

With pain as your language

The way that you were

Will you show me the damage?

The way that you were”

The twin suns had long set, fading over the shimmering dunes like dying stars. You peered out of the window into the moonless night, the monochromatic cloud cover blotting out the night sky. For whatever reason, it sent slivers of anxiety twisting like knives in your chest.

It had been three days. Three days since you’d last seen Boba.

You knew you shouldn’t worry. He was a busy man, and despite turning away from the perilous life of bounty hunting, he hadn’t traded it for anything less life threatening as the Daimyo. Logically, you knew Fennec would have commed you if something had gone wrong. Unless something had happened to her, too…

Kriff, you needed to unwind. They both were capable warriors. You weren’t a pushover yourself - there was a reason you’d been left in charge of the palace in their absence. You matched Boba and Fennec’s lethal prowess in your own ways, and it was one of the reasons you and Boba made such a formidable pair. But right now, you didn’t feel confident. You hated that you worried because it wouldn’t do a damn thing.

But you still paced the bedroom you shared with your love, fingernail clenched between your teeth, mind spinning as your footsteps echoed on the lonely walls. You hated it, feeling like a caged nexu, unable to help him. But…

You sighed, running a hand through your hair and crossing the room, eyeing the bottle of wine sitting on the end table near your bed. Perhaps that would help take the edge off.

As your fingertips brushed against the polished glass, heavy footsteps broke the stagnant silence. You turned, careful to stand next to one of your hidden blasters just in case it wasn’t who you were expecting as the door slid open with a soft hiss. Boba walked in - movements more a shuffle than a stride, stern features set like stone. Judging by the limp in his step and the twitching of his brow, the mission hadn’t gone well.

You didn’t move - gauging his body language and knowing he was in pain. Boba Fett had softened in some ways for you, and you alone - but lonely years spent shouldering his own burdens weren’t easily unlearned. You of all people understood that.

He stopped by his armor stand as if frozen, brow tense, eyes dark, lips twisted in a small scowl, gloved hands clenched. It was only then that you noticed the blood staining his side. You nearly missed it, his black robes hid blood so well, but it was matted and darker then usual. He slowly began to remove his armor, an audible groan slipping past his lips, and you finally shifted into action.

“You’ll bleed out that way,” you raised a brow, keeping to the point. You’d learned directness was the best approach in these situations. “Can I help you?”

He huffed a response, shoulders taut, broad frame barely diminished by his pain - but you saw through the armor that wasn’t beskar. The armor that went much deeper then any weapon could reach.

“I’m fine,” he finally spoke, voice a low and rasping as he reached for a pauldron with a wince.

You didn’t move, merely raising your brow, standing your ground against the one man who arguably could best you in combat. Silence fell, and for a moment, you wondered if he’d actually reject your assistance. But the Daimyo simply sighed, shoulders sagging, finally looking at you through that pained mask. His gaze softened ever so slightly, a subtle chip in his walls crumbling, lip twitching in a near smile.

“Stubborn thing,” he finally unclasped the piece of armor with a grumble, that low tone frightening enough to send a lesser soul running. “Won’t take no for an answer.”

“One of my endearing traits,” you dared to take a step further. “I’d rather not have you die in my arms.”

He raised a dark brow at that, his healed scars catching in the dim light. Even now, in the pain he was experiencing, Boba Fett was the most breathtaking man you’d ever seen. And maker above, you wanted to keep him that way if he’d let you.

His head finally bowed, a subtle shift in his rigid posture showing you he was at least open to reason. Pain tended to do that, in your experience.

“Some young hunter thought he could bring me down,” he grimaced, reaching for the second pauldron. “Didn’t realize the Pykes already lost.”

“His funeral.” You took another careful step forward, gaze flicking over his body for further injuries. “I’m assuming he’s dead?”

“Sent his head back to the guild.” Boba grimaced. “Should get the message across.”

You nodded, still waiting, watching him carefully as he stood there, clearly lost in his thoughts.

“All right, mesh’la,” he finally spoke with a heavy sigh, suddenly sounding years older. “You can help if you wish.”

You didn’t smirk or gloat in your victory. You simply gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and helped him remove the armor that had struck fear across the galaxy. The beskar that had saved his life countless times, even from the Great Pit of Carkoon. Once it was all removed and his vest was set aside, you gestured at the wound with a frown. He sighed, brows lowering, lips twisting in pain as he proceeded to slip out of his flight suit, rolling it down to his hips, baring his bronzed skin to you. Gods, you’d never stop melting at the mere reminder of how gorgeous he was…yet another truth he doubted.

The wound was bloody, cutting into his side, clearly a glancing blow from a vibroblade. You glanced at him, and he nodded his consent, slowly moving over to the bed so he could sit down.

“Got between my armor,” he grunted, shifting so you could get a better look at the injury. “Not as…young as I used to be.”

“Oh Boba, you’re not old,” you walked over to the medical kit and grabbed a bacta patch and supplies. “This kind of life…wears on a person.”

“Didn’t affect you,” he finally managed a small smile despite his furrowed brow, the first sign that he was emerging from the dark corners of his mind.

“Hey, you know that’s not true,” you couldn’t help but shoot him a smirk as you cleaned his wound, placing the bacta patch on last, trying your best to be gentle. “We’ve both done things we regret.”

He simply nodded, a comfortable silence falling between you both. Once the patch was secure you sat on the bed beside him, keeping a respectful distance until you knew he was comfortable with physical contact.

Few people knew how damaged and isolated the best bounty hunter in the galaxy was. Even fewer would care. Boba’s story was not a kind one - and he’d spent more years alone then the few healing ones that were most recent. It took time to heal old wounds - wounds a bacta tank couldn’t mend. But you knew he was deserving of love - because if he was able to look at you in all your flaws and see someone worth investing in, you knew without a doubt there was a good heart buried under all that beskar and muscle. And you were determined to nurture it and coax it into the light.

“We have.” He shifted until he was facing you, earnestly meeting your gaze. “But you’re not one of them.”

Heat blossomed in your cheeks, but you didn’t bother trying to hide your blush. You’d been long past pretense with him, and he’d earned your trust just as much as you’d earned his.

“Same for you,” you smiled at him, openly this time. “You’re stuck with me now, Boba Fett. So don’t go dying on me, okay?”

He hummed, reaching out and cupping your chin with his hand, the hard planes of his face melting into a smile so soft, you nearly wanted to weep.

“That’s the plan, princess,” he caressed your cheek, so gentle despite your mind reminding you he was strong.

Strong, in that those hands who’d killed hundreds were soft with you. Strong, that his muscles and barrel chest spoke of a life lived in constant turmoil. Strong, in those dark eyes that had seen unspeakable violence and insurmountable loss.

You leaned into his touch, daring to press a soft kiss to his wrist, letting your lips linger on his skin. He grunted, brows flying up in surprise.

“You’re beautiful,” you met his gaze, voice soft, sincere. “You know that, right?”

“So you say,” he slowly shifted until he was laying on his back on the bed, legs draped over the edge. He sighed, closing his eyes, lips still curved in a slight frown. “Wouldn’t dare disagree with you.”

“Smart.” You lay down beside him, curling in your side so you could face him. “Old dogs can learn new tricks.”

“Easy now,” his tone was low and full of warning, but you saw the sly smirk curving those beautiful lips.

You merely chuckled, shifting to lay on your back beside him. These moments were your favorite, when it was just the two of you - allowed blissful moments of silence. No nagging responsibilities, battles to fight, scores to settle. Just two people enjoying one another’s company.

Boba looked at you with a small smirk, gaze roving over you with an expression of unbridled admiration. “C’mere, little one.”

You snuggled against him, careful to avoid his wound, purposefully pressing your head over his chest to help him feel grounded. He wrapped his arms around you, but before he had the chance to hold you against him, you shifted to his back and held him close - arms comfortably tucked around his waist.

“Scheming minx,” his tone was gruff, and though you couldn’t fully see his face, you heard the smile in his voice even as he pressed his hands over yours.

Oh, he could be grumpy. But he hadn’t pushed you away, either.

“Bounty hunters need love, too,” you pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear, relishing when he shivered under your touch. “And you don’t have to be alone, anymore.”

He fell silent, mulling over your words, and you kissed his neck, then his back, tracing his many scars with your lips. You treated him like something to be worshipped, someone worthy of all the adoration the world could offer. And damn it all, you believed he did.

“Keep kissing like that and I’m not gonna be able to keep my hands off you,” he spoke again, voice impossibly rough.

You laughed, nibbling his earlobe with your teeth, dropping your hands ever so slightly lower until they were settled comfortably on his abdomen.

“That’s the idea, my love,” you smirked against him, smile widening when he let out a huffed groan that rumbled through his chest, into yours. “Let me care for you for once, okay?”

“Hmm…” he seemed to ponder, though you already knew he’d made his decision. “On one condition.”

You waited, hands hovering, touch centimeters away from where you wanted to be. Where you wanted to bring pleasure to someone who’d endured so much pain.

“I take you next.” He shifted just enough so he could meet your gaze, his eyes burning with passion, searing you to your core.

“What a request,” you grinned, leaning in and kissing him, twining your legs with his as your fingers crept dangerously lower. “That’s an offer I can’t refuse, my Daimyo.”

Boba rolled his eyes as if in dismissal, but you merely smirked, dropping your hand to his crotch and stroking his rock hard length through his flight suit, before slipping your fingers beneath the hem of his pants. He was already hot, heavy, and ready for you, and your grin widened. He groaned - a nearly desperate sound no one else would ever hear - and you kissed him harder, hoping that if he didn’t believe you, you could show him. Show him that he was worth loving. That he wasn’t too broken.

That he would never, ever, have to be alone again.

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artemiscalled · 4 years

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

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Murder, He Wrote

Part 6.

Summary: Ransom and you attend a wake for his great-nanna Wanetta, with the rest of his family. The knives are out, and they’re sharp…

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So here it is, the penultimate chapter to this series! One more to go post this, plus an epilogue. I can’t believe it’s almost over…

Word Count: 9.5k (oops)

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 5

You'd managed to get through Christmas fairly well. The days leading up, Ransom had been a little suspiciously sneaky but you didn't give it a second thought, really. Things between you and your captor were more than amicable, they were pleasant. But, despite the cohabitation and this new found demeanour in him, Ransom wasn't above reminding you that you were still under his eye. And under his eye you were indeed, all day long. He watched you as you read, as you cooked, as you wrote in your journal. Oddly, not once showing interest in your musings but working away on his own.

Christmas morning, the two of you had spent a few lazy hours in bed, Ransom waking you with kisses over your bare skin, stripped down and tired from the evening before where he worked you over until you couldn't move, crying out his name near midnight, his breathless, tired voice telling you 'Merry Christmas' before he slept. After an easy egg and toast breakfast, the two of you were sitting around the lounge, the fire burning, the tree lit, soft music played in the background, watching a fresh layer of snow falling outside. You were reading Dickens' holiday classic, aloud while Ransom sat next to you, idling running a long index finger over your neck in slow and soft, up and down strokes, listening to you. Suddenly he'd stopped and removed the book from your hands.

"I have something for you," he said, a slight eagerness to his tone. He slipped away for a brief moment, pulling a box, intricately wrapped, clearly not by himself, from under the tree. You'd never noticed it there, not once and you wondered when he'd put it there or if he'd hidden it in the very spot this whole time.

The red leather box sat heavy in your hand as you read the gold inscription on the top. With an unsteady breath, you lifted the hinged lid and hitched your breath at what sat inside. A white gold necklace, with two interlocking rings in a signature Cartier design glistened back at you. The screw motifs which were set in ideal oval shaped rings studded with diamonds that twinkled in the light sat snuggly inside against black velvet.

You were stunned. The gesture far too expensive and in your mind inappropriate. But you also thought it was absolutely gorgeous, and you wondered how he'd come up with such an expensive idea. You'd not mentioned anything of the sort in your time together, in fact, you hadn't had jewellery on bar your ball studs in your ears now.

You looked up from the delicate piece and your eyes met expectant ones. "It's beautiful," you spoke softly. "Thank you."

"Let me put it on you," he sat next you whilst taking the box from your hands. He gently pulled it away from the box and unclasped it, settling it around your neck as you moved your hair out of the way, thin tendrils framing your face. Your robe slipped off your shoulder and you felt his soft lips against your skin, down your neck and along your shoulder. "Let me see you," he spoke softly.

You turned in his direction and you saw the way he admired the way the piece sat across your chest, the silk robe you were wearing over your barely-there nightgown gaping open. As his eyes blatantly roved down between the valley of your breasts your own flicked across his casual, lazy-Christmas morning form, his broad chest and shoulders clad in a white thermal, sweats hung low on his hips.

"Perfect," he whispered, leaning towards you.

You were not a bought woman, no; you were his victim, his roommate, his co-habitant, his lover, his partner, his... Oh for Christ's sake you could go on with the labels that did or didn't make sense, were mutual or not, had or didn't carry the weight of a proper explanation. Right now, you were going through the motions and emotions.

"I like it, a lot, thank you again," you replied as his lips grew closer to yours. "I've never had such an expensive gift before."

His lips ghosted over yours, "There's plenty more where that came from, Sweetheart."

The implication of his words had hit you like a freight train as you realised just how many more ‘occasions’ he was planning on the pair of you spending together. New Year, Easter, Spring Break, your birthday, his birthday, summer, Memorial Day. It sparked so many conflicting opinions within you that you were glad of the distraction when he moved, his fingers delicate as he undid the ties of your robe and led you down on the rug before his lips had traced a path down your body and soon he’d had you crying his name, sheer bliss coursing through your veins.

Later that day, you'd made dinner for him, a reminder of how Christmas used to be when Wanetta and his Grandmother shared the festivities. After the quiet meal, he had expected you to join him for a shower, no doubt as pay back for him going down on you earlier. When you'd respectfully declined stating you needed to wash the dishes, he sneered and sulked off. You'd made sure that when he was gone long enough, you were able to get things set up for your gift. Now was the time to show Ransom how gifts of meaning and purpose were to be given and hopefully received. Not that it was going to make a blind bit of difference to your situation, not in the grand scheme of things anyway. You'd finished cleaning and putting everything away and headed into the lounge where you stoked the fire and then made your way back into the kitchen for your supplies. The hot cocoa burning hot, the slices of bread, tongs and a small serving of butter, complete with freshly blended cinnamon sugar. You knew he would come find you when you were not waiting in the bedroom for him. If Ransom Drysdale was anything, it was a creature of expectation and habit. You'd heard him coming down the stairs, that one spot with a creak carrying his footfall. You straightened up your things, setting up the tongs and tray of treats nicely before covering them with a cloth napkin, standing between the coffee table and the fireplace, and waited on baited breath for the tirade you thought was coming. He had turned the corner, his face stern with evident hard lines, his bare chest on display, hair still wet from the shower. You could smell him as he entered the doorway, that scent that you'd soon come to realize made you heady and needy. You waved him over, a hunt of excitement to your tone, "come on, come sit." “I don’t want to sit, Sweetheart, I want you like I had you before dinner. Crying my name with you under me.” He stood just inside the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest, sweats hung low on his hips. He wore no shirt just to entice you, but you weren't giving in so easily. "I'll say your name as many times as you want, but first, I need to give you my gift." You chose then to look at him with big eyes, sincere yet seductive.

It was a stare off between the two of you, he not budging and you popping your hip out to one side as you folded your arms over your chest. He had his fun, now you wanted to enjoy something and gift giving brought you joy.

Like a child told to apologize for hitting another, he hung his head and sulked over. You could tell it pained him to obey your request. But you again saw through his facade. You knew this meant far more to him than anything he'd ever received.

But he'd never tell you that. Not that you thought anyway. “Oh stop being so you, Ransom, for just five minutes.” You snorted exasperatedly at his petulant nature. “It’s Christmas.” With a roll of his eyes that would make any toddler jealous, he took to his knees sitting on his heels. With a smirk, you joined him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, "Merry Christmas, Ransom." You pulled the napkin off the tray revealing the contents of your gift. His eyes moved over the tray, first seeing the mugs of cocoa, topped with whipped cream that was beginning to melt into the warm liquid. The tongs, the bread, the small pinch bowls of cinnamon sugar and the soft butter. With his mind occupied, you managed to grab a throw and wrap it around the two of you. He blinked, and you could see that he was fighting the smirk that was threatening to cross his handsome face. “Toast?” He finally asked and you nodded, smiling. "I couldn't go get you something, not that it mattered, so this was the next best thing." A flicker of something darkened his face, and for a moment you thought you saw regret flash in his eyes, just like the day he had marked your face but as soon as it had appeared it was gone. "Just enjoy it, even if you can't say anything about it, just...." you shrugged, "remember." That night, after the toast with cinnamon butter and cocoa from scratch were shared, he had his way with you, delightfully slow, once more by the fire, you again crying out his name and he yours, over and over again. By the time he finished, you were both boneless and breathless, his body covering yours until he rolled over and the two of you slept by the fire, wrapped up in each other's arms, the heavy throw around your naked bodies.

Christmas had been nice. Maybe, somewhat enjoyable, you'd admitted to yourself. Of course, the wrench of not seeing your family had weighed like a stone in your gut, compounded by the fact that thanks to the lie you’d been forced to tell Blanc, they thought this was your choice. That you were staying away from them because you wanted to, when nothing could be further from the truth. You missed your mom and dad goofing around over presents, still trying to tell your now well grown-up sister and you Santa had been. You ached for the usual family politics that manifested when your uncles and aunts descended for dinner. You longed for your sister to be complaining about how fat she was going to get…

"We have to go," Ransom’s deep baritone caught you completely off guard, making you jump as you stood staring out of the large French windows over the garden from the master suite.

“Oh, okay,” you nodded, taking a deep breath to centre yourself, your heart racing at the speed of light from your fright. You took a glance at yourself in the mirror above the fireplace and found yourself wishing you’d done a better job at covering up the ugly scab and green bruising on your face.

You followed Ransom in his tan coat, pin striped slacks and a black cashmere sweater as he strode from the room. You felt nervous, anxious, scared. This was the first time you were leaving the house in two months. He led you to the garage where you started walking to the SUV he'd taken you in but he stopped you short, calling out to you, "not this time, Sweetheart." He stood at the passenger door to his vintage BMW. You swallowed and walked towards the door he was holding open for you. Wordlessly, you sank into the passenger seat and reached for your belt. Pulling it across your lap, you adjusted the pencil skirt and blouse you'd tucked into so as not to wrinkle it, your soft black peacoat bluky in your seat. The car roared to life, throbbing beneath you, the hum of the engine might, in other circumstances, have excited you. But now, the only thing filling you was dread. The first time you’re out of your "castle", and it's to go to a wake, for Wanetta Thrombey.

Go figure. ***** The silence in the car was stifling. Every so often Ransom stole a glance at Y/N to find her simply staring out of the window, at one stage reaching up to wipe her eye. He didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t an idiot. Over Christmas he’d caught her numerous time completely zoned out, as if she was somewhere else, just like she had been moments before they had left. And whilst she’d done her best to keep her tears and attitude at bay, she’d been clipped with him a number of times which he’d simply let slide and instead of reminding her about her attitude, he’d pressed her to tell him what was wrong. She’d quietly admitted that she missed her family, something Ransom simply couldn’t understand, so in the spirit of their recent candid openness, he’d asked her bluntly why she needed them so much when he gave her everything she could possibly ever want. At that she had snorted, and taken great pains to explain to him that just because he failed to understand something didn’t make it any less valid of a feeling to someone else and then she’d deftly changed the subject, and he’d allowed the conversation to steer elsewhere.

And now, the first time she’d been anywhere but the inside of his house and strictly the garden for months, they were headed to spend time with his shit-head family. The irony was staggering when you considered it. He eased his beloved beemer onto the main road and pushed his foot down on the gas, weaving himself in and out of the light traffic obnoxiously fast. But he wasn’t known for his patience, he had somewhere to be and in his mind; the faster he got there the faster he could leave, keen to spend as little time with his family as possible. About halfway into the journey, Ransom felt that familiar cold feeling in his stomach as he pulled off the freeway and on to one of the smaller roads. He could drive this journey with his eyes closed but it was the first time he’d been back to the mansion since... well, since IT had all gone down. The more he thought about it, the more agitated he could feel himself getting, his hands gripping the steering wheel of the car with a force that made his knuckles white. He was jolted however, with the feeling of a hand on his arm and his head turned slightly to see Y/N looking at him. She didn’t say anything, and no sooner had he registered her touch she moved her hand dropping it back into her lap, eyes focussed downwards as his turned back to the road. He swallowed, that familiar and uncomfortable feeling of remorse once more washing over him. Despite everything he had done to her, she was still voluntarily lending him comfort.

Ten minutes later, he swung up the tree-lined driveway, his heart pounding in his chest. His jaw set hard as the mansion came into view, and low and behold his mother, standing on the front steps, a cigarette between her fingers as she exasperatedly texted on her phone. A meek voice came from the seat beside him, "its going to be okay." But he couldn't decipher if she were talking to him or herself. He cut the engine, his hands still on the wheel as he sighed and hung his head, before he turned to her. “I don’t need to warn you about trying anything do I?” He asked, ignoring her effort to placate him. "No," she replied quietly. “Good.” He reached out and gently gripped her chin between his thumb and finger, pressing as soft kiss to her lips, the action as much for him as it was for the benefit of his mother who was watching the pair of them. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” He gracefully unfolded himself from the driver’s side, shutting the door behind him and strode to the front of his car, waiting for Y/N to catch up. Her face was set, an expression he’d seen countless times before when she’d been fearful and acting under duress. He watched as she took a deep breath and drew back her shoulders whilst he reached for her hand. Obediently, she took it and together they strode towards the large wooden door, his mother watching them as they approached "You're late," Linda scoffed.

He paid her no mind and pulled Y/N along his side. “I’m sure Nanna won’t mind too much, you know, on account of her being dead.” He retorted sardonically.

You stood by his side, your eyes watching Linda and she turned her attention to you, her eyes narrowing a little, a strange expression on her features, almost as if she was sussing you out. But, as her eyes flicked to your injured cheek before they darted to Ransom who still had a possessive grip around your hand you realised with horror it wasn’t you she was suspicious of. It was the bruise on your face, more so how it had gotten there.

You cleared your throat. “Funny thing,” you gestured to it and her eyes snapped to yours, “too much Scotch and I tripped. Face first into the corner of my vanity."

Okay, so it wasn’t a complete lie…but you still felt sick to your stomach at how quickly you’d jumped to his defence.

“Sure.” Linda arched an eyebrow.

“What exactly are you getting at, Mother?” Ransom looked at her, his jaw set and Linda rolled her eyes, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Nothing really, I just find it extremely odd that you get an interview with this girl to clear your name and she ends up in your bed, only after she’s done a complete hatchet job on all of us first.” She dropped her cigarette end to the floor before she looked at him shrewdly.

“For which she published an apology.” Ransom’s voice was flat and carried an undertone of annoyance to which Linda paid no attention.

“Because you’re really the type to forgive and forget so easily.” She scoffed as Ransom gave a dramatic sigh as his mother continued, her head now turning to you. “You know, I could hardly believe it when Blanc told us you were with him, and then I saw you with my own eyes and now here you are again…“

“What do you mean, when Blanc told you?” Ransom frowned as his hand contracted almost painfully around yours, a warning no doubt to remain silent. His mother had hit the nail on the head, proving that she knew her son a lot better than you, and no doubt he, had bothered to give her credit for.

“Her disappearance was all over the news, more so because they’d linked it to that god-awful cretin of an actor, Lucas Lee.” She turned back to look at him. “But, no sooner had they done that he was cleared thanks to a cast-iron alibi and low and behold, a few weeks later Blanc turns up.” Linda raised her brows, her gaze fixed on Ransom. “I told him where to find you-“

“Gee, thanks.” Ransom drawled and she glared at him, before he rolled his eyes and gestured with his hand for her to continue.

“And obviously he did as he came back a day or so later, saying that to his surprise you-“ her eyes flicked to yours then and you swallowed “-were seemingly there, of your own accord.”

“I erm,” you fumbled on your words and felt Ransom let go of your hand, his palm warm as it now rested between your shoulder blades. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for another lie, one that this time you’d spun before and you shrugged, licking your lips. “I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I came to realize that despite my scathing feature, Ransom intrigued me. I wanted to get to know him more. One thing led to another and I figured if we kept our relationship quiet for a while, I'd save myself the spit on my face from my family and people like you.”

“People like me?” Linda arched a brow, her lips quirking up at one side. “

“I didn’t mean…” You shook your head, quickly taking a deep breath. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“A tad, but I’ve had worse.” Linda’s eyes twinkled with something that looked like amusement as she reached into her pocket for her packet of cigarettes. “But, what I don’t understand is, why let your family believe you were missing, dead even?”

“I, well, I was under a lot of pressure at work, and everything just got too much and needed to escape, from everything. Ransom told me to stay with him for a while to get some head space and I didn’t mean to cause anyone any hurt or upset and-“

You stopped dead as you felt Ransom curl his hand round the back of your neck, giving a squeeze in warning. You were rambling.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Sweetheart,” his voice was softly spoken as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “it’s none of her business.”

Linda looked at you for a moment, before she turned to her son and shrugged, popping another cigarette into her mouth. “I’ve long since given up trying to understand anything you did.”

“Well, like the judge said,” Ransom moved, his hand now on the base of your spine as he turned and guided you to the large door of the house, “not of sound mind.”

In the spacious drawing room, the rest of the family was gathered around. There were no others at the wake, Wanetta having outlived everyone she knew. You knew Ransom would offer no introductions, but that wasn’t an issue, you knew everyone anyway from your extensive research into this fucked up family. The fire burned in the background, and Ransom’s father, Richard, lounged in an arm-chair, a young woman who you presumed to be the au-pair Ransom talked about with disdain, perched on his lap. Walt was perched in another arm-chair, his wife Donna stood behind him, clutching a half drunk glass of wine, their son Jacob absent from the room. Marta and Meg were perched on the couch with Joni flitting about, a crunch from a carrot stick heard from across the room. You walked in and immediately felt the daggers in your skin as all eyes turned towards you. The knives were out and you swallowed, adjusting your sleeve, feeling Ransom's presence behind you.

“Here…” you felt Ransom’s hands gently pulling on the shoulders of your coat and he slipped it from your body, gently pressing another kiss to your cheek. You turned to look at him, offering him a small smile before he moved to hang the coat up on the stand at the far side of the room.

“Y/N, right?” Marta was the first one to speak as she stood up, and you nodded, not bothering to ask how she knew your name. It was a given she’d have read the article, and it was also a given thanks to the conversation moment’s ago with Linda, that the rest of the family had also been briefed on the fact you were ‘with’ Ransom. What clearly hadn’t’ been anticipated from the not-so-covert surprised glances that were being shared, was that he would have brought you today. “Can I get you a drink?” She continued and you smiled.

“Please, erm, a wine would be great.”

“Red or white?”

“She prefers white.” Ransom spoke and Marta’s eyes darted to his. You instantly felt his entire body language stiffen and you turned to him, the distaste evident on his face, his entire aura radiating utter disdain and bitterness.

Marta simply took a deep breath, her expression flat, but her eyes fierce as they remained in a silent stand-off.

“Can’t she speak for herself?” Meg scoffed and Ransom pulled his eyes away from Marta, turning his glare to his cousin.

“Is explaining what a lady prefers to drink considered sexist as well now or…”

“He’s right,” You jumped in quickly, smiling at Marta. “White is great, thanks.”

Marta nodded.

“Hugh?” She looked at Ransom and you blinked at the use of that name and then realised, of course, she’d once upon a time been the help. That said, you knew she was saying it simply because she wanted to, not that her status required it and there was an amused look on Ransom’s face as he turned to her.

“Beer.”

You rolled your eyes to yourself at his lack of manners, but from the expression on Marta’s face she’d been expecting it, and to be honest, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t been. Her lips curled into a sarcastic grin as she turned and headed out.

“You should try it, Donna. It’s got camomile and lavender in. I swear by it.” Your ears then picking up on a conversation between Walt, Donna and Joni and you turned your head towards them, Ransom’s arm curled round your waist, hand resting heavy on your hip. Joni bit down on the carrot stick she was holding with a flourish of her hands. “It’s my favourite thing FLAM have done.”

"You know, I'm surprised you didn't go under given you're no longer receiving Dad's money.” Walt interjected and Joni rolled her eyes.

“Shows how much attention you pay, Walt. When I released that new line of bath-bombs and candles, sales, like literally, went through the roof.”

“Bath-bombs?” Walt frowned.

“Yeah, they’re like little cakes if you will of dried soap and fragranced that you drop into a-“

“I know what they are.” Walt rolled his eyes as Marta appeared, handing you your drink which you took with a thanks. “I was commenting on the fact you said you’d launched a new line.”

“Oh, yeah.” Joni munched her carrot stick some more. “I got the idea from Gwyneth Paltrow when she released that candle scented like her vagina.” At that you choked on your drink and hastily avoided looking at anyone in the room as various groans and loud protests from the males hit your ears.

At that point Linda walked back into the room and sat down in a chair not far from where you were sat and she smoothed down her trousers before she peered up at Ransom.

“How’s the book coming along?” She asked, peering from over the top of her wine glass as she sipped from it.

“Fine.” Ransoms shrugged. “Few little blocks here and there but I’ll work through them. Granddad always told me sometimes it pays to take a step back and pause, ideas often come when you’re not expecting them.”

Linda smiled, and you were pleased to see that, for once, it appeared genuine, as if she was actually looking at her son with something more than ambivalence. And then, the moment was ruined as Meg burst out laughing.

“You’re writing a book? What’s it called? ‘Ransom’s Guide To Being An Asshole’?” She snorted and Ransom took a deep breath.

“Eat shit.”

“Original.” Meg replied drily rolling her eyes, “you know, I'm jealous of all the people that haven't met you.” She stated as her eyes turned to you. “Seriously, what the fuck do you see in him? Why on earth anyone would ever want to be in the same room with him, let alone share his bed is completely beyond me.”

“Tell me, Meg, when was the last time you got laid?” Ransom turned to her, a smirk on his face. “And your dildo doesn’t count.” “Fuck you, you fucking prick.” Meg seethed before she turned to look at you, her face angry. “You know, it must be serious if he’s bringing you here; he normally just keeps his fuck buddies on speed dial.”

“And throws the money on the mattress.�� Walt mumbled.

At that, Ransom tensed and he turned his face towards his Uncle, his nostrils flaring. But before he had time to answer back, Richard let out a derisive snort and Ransom instead turned his head to his father.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Ransom shot back, “Tell me, how much do you pay the barely legal whore sat on your lap?”

“You little shit.” Richard spat as the poor woman in question shifted uncomfortably, her mouth falling open as the insult Ransom had shot at her registered.

You stood stock still, a warm and uncomfortable feeling washing over you as the family continued to bicker. You could feel a headache coming; this was becoming too much for you to cope with.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Linda groaned, almost lazily from her spot on the chair. “Is it too much to ask that one of our family deaths goes by without starting another feud?”

"Oh that's rich, coming from you!” Richard, turned to her. Linda met her ex-husband’s glare with a completely blank expression on her face, before she scoffed.

“Why are you wearing those ridiculous glasses?” She demanded, referring to the spectacles that adorned Richard’s face, the style being something you would attribute to Harry Potter.

“So I can see.”

“You never needed glasses in the entire thirty-four years we were married.” She scoffed.

“I did.” Richard shrugged, a snarky grin curling at one side of his mouth and you instantly recognised that expression as being one Ransom sported a lot. “Just preferred it when I couldn’t see your face.”

Linda’s mouth dropped open and you felt yourself bristle as you took a breath.

“Are you actually gonna let your dad say that to your mom?” You glanced up at Ransom. His head turned slowly towards you and the expression of anger on his face at being called out made your blood run cold. You recoiled a little and your eyes immediately darted to the floor.

“Sorry.” You whispered.

"This is fun," Jacob snickered as he, from out of nowhere, waltzed into the room and took a seat in the corner of the bay window, never once looking up from his phone. “Ransom once more manages to spark an argument.”

“Y/N meet Jacob, the poster child for the pro-choice movement.” Ransom gestured to the teenager in front of you who merely rolled his eyes as both Walt and Donna began to yell and hurl insults back at Ransom.

“Says the guy whose birth certificate is an apology letter from the condom factory.” The teen mumbled back.

“Ooh, good one, which one of your alt-right, KKK loving buddies did you learn that from?” Ransom quipped, and in a quick change of decorum, the room erupted with slander and jabs being shouted and tossed about, most of the commotion being pointed at Ransom.

It was a cacophony of noise and sound, which infiltrated your head, making your brain buzz and crackle like the wick of a dynamite stick and it was too much. After months of quiet with no one to listen or talk to bar Ransom, it was overwhelming and you felt sick.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need some air.” You mumbled, seizing the chance, as he was distracted.

You made your way into the hallway where you stood, your back leaning against the dark wooden panelling, taking huge gasps of air. Your chest hurt, your head was spinning and your legs burned but those deep breaths didn’t help. Your hand slapped against your chest, hoping to ebb the sting. Soon, lightheaded, and with a slight spin to the space around you, you felt a cool hand on your shoulder through your blouse. Your head turned and you saw a sweet pair of eyes looking at you with worry.

“Let’s get you some real air, come on,” it was Marta, coming to your aide.

She took you outside, to a covered patio, with wicker furniture and heating lamps. The rush of cold air hit your flushed skin and a different sting erupted through your lungs as the bite of winter’s breath filled you.

“Here.” The young woman handed you a tartan blanket, which you took with a grateful look, still not quite able to form any words. She helped you sit down on one of the chairs and made sure the blanket was snug around your shoulders as she took a seat opposite you.

“They’re a little overwhelming, but you get used to it,” she rubbed a small hand up and down your back.

You just looked at her, your eyes watering as you came down from your panic. You had no desire to get used to it, to any of it, but as per anything in this fucked up situation, you were no doubt going to have to, like it or not.

The breaths you took became longer, deeper, the peak of panic now steadying out leaving you feeling shaky and exposed.

“I’m sorry, that was…”

“You don’t have to apologise. With what’s happening inside, this is normal.” Marta softly smiled with a chuckle. “I’d be worried if they weren’t screaming at each other.”

“Can I ask you something?” You looked at her, speaking softly.

“Of course.” She replied, just as hushed.

“Why did you do it? Have everyone over? You don’t owe them anything.”

The former nurse rubbed her palms on her pants, “well, it’s what Wanetta wanted. She sorta came with the house and it was her last wish, for the family to come together. I think she thought after everything that happened something might have changed?” Marta shook her head at the audacity of the sound of it. “She didn’t say much more, but Allan had given me her will and that’s all it read. Things would remain the same but she wanted them here after she was cremated, for a final goodbye.”

“I admire her optimism.” You stated flatly and Marta laughed before she gave a heavy sigh, a sad smile on her face.

“Well, she loved them, not that any of them cared, not in years. The only one I ever noticed take mind of her out of want and not duty was Ransom.” She kept her eyes on yours as she spoke, genuine care coming from the sound of her. “But that was before…when he…with Harlan.”

You glanced away, not totally surprised but still a little shocked so to speak that someone else had noticed there was a little shred of humanity buried underneath all his asshole bravado. You leaned forward on your thighs, elbows resting there as your hands wrung together, a nervous habit you’d recently developed.

“Can I ask YOU something?” Marta wondered. You nodded, your stomach knotting, hoping I wasn’t what you suddenly thought it could be. “You’ve spent time with Ransom. I read your article and your apology. Do you believe all of this? The not of sound mind?” Her eyes were sorrowful but held a glare of contempt at the circumstance.

“Uh…” you started but the opening of the patio door caught both of your attentions and the man in question stepped outside, your coat in his hands.

“I was worried,” he stated, opening your coat for you as you automatically stood to receive the gesture. You had no doubt his worry was genuine, but whether it was for you or what you may or may not have revealed was another question.

“I needed some air,” you admitted, “Marta came to my rescue.”

“One man alone can be pretty dumb sometimes, but for real bona fide stupidity there ain't nothing can beat teamwork.” Ransom quipped in reference to the chaos of the family being together, chaos he narcissistically enjoyed partaking in.

You looked up at those daring blue eyes, “Mark Twain.”

He quirked a brow in agreement before his eyes flicked to Marta and then back to you. “Was I interrupting something, Sweetheart?”

There it was, that warning tone in his voice. You were on thin ice. You stuffed your hands into your peacoat pocket and shook your head.

“No.” You cleared your throat as you held his gaze. “Like I said, I just needed some air.”

As he stood there, his eyes searching hers he took a deep breath as she gazed back up at him, fear simmering within those deep globes. Ransom reached out, pulling her to him, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “As long as that’s all it was.”

Recognising his comment for what it was, half concern and half warning, she nodded against his chest. Without so much as another glance at Marta, he turned, his arm looped possessively over her shoulders as he led her back inside. He walked slowly down the hallway, stooping slightly to speak into her ear. “From now on, you don’t leave my sight, you got that?”

“Yeah, okay.” She whispered and nodded.

“Good girl,” he smiled, tipping her face up with on finger under her chin, planting a soft kiss on her lips.

*****

The next hour or so passed reasonably uneventfully. Ransom was careful to keep as much distance between him, Y/N and the rest of the assholes in the room as possible. When the buffet was served, he watched as she picked at the plate of food she had selected, not eating a terrible amount. She’d gone in on herself again, and he found himself a little disappointed if truth be told.

“We’ll leave soon.” He turned to her and she looked at him, “you’ve behaved today, I’m impressed.”

At that she rolled her eyes. “Is going back to that fucking house supposed to be a reward or something?”

At that Ransom felt a surge of anger and he glared at her, the nerve in his jaw twitching. “Don’t push me, sweetheart.” His voice was low, and a growl but to his surprise, instead of recoiling at his outward hostility and warning she simply sat up straight, her shoulders squaring and met him with a filthy look of her own.

“Fuck you.” She spat.

“Oh we already played that game.” His lip curled back in a snarl. “Several times.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Walt leaned forward a little to pick up something off one of the plates on the table by Ransom and he took a breath, his eyes still trained on Y/N before he turned to his uncle.

“Are you not dead yet?”

“Do you have to talk to everyone like that?” Joni sighed. “God, Ransom.”

“Well I thought the guys who bust his leg might have caught up with him by now, no such luck.” Ransom shrugged.

“Listen here you little shit,” Walt leaned over the table, but no sooner had he done that he suddenly began coughing on whatever food he had in his mouth.

“I’m listening.” Ransom quipped as Walt continued to splutter, Donna hastily hitting him on the back.

Jacob, who wasn’t even looking at the table, too engrossed in his phone, then spoke. “What did you eat, Dad? Wasn’t anything he gave you was it? I mean he did kill Grandpa so I wouldn’t put it past him to poison you either.”

A deadly silence spread across the room as Ransom took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on his cousin, his hand clenching into fists. Besides him, Y/N let out a shaky breath and her head turned to look at him but he didn’t meet her eyes. Instead he leaned back in his chair and when he spoke next, his voice was icy.

“Not of sound mind.”

“Yeah, we heard. Loaf of bullshit if you ask me, but then again an expensive lawyer can get you off most things these days.” Walt snarled.

“Enough!” Linda yelled, her hand smacking on the table. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Besides him, Y/N had begun to tremble, and Ransom glanced at her to see she was taking deep breaths, her chest heaving, face stony as she stared at the wall opposite, where a picture of his Nanna Wanetta was hung.

“Oh shut up Linda!” Walt turned to her. “Everyone here knows he’s guilty as sin, even you! Why the fuck he’s even here is beyond me. And as for you...” He turned to Y/N and she gave a start, her eyes flicking to him. “You might as well quit while you’re ahead as there ain’t no gold to be digging for. She got it all.” He pointed his fork at Marta and then that was it. Y/N let out a hell of frustration, standing up that quickly her chair tumbled to the ground behind her, the plate clattering to the floor by her feet.

“You think I’m with him for his money?” He glared at Walt, the entire room silent as all eyes focussed on her. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea. I’m with him because I have-“

At that Ransom’s hand shot out and curled round her wrist, his grip tight in warning and she jerked away from him, glaring down at him with a fire in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“The whole lot of you are fucked in the head.” She tapped her temple with her forefinger. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my entire life. You’re nothing but a bunch of self-entitled, narcissistic assholes. After everything you've been through, you can’t even find it in your cold dead hearts to come together honour a member of your family that died without reducing the entire event to some kind of sick, twisted game of one-upmanship. Each and every one of you are all about yourselves, and what you can do to out accomplish the other. As far as I’m concerned each one of you can fuck off and die. You disgust me."

She took a deep breath, running her hands over her face before she turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

Ransom blinked, watched her leave, a slam of the door behind her. He stood there for a brief moment, processing what had just happened. He looked back to his family with a smug shrug and at that he headed quickly after Y/N, his mother's obnoxious and loudly over dramatic gasp bouncing off his back as he too slammed the front door.

****

It was your turn to stand there and act like a petulant child as you leaned against the hood of the Beemer, cares and all fucks be damned. You were tired, you were angry and God damn down right fed up with this entire family and their bullshit. You didn't even make eye contact with him as Ransom as he approached the car. You simply moved to your door, slipped in as he did and waited for him to start the car. You felt his eyes in him, heard him open his mouth to say something but rather he just took in a breath and started the engine. You sat there, your arms crossed over your chest, knees at an angle, pointed towards your door, away from him.

A rumble of a chuckle escaped his chest, "Oh Sweetheart, that was really something."

"Just drive," you spat out, turning your head to him in annoyance. Now he didn't find you amusing, this new air of confidence about you. He cleared his throat and looked at you with a stern gaze.

"Careful, Y/N," he warned, pulling around the drive to the long road before the main. You didn't care. You raised your brows as if you were silently emphasizing your demand, it was not a request, even in the slightest.

The bare trees and snow covered ground began flying by your window, clearly Ransom laying the pedal to the floor as you shook your head.

"What the hell was even the point of going today? It was blatantly obvious that they didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be there. If you wanted to mourn Wanetta, we could have done it from the confines of the prison you like to keep me in. Or was this just another shitty way for you to torture me? Huh? Was that amusing to you, Hugh, making me spend an afternoon with your fucked up family, whom you hate, when you’re keeping me from mine? God, you really are a twisted son of a bitch.”

Your tirade set his skin on fire, you could see the tinge of red flushing his skin as he white knuckled the wheel, his hand on the gear shift squeezing the hell out of it as you spoke. Then very quickly you felt your body lurch forward as he slammed on the breaks. "What the fuck did you just say?"

“What, are you deaf?” You blazed. “I asked why we were there? I mean I thought we were going to pay respects to your Great-Nanna, because stupid me actually believed that you felt something, you know, some kind of sorrow that she was gone, and I actually felt sorry for you at first when we got in there, and they were unloading all their vile little opinions and digging in at you and-“

"Now you listen to me you little bitch," he spat, cutting you off. "I didn’t ask for, nor do I need your pity. I don’t care what my family say to me, or think about me. And I certainly don’t care what they think or say about you”

“Oh my god, you are…” You shook your head, looking out of the window, taking a deep breath. “This isn’t pity, Ransom.”

“No, because that’s what it sounds like.” He seethed, his hands curling round the steering wheel.

“Of course it does.” You scoffed. “Because that’s probably all you’ve ever felt towards anyone else isn’t it? Pity, because they’re never going to be as good as you, or have the things you have. Well you might be rich in money terms but fuck, in everything else you’re a pauper. Have you ever truly empathised with someone? Like have even once fully understood what someone else feels? Their sorrow, their happiness, their joy?”

“What the fuck are you getting at?”

You sighed, considering your options. You knew what you wanted to tell him-that the fact he wasn’t loved as a child left him incapable of the simple emotions normal people met, but he was calling you out. And now, it was play it soft or rip it off like a band-aid…

And despite the feeling of foreboding washing over you, you chose the latter. You were tired of playing his mind games, tired of this whole situation. And whatever fucked up punishment he was going to inflict on you, well, it couldn’t be worse than anything he’d already done, you’d take it.

“You don't know how to be happy, or how to love Ransom, because you've never seen it. You've never experienced it. You just breeze through life thinking you can take what you want when you want, and it doesn't work like that.”

“You’re starting to really piss me off. If I wanted a therapy session, I’d pay for one.” He snarled, “Shut the fuck up.”

“See, this is what I mean!” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You just asked me to elaborate, so I did, and know because I’m saying something that you don’t like or don’t wanna hear, you’re resorting to being an asshole. Every time I think I’m getting through to you, I…” You fell silent, swallowing as he glared at you, nostrils flaring and you took a deep sigh, knowing that this was pointless. “You know what, forget it. I shouldn’t-“

“No, you clearly got something to say, so go on. Say it.”

“What, so you can punish me when we get back for pissing you off some more?”

At that his face faltered and he took a deep breath, hanging his head. When he raised it again to look at you, his face was softer and he looked out of the windscreen, licking his lips. “I’m not…gonna punish you, okay.”

“How do I know?” You whispered, shaking your head. “How can I trust that you’re not just gonna lock me back in that damned basement and come down when you want to fuck me and-“ “Because I’m not!” His voice rose. “I don’t want you down there anymore. So I’ll ask again, you think you know so much about how to love,” he framed the word with his fingers, "then tell me what you think it means.”

“Fine, you wanna know…I’ll tell you. It's going on dates, it’s fun, its surprising, it’s feeling like you can’t breathe if the person you are in love with leaves you. It’s not about owning them or breaking them or how much you buy a person or throwing money at them, it’s showing them you know how they are, that you understand what they appreciate and what they need and what they want, a lot of times without being told.” You took a deep breath, watching his face, his expression never faltering. “Love is something that can't always be explained. It's that feeling of family, of having your person. Someone your heart and soul changes for, grows with. Love is a mother's hug or kiss goodnight, a father's ball landing in your mitt with a joyful laugh and smile. Love isn't forced or taken. It's given and received. It's...."

"Fresh hot cocoa on a rainy day when you have nothing left in a world that hates you,” he spoke softly, and when you realized what he'd said it stopped your thoughts cold. Did that mean what you thought it meant? That he loved you?

You were lost for words, but before you could protest and tell him he was wrong, he sighed and looked at you.

“You asked me before why I brought you today. That’s why. Because they hate me. And you make me feel fucking safe around those pieces of shit.” Your breath caught in your throat whilst your mind raced for how to respond. The tension and suspense filled the air about the two of you. You stared at him, his eyes soft, expectant, darting over your features with a bouncing worry. The reaction time between his words and your next move was merely a minute but you had quickly found a way to capitalize on this moment. You threw your belt off and kicked your heels off in the process, moving over the gear shift and the centre console into his lap, the center seam of your skirt tearing as you straddled him. "Wha...." his words were cut off by your lips on his, your palms over his softly shaven face, fingertips sliding into the hair behind his ears. Immediately, your tongue slipped deep inside his mouth, lolling around with his. His hands found your waist and gave you a squeeze. You came to your knees as best you could in the small space and continued to kiss him while trying to inch your skirt higher. He'd guessed what you were trying to do and you felt his hands move from your waist to the tops of your thighs, fingers trailing down quickly to the hem of your skirt, lifting it to above the curve of your ass where it bunched. He didn’t ask or question your sudden burst of confidence or seeming desire, just as you’d banked on, instead he was quite happy to go with it, as usual always ready to fuck you any which way he could. Your hands trailed over the soft material of his sweater and down to the end of it, where it met the top of his slacks. You lifted the clothing slightly to ghost over his skin causing him to flinch before your finger tips found the button and zip of his flies. That maddeningly smug smirk spread across his face and your lips crashed back to his, a furious clash of teeth and tongue, your hands still fumbling with his pants. He was half hard before you even got him free, no doubt from the heated exchange the two of you had to get to here. As you palmed his girth in your hand, your brain switched from playing him to wanton need, a basic primal instinct of desperation to release the toxic stress your body held. His big hand and thick fingers trailed over your hip, your ass, down your thigh and finally cupped your heat and a deep ferrral growl emitted from his chest as he'd realized you'd worn nothing under that skirt. He dipped two fingers inside you straight away and you cried out, "fuck" as your body bent back away from him, keening at the feeling. “Fuck, baby, you’ve had nothing on under here all day?” His fingers curled inside of you and you groaned, your head rolling back as your hips pushed forward, thrusting against his hand. You couldn't use your words, you looked down at him with your pupils blown and your bottom lip between your teeth. You gave him a squeeze instead and he quickly lurched you into the steering wheel with his chest, his fingers falling away and both hands tearing your blouse open, buttons flying that will never be found. His nose tucked between the valley of your breasts and he inhaled between your fleshy mounds, his tongue dipping against the underside of your thin bra. His hands each palming an ass cheek and squeezing so hard, it delightfully stung. With what little space the two of you had to move, Ransom pulled you down into his lap, the need to feel you wrapped around him dangerously feral. It took no time for that single motion to get his head then every inch of his shaft deep inside you. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good," he ground out. He didn't care the mess she would make or the way he'd cum so hard he'd leak out of her, no, he wanted to fuck her senseless and that's exactly what he'd do. His heels cemented themselves into the footwell of the car as his hips jutted upward, her body curling in on him. “Harder, please Ransom.” Her voice croaked as she begged him and with a growl that was animalistic his hips picked up their pace as he rutted up into her quickly and harshly. His mouth devoured the tops of her breasts, nipping at her nipples through the material of the lace that covered them while her fingers scratched at the back of his neck, tugging at his hair. In contrast to the cold winter conditions outside, the air inside his beloved car was now hot, fast steaming up the windows, drops of condensation trickling down towards the door sill a perfect mirror image of the sweat that was now sliding down the hollow of her throat and beading on his brow. He could feel her walls begin to squeeze him tighter and tighter with each thrust. His hands curled round her hips, pulling her down onto him as he leaned back, raising his ass off the seat slightly, spearing up into her as deep as he could. "Ransom," you started to shake senselessly, you were crashing fast and hard and there was no slowing down. "Fuck, baby, just like that," you'd heard him say over the blood that rushed to your ears, deafening you, as you came, gripping him like a vice. Your body gave way as your hands sought purchase to ground yourself from entirely collapsing, finding the lapel of his camel coat, white knuckling it with one hand while the other slapped against the damp window which felt like melting ice against your heated palm. A noise burst from your mouth, a half scream, half choked wail, a sound you weren’t sure you’d ever made before and you opened your eyes to see Ransom’s icy blue’s locked onto yours, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. His voracious pace continued until the end when he came with a primal growl, his hips raising off the seat far enough to jolt your head against the roof of the car. You felt him fill you, the warmth of his seed settling deep inside, and then some. The air was heavy with the sound of panting as the pair of you came down from the intensity of the moment, The both of you desperately trying to breathe despite the humidity. Your hands curled over Ransom's shoulders as he sagged back in the seat, his hands smoothing up the outside of your thighs. You swallowed hard as his eyes focused on yours. You leaned forward and kissed him slowly, softly, his mouth and body languidly responding. Pulling back slightly, you kept your forehead pressed to his, and took a deep breath before you went straight in for the kill, the reason you’d instigated this entire fuck, to capitalise once more on a seeming chink in his armour. "You said you feel safe with me." He stilled underneath you, his hands gentle as they now rest on your hips and his eyes locked onto yours, widening as he realised his admission. "Do you want me to feel safe with you? To trust you?" You continued, not giving him a moment to deny it. He nodded slowly in reply. "Prove it," you stated. "How?" His voice was croaky as he cleared his throat, a slight frown furrowed his brow. "I want to see my family again." He looked at you, and you kept your eyes locked on his, a challenge to him to make good on his word, gambling on him actually wanting you to trust him as he had taken great pains to demonstrate through various means over the past few weeks. This was it, the moment where you would find out exactly what he truly wanted- someone to love and trust him, or someone to fear and obey him. He let out a slow breath through his nose and his eyes flicked over your shoulder before they returned to yours and he gave you an almost imperceptible nod. But a nod nonetheless. “Okay.”

**** Part 7

#murder he wrote #dark ransom drysdale #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale fic #knives out #chris evans #chris evans characters #reader insert #dark fic

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the-broken-truth · 3 years

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Can you do a oneshot of Miranda x Male Reader? something about the male reader being Eva's father and that he disappeared in the first world war centuries ago and left miranda heartbroken and sad, but he did not really die and since he discovered that he was immortal and then he only remained hidden for centuries working for Russian organizations with a secret identity. and that after finding out that her lover was still alive and in a Romanian village, he went to see her. 👨 - 🐾 (EAGLE) - ✈

Wings Of A Feather - Mother Miranda x Male Eagle Shifter Reader

- Quick Key -

[Y/N] - YOUR FIRST NAME

[FL/N] - YOUR FAKE LAST NAME

[L/N] - YOUR LAST/SURNAME/FAMILY NAME

[H/C] - HAIR COLOR

[H/L] - HAIR LENGTH

[E/C] - EYE COLOR

[S/C] - SKIN COLOR

«Сержант [Y/N], ты слушаешь?» (Sergeant [Y/N], are you listening?) The voice of the Master Sergeant called out to the man rubbing his forehead on the other end of the meeting table who looked up with his [E/C] eyes upon hearing his rank and name.

«Да, сэр. Пожалуйста, простите меня, сейчас я довольно устал»." (Yes sir. Please do forgive me, I'm rather tired at the moment.") The man replied with a tired exhale.

«Это понятно, вы только что вернулись с месячной миссии с отдыхом. Вы уволены с этой встречи, вернитесь в свои апартаменты и расслабьтесь на весь день. Нам нужно проверить наш Орлиный Глаз». ("That's understandable, you've just returned from a month-long mission with rest. You are dismissed from this meeting, return to your quarters and relax for the day. We need our Eagle Eye in check.") The Master Sergeant said to the man. The Sergeant rose to his feet and saluted his Master Sergeant, who saluted back and he was on his way out of the room.

Sergeant [Y/N] [FL/N] walked down the hall of the Russian Special Ops base with his jacket draped over his shoulders - waving behind him with each step he took; he passed by two Corporals on his way who moved aside and saluted him. He gave a simple "Отставить." (As you were) as he marked down the path before reaching his private quarters.

The Russian Sergeant removed his hat and placed it on the coat rack by his door followed by his coat before he walked over to his desk and took a seat - pouring himself a glass of vodka as he looked out the window at the setting sun.

Oh, the sun - so many times has he seen it in all of the centuries he's lived.

Yes - Centuries.

The [H/C] haired man looked at his glass as he thought about how long he's been doing this - going around with names other than his own, joining militaries, after all, it was the only thing he's known...since the First World War.

[Y/N] thought back to when this all started - back to when he was something else; then he thought of them.

Miranda and Eva.

The Wife and The Daughter he left behind when he went to fight in the war.

There was never a day he didn't think about them: wondering how they were doing, if they were alright, or if they were even alive. So many questions about them filled his mind, he wanted nothing more than to return to them but he didn't know where they could possibly be.

When the first war was coming to a close - he was blown in the chest by a snipe rifle, it killed him...or at least, it should have. He woke up in the morgue which surprised the diener - a person who works in the morgue - that was working on preparing his body for an honorable burial. According to the man - that bullet ripped his heart to ribbons but now he was alive; they even sent a letter to his wife to inform her of his death.

Once he was given the okay to leave, he went back home to Miranda - only to find to the house he built for them was completely burned down and they were not there; fear filled his heart. Were his wife and daughter dead? Did Miranda take her and Eva's lives when she got that letter or...did someone else do this? Unsure of what to do - [Y/N] returned to the military and continued to serve before faking his death and starting over

He looked at a photo of him and Miranda when she was a few months pregnant with Eva that sat on his desk by his laptop - it was the only thing he had of them now. He gathered the picture in his hands and tried to fight back the tears that were coming.

'Miranda... Eva... Where are you?' He wondered but his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door. He stood up, walked over to the door, and opened it - revealing a Corporal with a folder in his hand.

"Капрал, я могу вам чем-то помочь?" (Corporal, can I help you with something?) He asked.

«Простите, что беспокою вас в свободное время, сэр». (Sorry for bothering you in your spare time, sir.) The Corporal saluted him, «Но есть кое-что, на что вам следует взглянуть». (But there is something you should look at.) He said as he held out the folder for the Sergeant to take. [Y/N] looked at the emblem on the folder and his eyes narrowed at the familiar logo on the front of the folder.

'Umbrella? What could they possibly what?' He thought to himself before looking at the Corporal before him.

«Что это? Они сказали, что хотели?» (What is this? Did they say what they wanted?) [Y/N] asked.

«Нет, сэр.» (No, sir) The young man shook his head. «Мужчина просто передал мне папку и сказал, чтобы я отнес ее вам. Он также сказал мне, что есть номер телефона, по которому вы можете позвонить». (The man just handed me the folder and told me to take it to you. He also told me that there is a phone number you can call.)

«Хорошо, я разберусь. Вы можете уходить, капрал.» (“Okay, I'll figure it out. You can leave, corporal.) [Y/N] said before closing his door.

He walked back over to his desk and opened the folder - something about the 4 Lords of Romania and Their Leader - Mother... His eyes widened.

"Miranda?" He gasped.

There were photos too - there were of the supposed 4 lords: A rather large lady, a veiled woman with a doll, a hunched back figure, and a man with a large hammer, and...

"That's her." he said.

Before him was a photo of a woman in a golden raven mask in black robes with black wings and some crest behind her. He looked at the number that left behind

XXX-XXX-XXX - Chris Redfield.

[Y/N] narrowed his eyes before calling the number and placed the phone to his ear - it picked up on the first ring.

"I see you chose to call me, Mr. [L/N]." A deep male voice said on the other side of the phone.

"How do you know that name?" [Y/N] asked.

"Umbrella knows a lot about you, Mr. [L/N]; we've been watching you since your face has shown up in our database since the first world war. We know you're not human, Eagle Eyes; but your eyes aren't the real reason people call you that, are they?" Chris asked over the phone.

"Just what do you want? Why have you sent this?" [Y/N] asked.

"We wanna make you a deal, Mr. [L/N]. I know you've been looking for your wife and daughter since your first death during the first world war but they haven't been located - I know where to find your wife." Chris said.

"And my daughter? What about Eva?" [Y/N] asked, gripping the phone tightly in his hand.

"That's the main reason I'm calling you - you see, your daughter is dead; she's been dead for centuries but your wife thinks she can bring Eva back by finding a proper vessel to rebirth her from. Here's what that has to do with me - the latest vessel she's taken is Rosemary Winters, the daughter of some very close friends of mine; she wants to use Rose to bring Eva back but I know it won't work. Her father and Umbrella are intending to get Rose back but that would mean killing your wife and everything she holds dear; we think you can stop that from happening." Chris explained - there was pure silence on the other end of the phone. "Mr. [L/N], are you still there?"

"Tell me exactly what you want me to do?"

[Timeskip - One Week Later / In an Airborne Helicopter above the Romanian Village.]

The side door of the helicopter opened and [Y/N] stood there - his hair blowing around in the high winds as he glared down at the earth below.

"Remember, Mr. [L/N] - Find Miranda and convince her to release Rose. Once that happens, we shall leave you and her to be as you wish." Chris said from his space sitting behind [Y/N].

"Just make sure you're ready, Redfield." And with that, [Y/N] jumped out of the helicopter.

His eyes narrowed as he fell from the bird of metal before he closed them - a warm feeling coursed through him as he felt the mortal flesh of his form shrink and take a new shape. Once he felt the wind against his wings - he opened his eyes again as he flew through the sky as the might eagle. He flapped to catch himself against the current before he got to a gliding height - he could see the village below. He got close to the ground and flapped again to slow himself before he changed forms again - back to his mortal face, his boots landing on the ground.

'Now, all I have to do is find one of the lords and they will take me to Miranda.' [Y/N] thought but his thoughts were cut short when he heard growling - turning, he saw the Lycans from Chris' File.

"Heisenberg's Servants." He pulled out two knives. "Just my luck." He darted forward and made quick work of the lycans before his knives went flying out of his hands - he turned again and there he stood: The 4th Lord.

"Karl Heisenberg." [Y/N] said as he glared at the hammer-wielder.

"Oh, you know me?" Karl asked.

"I know of you. I need you to take me to see Miranda right now." [Y/N] said.

"And just who the hell do you think you are, demanding to see Mother Miranda like that?" He asked.

"I'm her husband - [Y/N [L/N]." With those words, Karl's eyes widened.

"I heard of you; she talked about you some times." Karl looked the man up and down. "Alright, I'll take you to her but you need to cuffed; I don't know you that well,"

"Do what you will." [Y/N] held out his wrists, "Just take me to my wife."

"Fair enough."

[Timeskip - Miranda's Chapel]

"Heisenberg, just why have you called us here?" The tall lady asked before looking at [Y/N], "And who is this man-thing?"

"That's none of your business, Lady Super-Sized Bitch. This dude is for Mother Miranda." That made Alcina and Miranda raise their eyebrows.

"And who is this male that wants to see me?" Miranda asked.

Before anyone spoke - the bound man walked forward.

"It's been a while, Corbul meu întunecat." (My Dark Raven) That name made Miranda's eyes widen...and she removed her mask to make sure she wasn't seeing things.

"[Y/N]? Vulturul meu?" (My Eagle) Miranda asked as she walked closer.

"Yes." The man said with a smile.

The leader ran into his chest and clenched his shirt tightly - crying instantly.

"I MISSED YOU SO MUCH! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?!" She cried.

"I'll tell you - we have a lot to talk about."

After hours of talking - everything came to the light: [Y/N] explained what happened all those centuries ago, Miranda explained her plan, [Y/N] managed to take her out of her & Rosemary - along with Mia Winters - was given to Chris Redfield. Ethan Winters was captured in Castle Dimitrescu by her daughters but was ordered to be let go. The Winters Family left with Umbrella and [Y/N] & Miranda sent all that week making up for all the centuries of lost time...and possibly making an Eva #2.

#ask #mother miranda x male reader #resident evil 8

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the-slasher-files · 3 years

Text

AVARICE

INCLUDES CHROMESKULL

It is so nice to finally write for a Slasher that can actually afford nice things so I went all out... All the other big stabby men either don’t have jobs or have low income so Jesse is a nice change lol. Lets get into the luxury! Now I honestly went WILD with this one, like it is a bit much lol so take the warnings. Warnings: knives, dirty talk, squirting, choking, mirror sex, spanking, afab reader.. enjoy🔪💕

High heels clacked along the marble floor of the unfamiliar hallway, only to be lead by the man in front of who carried your suitcase. You couldn’t remember his name but he was the manger of the luxury hotel who told you your boyfriend had reserved the penthouse suite for the weekend. Jesse never let you visit him on his “work trips” but this one was seemingly difficult from the length of time he had been gone. 3 weeks you counted. 3 weeks without his hands. 3 weeks without his smell incasing you. 3 weeks without his lips. This was a torture you had never known. Was it possible to die from sexual starvation?

“Here we are...” the man pulled you from your thoughts and lead you into the massive room, putting down your bags. “If you need anything do not hesitate to call us Mrs. Cromeans” You smiled as the man left, of course Jesse told them you were his wife.

Turning your attention to the room, it was absolutely stunning. Floor to ceiling windows in every direction giving you full view of beautiful LA. The room had a full kitchen with beautiful black granite counter, a big living room with a white rug on the rich wooden floors between the dark leather couches, there was the finest marble on the walls and floor of the large bathroom, and everything looked so luxurious it made you a little uncomfortable. Coming from a smaller town and working a boring 9 to 5 job you could never be able to afford even an hour in this hotel, but that was before you met Jesse of course. The man had an insatiable hunger for wealth and the finer things in life, even if that meant stepping over people to get to the top, and he made that apparent in your everyday life.

Walking over to the bedroom there was a bottle of your favorite champagne chilled in a bucket of ice on the nightstand, and two black boxes with satin red bows on the California king sized bed. Shaking your head you kicked off your heels and sat on the bed, picking up the white little note card with his business logo at the top, it read:

Beautiful Dove,

Put on everything. I will meet you around 8. Miss you so so much baby.

Jesse

Simple, straightforward and with a twist of lust coating the words he had hand written, making you smirk and rub your thighs together. Opening the first perfectly wrapped box, your eyes widened at the sight. It was a beautiful lacy pushup bra, with straps framing your chest like an art, and the lacy thong to match, of course all in black.

Moving on to the second box, you gasped seeing the expensive material and pulling it out. It was a silky red drape dress, knowing it would frame and highlight Jesse’s favorite parts of you. He knew you too well. Knew how to make any woman fall to their knees, willingly or not.

Looking at your watch it was 4 o'clock, you had time to kill, painful time. Trying to ease your nerves you ran a bubble bath with your favorite scents, and poured yourself a glass of the expensive champagne. Settling into the steamy water your mind was flooded with images of Jesse; the way he would touch you, gentle but always with an edge, the way his experienced tongue worked your body like a canvas, the way he teased you to tears but making it all worth it with the extreme surges of pleasure no one else could inflict. It almost made you moan from the memories, wanting to touch yourself, maybe even make yourself cum before Jesse could touch you but you knew it was in your best interest to not, he always found out. He probably had the place laced with cameras already.

Some hours had passed and it was still a torturous hour and a half until 8. You had taken a bath, read, played on your phone, and admired the view but it was becoming dreadful waiting for him. Slipping out of the fluffy hotel robe, your hand grabbed the delicate lace��lingerie and decided to put it on, gawking at yourself in the mirror as you fluffed your hair. Fuck it looked good. Finally putting on the red satin dress and your heels to perfect the image.

Smoothing your hands down the dress feeling the luxurious material on your soft skin, another sensation appeared, a startling hard body pressed against your back and you gasped until there was a familiar low groan from the body behind you. Jesse.

Before you could speak cold diamonds were being placed around your neck, your hands running along the sparkling gems. “Jesse... you didn’t have to do this” clasping the necklace he gingerly placed kisses on your neck and moving to your shoulder making you shudder.

“Touch starved?” He signed in front of you, normally it would make you giggle but just leaning into him was already making you tumble “Sorry little dove” moving his large hands away from your front, they trailed around your body, exploring like he had never known you. Whimpering already you felt Jesse’s bulge in his suit pants.

Hearing the snap of a holster he brought one of his massive knives up to your flushed cheek making your breath hitch “Jes” you whispered lowly, you knew he would never hurt you but having a knife in your face was still scary. The cold flat side of the blade pushed your cheek making you look in the mirror. The master bedroom had a wall of windows and another with mirrors. He wanted to watch everything. Wanted you to watch everything.

The cold sharp tip of the blade pushed the dress off your shoulders and it pooled on the floor exposing your sexy lingerie to him. Jesse’s crooked smirk said everything, his brown and scarred blue eyes devoured you whole like a wolf, the knife trailed the details of the lace and straps. Every stroke of his hands and knife made you bit your lip trying to stifle the moans and whimpers.

“Such a needy little thing” Jesse signed and removed the large blade making you face him, and kissing him breathless.

“Fuck, I missed you so much baby” you whimper shoving off his jacket and fiddling with his black dress shirt buttons, rubbing your thumbs over the little LV logos stamped in. Putting the knife into the champagne ice bucket on the nightstand, Jesse loosened his tie pulling it off his head and over yours, tightening it and pulling upwards making you look at him those doe eyes he loved so much.

“Missed you too baby girl” Jesse signed towering over you, walking backwards until you fell onto the bed. “gonna be my good little girl?” he asked bending down his large frame, long fingers tracing the lace over your clit and smirking. You were soaked, the anticipation was too much you moaned loudly forgetting his question until his large hand smacked your thigh hard.

“Fuck Jes-Jesse yes.. yes please.. I want to be good for you, p-please” you begged from only a simple motion of his hand, he owned you and that much was clear. “Jesse I want you... I need you. Just dress me up and fuck me like a your little doll... please master”

He smiled reeling in his power over you, “Good girl” he signed with one hand while the other went to your mouth, you sucked his fingers as a natural reflex. Pulling away his hand from your mouth he replaced it with his lips groaning into the kiss as you grinded against him. Snaking his hand in between you he forced 2 fingers inside your sloppy cunt making you squirm under him. Everything was too much all at once coming from 3 weeks without him, you immediately came hard around his digits as he curled them.

“Poor little girl.. so deprived of me...” Jesse pulled away completely from you and undressed himself “Maybe I should bring you to my work trips more often” he signed watching you just nod and whine looking at his huge cock. Silently he laughed at your need “You want something baby?”

"Please master, please" you panted, roaming your hands around your recovering body. "Jesse"

"Turn around" he ordered, and you did as you were told, on your hands and knees looking in the mirror, watching his every movement behind you. "So fucking beautiful like that little dove" Jesse's hand met your ass with a beautiful sting making you jump foreword but kneel back to him for more, moaning when you felt his length rubbing against your pussy. One more harsh slap echoed through the room, making you hiss but Jesse bent down kissing the red flesh, feeling his teeth scrape against your ass as he pulled down the lace with his mouth.

Seemingly the large mans patients was wearing thin as Jesse moved his hand in front of your mouth telling you to spit, you did and he did as well, stroking his length mixing the saliva together along with his precum, and slowly pushing into you. “oh my god.. J- Jesse...” you cried as he eased in inch by inch, slowly, a painful slow.

Through hooded eyes you saw him sign in the mirror “Fuck.. so tight... it’s been too long baby girl” He felt you start to shake, he held your hips up and pushed your head down. Jesse went still within you as he hilted, letting you adjust to his massive cock, adoring the clench of your muscles and moans.

Dragging his member inside you, taking his time watching you come undone below him. He missed you. Missed you so much to torture you. A dangerous kind of love for a man with all the power, but you wanted it all.

“Jes.. please” you panted, wanting him to go faster, needing him to go faster. He did as you pleased growing impatient himself. Pulling out fully before slamming back into you with power, hitting every delicious spot inside you. “Don’t stop baby please” Jesse grabbed the black silky tie around your neck arching you back against his torso, allowing your arms to hold his neck, you watched him fuck you brutally in the mirror. The scene making you drip and scream against him.

“Cum for me” Jesse signed quickly before holding your waist surly leaving in bruises behind, while his other hand circled your swollen bud, making you shake, cry and ultimately tumbling off the cliff into euphoria, clenching deeply around him.

You attempted to form words but nothing was coming out as you just panted and whimpered, Jesse peppered soft kisses down your neck and shoulder smirking at you in the mirror. He let you go and pulled out to roughly flip you over on your back, grabbing his knife again that had been chilled by the ice, Jesse ran it in between your breasts cutting the brand new bra in half.

Whining in protest he just chuckled and signed “There is always much more where that came from baby doll” shaking your head, what a wasteful man. He placed the freezing blade on your erect nipples for a moment then sucking with his warm mouth, the temperature difference making you arch and moan.

Dragging the metal around your body he superseded the path with his hot tongue, your pupils blown with lust, and your nerves oversensitive. Jesse was fulling grinning, bearing his teeth like a wolf taking you in as the knife trailed your thighs teasingly.

“P-please” you mewled feeling the hard tip of his cock aching for a release he thrusted into you harshly making you writhe on the bed. “Oh, god.. Jesse..” the sound of skin slapping furiously behind your moans he threw the knife away, clanging on the floor beside your discarded lace and stain dress, a sexual scene displayed on the hardwood. A tale of you and your lover. Luxury, sex, lace, and danger.

His large right hand held your throat, cutting off your airway, preventing you from sliding up from the assault on your dripping cunt. Jesse’s left hand spread your messy pussy lips, watching him impale you over and over again. Your broken moans and cries sending him over the edge quickly, he needed you, just once more. His thumb began to press and circle your oversensitive clit making you see stars and want to black out from the pleasure.

Your cunt clenched for the final time, showing Jesse it’s appreciation by squirting on his shaft and thighs, as he painted your insides with his hot seed. Releasing his hand from your throat you gasped and coughed roughly, Jesse supported your head and neck, hovering above you he panted and placed feather like kisses on your shaking body.

“Fuck... I missed this” you panted as he pulled out falling on the bed next to you. Rolling over onto his inked chest, gleaming with sweat, he stroked your hair and held you close. Just Jesse and you again tangled in the sheets, as it should be.

“Love you little dove” he signed and kissed you, hungry for more. Jesse always wanted more. His avarice side coating him like a fine armor, shining and glinting like the sweat along his chest, holding strong like his arms around you.

#THIS took me so long to do omg #chromeskull #jesse cromeans #horror #slasher #slashers #my writing #smut #x reader #x you #x s/o #laid to rest

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veggieheist · 3 years

Text

Witch!AU Reylo is always a good time 🤩🙌✨🔥

More art on my Instagram✨

Story blurb down below!👇

Rated T

cn // witches , witchcraft , kidnapping , fear of assault

✨🍄✨

Kylo Ren stood in the cool shade of a tree, leaning against the wide trunk nonchalantly, ignoring the other people gathered there to take advantage of the respite from the heat. In the branches above him a mourning dove cooed, a soft sound among the chatter of people and the buzz of the cicadas.

In his hand was a piece of ashwood, small chunks carved out by the whittling knife in his other. He took care with his work, but his sharp eyes lifted every so often, focusing on the girl selling wares from her wagon across the dirt road from the tree. The heat did not seem to affect her much, her tanned skin evidence of her love for the sun.

Kylo watched her over the course of the day. She smiled at passersby, spoke matter-of-factly to those seeking tonics for ailments, laughed with a woman who seemed to enjoy telling local gossip to a new ear, and now seemed very unaffected by the flirtations of a young man.

Kylo’s eyes narrowed, his hands stilling. The boy was persistent, and she was getting irritated. When the boy tried to reach for her hand, Kylo watched as she let him, pulling close enough for her to whisper something in his ear. Kylo’s skin tingled as the magic wove through the air. The boy staggered back, a dazed look on his face, and then wandered away.

A repelling spell. Kylo scoffed. Smart. But not very smart to do something like that out here, in the open, where anyone could see. The girl’s eyes darted about, looking for the alerted gaze of someone who may have noticed her act of forbidden magic, but there was only one audience member to her indiscretion, and he had his hood up, enchanted to ward off any notice. He was as if part of the shadows; unassuming and forgettable. Her eyes slid over him as expected, and Kylo smirked, returning to his whittling.

She was the reason he was stood here, sweltering in his black robes and armor. She was a witch, even though she tried to hide it behind her simple tonics and herbs. He’d been tracking her for days, and finally caught up with her here.

He was on a mission from his master to capture her, and even though he knew not what the purpose was--she was hardly trained, seeming only to be able to harness the bare minimum of power afforded to their kind--but Kylo was not going to question it.

In the shade of the tree, Kylo wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his position against the rough bark of the trunk. In his hands the knife moved through the wood object, its shape taking form.

It wouldn’t be difficult to snatch her. He already had a plan; all he had to do now was wait.

--O*O--

Rey finished gathering up her wares from the table she had set up outside her wagon home, bringing them up the steps to place in the cabinet designed to neatly hold them. It had been a lucrative day, so there weren’t as many going in as she had taken out, and she patted her coin purse with a smile before hiding it.

She folded the table next to bring it inside as well, setting it back up in front of the bench seat along the right wall. Her wagon was a modest home, but cozy. Her bed was along the back wall, a nest filled with blankets and pillows, an array colorful beads on hanging strings glittered from the waning sunlight coming in through a small window.

The left side wall contained more cabinets with dishware and food, jars with herbs and preserves, and a small woodfire stove. The right side wall had more cabinets still, although these ones were kept locked. Inside were books, old scrolls, and grimoires, but also some amulets and dangerous items not meant to be handled by innocent humans.

Rey couldn’t afford to be caught, so she hid them behind concealing charms and repelling spells. No one would search those cabinets because they would seem far too boring to garner any attention.

She’d already had a close call earlier in the day, when an inquisitive constable had approached her table. He’d carried a large cross hung from his neck, and a sharp look to his eyes. She’d smiled broadly at him, hoping he couldn’t see the anxiety making her sweat. It’s just the heat, she would have said if he’d asked.

“‘Tonics and tinctures,’ eh? You a witch?” He’d crudely asked, not even trying to be tactful.

“My great great grandmother was one, sir,” she answered, a lie, probably, since she didn’t know her family, “but all I have is a penchant for medicines. I have a signed letter from a priest, Christening me as a Holy Hand.”

Most people like her did that--connected themselves to a church to avoid being burned at the stake. They were less likely to be looked at with contempt if it seemed like they were doing God’s work.

Rey just needed money to get away. To go anywhere. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but so far she hadn’t found it.

The constable had looked over her letter with a critical eye, but ultimately gave it back and continued on his way with a gruff, “Don’t stay too long.”

It was a warning she would heed. She’d be on the road by first light in the morning.

Rey brought feed and water to her Clydesdale, murmuring softly to him as he munched. “On to the next town in the morning, Bibi.” Then she whispered a spell to strengthen him and climbed the steps back up into her home. Being a Clydesdale, Bibi was the only kind of horse able to pull her wooden camper by himself, but she still tried to help with whatever magic she could manage.

Rey shut the wooden door and made a simple meal of bread and vegetable soup, eating at the table silently. By the dying light from the three windows about the cabin, Rey knew it was time to draw the curtains and ready for bed. The lamps filled the small home with warm light, and she was just reaching to untie her corset when a knock came on the door.

Rey frowned, going to it. There was a latch to open a small window and see who was calling, but it was still difficult to make out the shadowy features of the hooded man standing outside.

“I’m closed for the evening,” she said. “If you need something I can help you in the morning.”

She closed the latch before the man could answer, a wave of cold gooseflesh making her shiver. The visitor was silent, and she wondered if he’d walked away after a moment of not detecting any sound. She moved to her small closet again when the door latch clicked and swung open.

Rey stood straight, alarmed, sure that she’d locked it.

“I’m closed,” she said with more conviction, the words for her repelling spell on the tip of her tongue.

The man who entered her humble dwelling had to duck to get through the small door frame, and his head nearly brushed against the roof. He was broad, dressed in black, and as he entered Rey saw the flash of red gems embedded in the hilt of his sword at his hip.

She sucked in a breath. An inquisitor? Here? Had the constable sent for one?

But no, he didn’t carry any sign of the cross, nor did he have the stench of smoke that seemed to permeate an inquisitor as if their souls were made of ash.

This man had a darkness about him, but he was no witch burner.

He removed his hood and suddenly Rey felt like her eyes could focus again. She frowned, blinking. Strange. He was handsome, with dark hair in waves to his shoulders, a large nose somehow more elegant than ugly, and piercing eyes the color of whiskey. He seemed to not care that she had already told him twice she was not open.

Rey swallowed but steeled herself. She’d warded off enough men in her life to be able to take this one on easily.

His eyes went from scanning her to roaming around her living space. She couldn’t help to feel judged, and it made her scowl.

“If you need something, I can help you in the morning,” she said, voice hard. “Please leave.”

He finally looked back at her. Somehow he seemed to fill the entire wagon up with his presence, even though he was still standing in front of the door. That it was open helped Rey feel less trapped.

“I’m looking for something,” he said, ignoring her again. “A kind of herb. Willow’s Needle.”

Rey shook her head. “Willow’s Needle is a forbidden herb, used only by witches. I’m one of the Holy Hand, I don’t do witchcraft. Here,” she found the priest's letter and held it out for him. She tried to control the shaking of her hand. “It’s signed by Father Michael from--”

There was a gust of wind from the open door, blowing the letter from her hand and extinguishing all but one lamp that hung above her bed. The door swung shut, enclosing them together.

Rey stepped back, her heart thundering. The man stood still, staring at her with dark eyes.

“Are you here to kill me?” She asked, thinking of the knives kept in the drawer by the stove. The man was closer, but Rey knew that even if she could get one it would be no match for his sword. And even then, she had a feeling this man was far deadlier than the piece of sharpened metal at his side.

“No,” he said, taking a slow step forward. He was like an encroaching black cloud, and for all the magic Rey knew she had under her fingertips, she was finding herself far too overwhelmed by his presence to think straight enough to use it.

“Don’t be afraid,” he told her quietly, within arms reach now. “I feel it too.”

“Feel what?” Rey whispered.

His lips quirked up on one side.

“Magic.”

His hands rose and Rey took an alarmed step back, gathering strength to try and throw him with a spell, but she stopped. Lights began to sparkle to life as he whispered into his cupped hands, a dazzling display of power that Rey hadn’t witnessed in years. Not since she was a child, before she was taught to keep hidden.

Her curtains were closed so one would see this forbidden show except her, but it still felt like she shouldn’t even be looking. What if someone saw? What if they accused her of it?

The man lowered his hands to show her his creation, and Rey stepped closer, entranced, warmed by the light. She gave a delighted gasp at the tiny bird made of magic nestled in his gloved palms, and she glanced up to see a much softer expression as he watched her in turn. Rey looked back at the bird, shy in the face of this nameless man’s attention. This rare male witch.

All at once it didn’t matter that he had barged into her home and frightened her. He was like her, and maybe that meant he was lonely too. Maybe he was here to find a traveling partner. Someone to be himself with.

Rey’s heart ached to be truly seen by someone who wouldn’t be afraid of her.

She’d instinctively held her arms to her chest in a shield when he’d advanced, but now one hand unclenched, wanting to show she wasn’t afraid, that she accepted his magic. The little bird chirped a twinkling song, and Rey smiled, wanting to see if it was as soft as it looked.

“Go on,” the man murmured, as if he could hear her thoughts. “You can take it.”

Rey smiled and accepted the warm illusion into her own palms. It was a very convincing mirage, one she had never been able to conjure herself. She looked up again, but the man’s face was closed again, his eyes sharp, and all at once Rey felt the illusion evaporate. As soon as the small wooden carving of a bird touched her skin, her whole body froze.

She couldn’t move. Only her eyes widened in horror at her error. Ashwood.

“It’s a paralysis charm,” he explained as her dread rose. “Carved into the wood. A simple thing, really. Any witch worth her salt would have been able to detect it.” He stepped close, all warmth gone, his cold eyes calculating as they scanned her frozen form once again.

“I don’t know why my master would want a weak vagrant like you, but I suppose you’ll have your uses.”

Rey could only whimper at the implication, and she wished she could move and fight back. But her hands had seized around the bird figurine as if in a cramp, and she knew she would not become unfrozen until it was no longer in her grasp.

The dark witch-man bent and easily picked her up into his arms, her body pliant but still out of her control. He took the few steps to her bed and settled her down in the pillows. Her eyes watched him fearfully, the worst thoughts of his intentions flitting across her mind, a desperation beginning to bloom in her breast that nearly had her whining in an attempt to beg him not to defile her.

But he actually pulled the edge of her skirts down to cover her exposed calves, and then straightened, not giving her unguarded body a second glance.

“You should try to sleep,” he told her. “Fretting won’t do you any good, and the spell won’t go away until the bird does.”

And then he turned and left, the wood creaking beneath his heavy boots, the door clicking shut behind him. Rey heard the lock latch into place, and then the sounds of heavy hoofs, and straps being moved. The wagon lurched as Bibi was attached to his leads, unfamiliar with the man doing it. Rey willed the horse to stomp him, to run away and find help for her, but she felt a wall in her mind.

Whoever this witch-man was, he was far more powerful a person than Rey had ever encountered before.

She heard boots climbing to the perch near the window by her bed, and then the flick of reins. The next time the wagon lurched, it stayed in motion, the whole cabin swaying and jostling from the unpaved road.

Rey had no idea where she was being taken, or by whom, but she knew if she was going to survive this kidnapping she was going to have to use all of her wits she could muster.

Anything less and she was sure to succumb to whatever dark agenda awaited her at the end of this journey.

✨🍄✨

#reylo #star wars #witch #witch au #witchcraft #rey #kylo ren #kylo x rey #witch!rey #witch!kylo #fanfic #fanfiction #my art #Reylo art

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systlinsideblog · 3 years

Text

Part 4

I still lived.

I was, I thought, greatly in the minority. The woman Systlin had judged warrior after warrior, and warrior after warrior had met his end at a quiva's blade.

A great many of the sentences were carried out by the hands of the freed slave girls of the warriors. The number of these astounded me, as did the ferocity with which many of the girls fell upon their masters.

It is a Gorean saying that a woman cannot be free until she has been a slave. It is said that a woman wishes to be conquered, that she cannot respect any man save for the man who can reduce her to nothing.

The girls fell upon their masters with a fury I have rarely seen, and blood flowed until the grass was slick and red with it.

A few girls did not take up the quiva. These men, once sentence of death was passed, the she-sleen on the Ubar's robe killed herself. Her face was untroubled by this, unworried, and there was even a hint of vicious pleasure in those cold eyes as she swung the sword to remove their heads.

Those warriors who had taken Free Companions and who had children, the she-sleen ordered all material goods be split equally between the Free Companions, the children, and the freed slave girls. There were many sour faces among the Tuchuk women at that, but to my shock many more who accepted it without question.

When night neared, scarce three dozen warriors of the Tuchuk still lived, myself included. It was us and only us who had not admitted to owning slaves, and who had no slaves to call out our names.

A very few men..two or three, in all...had been spared by the request of their slave girls. These men were whipped, and the she-sleen commanded ash be rubbed into the whip wounds.

"I would have them remember." She had said, eyes cold and face passionless, even as the warriors held back cries of pain. "I want them to remember their crimes, and to remember me."

Those of us who had survived the slaughter had been unchained and taken to wagons, and allowed to eat and rest.

"So." Kamchak had survived the culling, and his face was set and cold. "We are free, then?"

"You are not slaves." Systlin had smiled a little, a cold smile that did not reach her eyes. "But if you seek to flee, or to move against me...well."

Behind her, I could see women chaining hunting sleen outside the wagons. Each was given clothing to smell; I noticed with a start a discarded tunic of my own among the items. The sleen began to pull and hiss, eyes bright.

"Say, rather, that you are prisoners for the time." Systlin continued. "I've much to do, and I've no time to be worrying about one of you burying a knife in my back in my sleep." Another humorless smile. "I'm not fool enough to think that all...or any...of you are paragons of virtue. I'll get the truth in time."

Kamchak spat. "You," he informed her, "Are the most disagreeable and wrenched wench I've ever had the misfortune to meet. There will come a day, where you meet a man to bring you to heel." A smile. "I wish to be there to see it."

I felt my heart sink; they were unwise words, but then Kamchak was Tuchuk.

To my surprise, the woman Systlin threw back her head and laughed, as if at a wonderful joke.

"Ahhh!" She wiped tears from her eyes at last, as I stared, stunned. "When I find my way home, I will tell Foicatch that." Another laugh. "A woman isn't brought to heel. We can choose to be a partner, or to bide our time and pretend until the time is right, but brought to heel? HA! You saw that, I think, today." Another terrible grin. "I saw your faces, when the women turned on your warriors. You did not expect that, did you?"

"Foicatch?" Kamchak, ever keen, inquired.

"My husband." Systlin said this lightly, easily. "Father of my daughter."

"Good god, you are married?" The words were out of me before I could think better of them. I tried to imagine what bedding such a woman would be like, and thought to myself that it would be much like the risk taken by the male of the praying mantis of Earth; what sort of man would marry such a creature?

"Yes. Goodnight." She shut the wagon behind her.

There was a moment of silence. Then, Kamchak spoke.

"It is probably a bad time, Tarl Cabot," he said. "To mention that Kutaituchuk was not the Ubar of the Tuchuks."

"What?"

It was surprising, Systlin thought, how many of the Tuchuk women had been willing...eager, even...to take up weapons and stand guard at her wagon.

Not to her. No. On Ellinon, the children of the Lady would have found the ideas of the men of this 'Gor' incomprehensible, unlawful, hearsay, and downright suicidal. But to many of the women of Gor themselves, Systlin thought, the sheer thrill that came when picking up a blade or spear was new.

She tried to picture what would have happened had Stellead found herself in this shithole of a world. Death, absolutely; her aunt had little talent in any form of Power, but she had won her place as Arms Master of Stellas Keep and as a Commander of the Bloodguard through sweat and skill.

Even now, Systlin could only best her aunt blade to blade perhaps two matches out of three.

If anyone...man, woman, even the gods themselves...had tried to bring Stellead to heel, she'd spit in their eye and disembowel them.

Systlin smiled to herself. It was a stubbornness and force of will that she herself shared, and that her aunt, mother, and father had always fostered.

The women did not know quite how to hold a spear, of course. Systlin had tried to gently insist that she didn't need an armed guard, more because she knew full well that they'd not yet be up to a fight than because she believed that. But they had insisted, and in the end she had simply advised them to stick to knives for the time being.

The rugs and cushions and furs in the wagon were quite comfortable, and she was quite tired, but sleep was elusive.

All of this...the rugs and furs, the sound of animals outside, the sound of low voices from the camp, the smell of dried dung fires...it was too similar to her time with the Rabi, with Sura, before Sura had become Queen of the Sands, when she'd simply been the leader of her clan.

Sura's laugh, bright as a bell, and the taste of pomegranate wine. The light of the brazier catching glints of copper and red off of Sura's black hair, which gleamed almost blue in sunlight.

The rugs beside her were cold, and she suddenly felt very alone.

Her throne would be empty. She'd held the North together through sheer grit, guile, charisma, and the edge of a sword, and beaten it back into working shape after the War of the Crown had nearly destroyed it.

Her daughter was only a girl. Foicatch, dear Foicatch, would do his best, she knew, but he was at heart a soldier, not a monarch.

Her sister would step in, at least. 'Sina was capable. But she didn't have the fear and respect of the lords of the realm and the love of the common folk the way Systlin did.

"Why am I here?" She whispered this in the dark, at the roof of the wagon.

No one answered.

"I have my own place. People who will miss me." She scowled at the dark, and anger rose hot and furious. "Responsibilities! I've not got time for...this!" She waved a hand randomly, indicating everything about this strange place.

No one answered. But Systlin had met gods in her time, and she knew that if they cared to, they could hear.

"Send me back!" She hissed this at the darkness, not sure who she was angry with. "Have I not done enough? Send me home! I do not want this!"

Nothing.

Exhaustion, at last, won out, and she slept.

She was, in her dreams, not surprised at her visitor.

The Lady's face could never be seen. The most that could be gathered was an impression of poise, of stately calm. It was impossible even to place what color Her hair was, or her skin, though the hair floated around her like a cloud and she was nude.

"You?" In her dream Systlin could still feel her anger, though it was a hollow ghost of what she'd felt while awake.

Me. It wasn't a spoken word; it was felt.

"I should have known at once." Systlin growled. "Have I not done enough? Can I have no peace?"

A laugh, chiming and musical, but which shook the very bones. You were never made for peace.

And that was true. Systlin knew it, felt the truth of it in her soul. It was impossible to deny it, not before the Lady.

She felt an answering whisper in her soul, as the slumbering power of what had once been the Lord of Night and Void, the God of Endings, the Fallen One, God of Conflict, Lord of Justice and retribution, stirred within her.

Sister. The word was pointed, and almost mocking. Who denies still that you are.

"I saved my world. It needs me; you know that damned well. I don't want to be a god."

Want. This word was definitely mocking. There is no want, sister. There is 'must'. My brother failed his duty, and corrupted it. You hold it now. In time, you will realize. Goddess of War, Goddess of Justice, Goddess of Protection, Goddess of Night, Goddess of Death, Goddess of Endings and rebirth. I do your duties for now, sister...but not forever.

Systlin clenched her fists, and pointedly ignored this. "My people need me, damn you."

They are safe.

Systlin closed her eyes. "You'll not send me back until I finish here." It wasn't a question.

You could send yourself back whenever you wished, if you accepted your new place.

Systlin glared.

Another smile. So stubborn. No, I will not. Good luck, sister.

She woke.

Within her, the power of the god she'd killed stirred again, and was once more silent.

It was morning. She could see the sunlight under the door, and could hear the cheerful bustle of camp outside.

"Gods damn it all to the pits." She muttered.

The hardest thing about training the women of the Tuchuk in combat, Systlin soon found, was ingrained survival habits.

Her aunt, in the long-ago days when Systlin had been a lanky youth still growing into her arms and legs and new to a training sword, had always said that the hardest thing about training older students was fixing ingrained and detrimental habits.

Stellead had been referring to habits picked up from lesser arms masters...letting your shield drop, footwork that was less than flawless. Systlin wondered how her aunt would have dealt with this, as she interrupted a woman to correct her form and the former slave cringed and dropped at her feet, begging forgiveness.

"I am sorry!" The woman was almost tearful. Systlin had been angry since she came to this cursed place, and she felt that knot of red rage flare. "I am sorry, I forgot..."

"It's all right." Systlin squatted, propping her elbows on her thighs. "Hush. It's all right. Here now." She offered her hand, and the girl hesitantly took it. Systlin stood, drawing the girl back to her feet, and then bent, picked up the dropped wooden sword, and offered it back hilt first. The girl took it.

"Do you know," Systlin said, keeping her voice light and conversational, "how long it took me to become good with a sword?"

The woman blinked. "I...no, Ubara."

"I started training at thirteen." Systlin smiled fondly in memory. "I first killed a wraithen at nineteen. I first killed men in battle at twenty five. that was two and a half decades and three wars ago." She tossed her own wooden sword in the air; it spun precisely one turn before she caught it again by the hilt. "Training takes time, and practice. You will make mistakes. I will never fault you for them; you simply correct them and keep training."

The girl nodded slowly. Systlin had given the same speech to many girls over the last three weeks, but the habits learned to survive the men of this Pit of a planet went deep. It would be slow going yet; she knew that.

"Fifty?" The question was unexpected.

"Hm?"

"You are fifty?"

"Close enough, yes."

"Your world then has brews of youth as well?" The girl seemed curious.

Systlin blinked. "I...no. But we're descended from the Lady, the goddess and mother of all. We live long." She considered the woman before her; she appeared to be perhaps in her late twenties. "How old are you?"

"Oh. Sixty, I think? My masters have given me the brews of youth three times."

The yawning pit of cold fury in Systlin's soul howled.

"How many years of that," Systlin kept her voice carefully level. "Were you kept as property?"

"Since I was...oh, sixteen?"

The world went abruptly white before her eyes. The yawning spectre of the power she'd pulled from the soul of a slain god roared; goddess of justice, goddess of protection....

Fury, she was furious, and for a moment she knew, knew that it would be so, so easy, to rise on the wind and come down on the people who had done this. To become a storm, a furious reckoning, to scour this world clean in a night...

...No. No no NO. I will not. I have to teach them. They must take it themselves, for all I might lead them. Or it will all be for nothing...

By the time she fought it down and came back to herself she was on her knees, clutching the trampled grass with white knuckles. Sweat was soaking her, as it never did even if she fought all day. Her breath was coming short and sharp.

"Ubara!" The voices were panicked, and she realized dimly that there were at least a dozen women around her, patting at her cheeks, offering water.

She looked up, and saw worry, and fear, and as the god-soul inside her stirred, she saw more. She saw desperation, and so, so much pain, oceans of pain, seas of injustice, rivers of innocent blood spilled.

And as the women of the Tuchuk looked at her, worried, she saw deep in their eyes hope.

"Ubara?" It was Sabra , the brave girl, who'd taken quite well to a spear. "Ubara?"

"I'm all right." She wasn't, not quite; her voice sounded rough to her own ears. "I'm all right. Keep practicing."

The hovered until she got to her feet, but once it was determined that the Ubara was not about to die, they slowly went back to their drills.

Systlin moved a bit away, absently climbed the nearest wagon, and sat cross legged, looking out over the makeshift training grounds without really seeing.

She'd always been a protector. Since they'd been children, and her sister's dreams had driven little 'Sina to cry and scream in her sleep. Since her father had nurtured that, and taught her that a Queen's people were her children, that her sacred duty was to protect and serve them.

Since she'd torn the North back from the hands of the greedy and the corrupt, who'd sought to carve it apart for power and profit.

Since she'd faced a god, putting her own body and soul between her people and the Fallen Lord himself.

Since she'd faced a second goddess, and demanded the Lady return her daughter from beyond death.

It was who she was, in the end. She knew it in her bones, even as she looked down at these strange people in this strange world, and felt it, that what she must do.

"Pitting hells." She muttered this softly, and somewhere felt the Lady smile.

For some weeks now, the routine had been much the same; Kamchak and I, and the other men, were kept chained and carefully watched. Some men, after a measure of time should they demonstrate a contrite enough demeanor, had their chains removed and were allowed to move about the camp; they did so, casting their eyes aside from those of us who were still chained.

I watched one man brush a bosk one evening, and oil its hooves. A slave girl should do such work, and he was clumsy at it. A girl was watching, wearing the leather trousers that had become fashionable among the women. Her hair, which was very long, was braided up and pinned in a coil on the top of her head; it was unflattering, I thought. She corrected him, and showed him how it was done properly, and he meekly listened. She smiled at him, and I thought that in silks and with hair loose she must have been quite a beauty. He smiled back, a bit tentatively.

I snorted in disdain. There are always men that are so, those that are more akin to women than true men.

She heard, and turned on me. There was a fierceness in her eyes.

"See." She pointed at me, mocking. "He thinks himself better than you, Sarthak. He thinks himself too good for work about the camp, thinks it should be done only by women in chains." She laughed, and spit in my direction. "And yet he is still a prisoner in chains, while you are a free man. So who, then, is the better man?"

Sarthak grinned at me. He wore no scars, and scant weeks ago he had likely been unregarded utterly by the Tuchuk.

"You speak true words, Lena." He agreed, and turned his back on me. She gave another laugh, and she turned back to their task. I realized with some surprise that the looks Lena was favoring the unscarred young man with were warm.

"Disgraceful." Kamchak was chained to the other axle of the wagon, and he too was regarding the young man with distaste. "Have they made a slave of you already, boy?"

"He's a free man." Lena didn't look around. "All free men and women of able body must do their share of work. You shall too, should you ever be trusted and set free."

Kamchak spat again, and leaned his head back against the wagon wheel.

"It was a sad day," said the Ubar of the Tuchuk, "That that she-sleen came to the Tuchuk, Tarl Cabot."

"Yes." I agreed. I wondered still how many she had slain in that night, through sorcery. The pyres had burned for two days and nights.

We watched the girl teach the young man to grease the axles of the wagon. We had little else to do.

As the evening meal was brought, we were finally given some surprise to rouse us from the deadly tedium that had marked the weeks.

The she-sleen had a cloak now, made of red larl-hide. She wore it pinned at a jaunty angle, thrown back over one shoulder. She was wearing a leather vest over her strange scale armor today. She regarded us for a moment, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. I'd examined that weapon many times now, and I still could not place the make of it; it was no Gorean style I knew of, and the silver-blue of the blade was unlike any alloy I knew on Earth. It was somewhat shorter than most blades I had seen, perhaps thirty-six inches in all in total length. A great polished amethyst was set into the pommel, the most darkly violet stone I'd ever seen.

It was viciously sharp. I knew this.

"You." She said to me. The word was said in Gorean; she was learning quickly, it seemed, for all her strange magic did seem to translate for her. "You'll come with me." She nodded at the girl following her...I recognized her, I realized, it was the girl Dina I had seen around camp before, the slave reputed to be the best at the running game...and Dina brought out a ring of keys.

Dina's hair was braided, as was Systlin's. Dina wore leather trousers, as did Systlin. Dina wore a quiva, as Systlin wore her long dagger, and had stood and rested her hand on the hilt of the quiva in conscious imitation of the strange woman.

It seemed to be a fashion, I noted, that many of the freed slave girls and even many of the Tuchuk women had taken up.

I said nothing. It had not been a request, of course, and I had little choice. My leg was healing, but I was far from my top form.

My chains were let loose. I stood, with some difficulty, and Dina's help. She was, I noticed with some surprise, quite strong. There were muscles through her shoulders that I'd never before seen so developed on any Gorean woman, and her hands were tough.

I knew that well; my own hands were callused thus from the hilt of sword and the haft of lance. It was surprising that a slave girl had developed such in such a short time.

I was led to the great wagon that Systlin had claimed as her own; the wagon that I knew, now, was not the true wagon of the Ubar of the Tuchuks.

Inside, a meal of roast bosk had been laid ready for us. Systlin sat cross legged on the cushions; the maleness of the gesture still grated at my sensibilities. Seeing it preformed by one who might look quite well kneeling in silks was wrong, quite wrong. Dina helped me, somewhat ungracefully and with some pain, to sit.

Systlin did not touch the food at once. She was watching me, and the gaze was keen and direct. I said nothing, but examined her in return.

I am an observant man. It is one of my strengths. But I could gather little from her, save that which I had already deduced; she was strongly built, for a woman, all solid wiry muscle. Her hands were tough, those of a swordsman. Her gaze was intelligent, and I could not place her origin; the bone structure and shape of her eyes was subtly foreign, but not of any place I knew. She could have been beautiful, perhaps, were she arrayed instead in silk. She never, I noted, let her weapons stray far from her hand.

She was used, I thought, to fighting. Used even to being attacked in the most secure of surroundings. She had said before that many men had tried to kill her; what sort of creature was this that sat before me?

"You're wondering why I brought you here." She broke the silence. Her tone was crisp, and it was not a question.

I said nothing.

"The answer is because you are not of these people. I know that the Wagon Peoples usually slay outsiders. That means you are unusual, and I'm wagering it means you're quite skilled at arms." She examined me again, much as I'd examined her, and I saw her noting the callus of my hands. "Your accent is not like that of these people, as well. They say you are Koroban, wherever the fuck that is. I've heard that you have, apparently, traveled."

I said nothing.

"That makes you potentially useful." She informed me of this without a hint of emotion. "I know very little of this world, and while I'm learning, I suspect that you know more than most."

I had heard her say such things before. I am quite well acquainted with such matters, of course, being once of Earth. "Of this world?" I said at last.

"Of this world." A horrible humorless smile. "You know full well I'm not from here. This whole place is a nightmare and a travesty. You're lucky my aunt Stellead is not here; she’s less merciful than I. She'd have castrated the lot of your slavers and rapists, slow roasted the genitals, and fed them back to you a bite at a time. And to be honest, I did consider that."

I could not help but cringe at the thought.

"From what I have gathered," she continued, "No part of this world is not at the mercy of monsters who hold humans as livestock and use them as they please. It's that, I think, that I've been brought here to end. And you, Tarl Cabot, are going to give me information as I do it."

The shock of her words was immediate. "Sent? The priest-kings...."

The wave of a hand, dismissive. "I've heard of them. No. Gods, no. I don't care a whit for them. If they interfere I'll deal with them. No, it's a power higher than them that's sent me."

I blinked at her in shock. The priest-kings are feared and worshiped as gods on Gor, with reason. They are advanced beyond any human designs, and are exceptionally powerful. Yet I saw not a trace of fear in her.

"They are very powerful," I said. "And your powers may bring their wrath yet." I hoped it, of course. They can burn a man to ashes on a whim.

A laugh. Another cold, humorless laugh. "Maybe." She said. "But I've slain gods before. What are a few more? No. You are going to give me information, Tarl Cabot, on this world. And then I am going to conquer it. Every last damned corner of it."

I stared at her in horror, and she simply smiled in return.

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handy-dandy-monster-candy · 3 years

Text

Brace, part One

Rating: SFW Length: 1272 Pairing: Male-Coded Android x GN Reader

A dark sci-fi fantasy romance. Huge trigger warnings for genocide, child death, attempted murder, injury, blood, heavy religious themes.

xxx

It’s another grey day in Spire City, and rain comes down in streams against your prison window. As you watch, neon lights flicker and steam in the downpour, advertising dentists and bars and career opportunities in Jackson Thomas’s Silver Spire. You can see the Spire in the distance, lit up like a beacon in the haze of watery white noise. You’re sure that you could navigate the labyrinthine streets of the city using it as one would a compass needle, if only you were given half a chance.

You are one of the Fallen: a branded human who developed an unstable genome that gave you supernatural powers, thus deviating from the humans who pass on to sit at the foot of the Beholder’s throne. In the beginning, before the phenomena became widespread, your kind was whispered about behind closed doors, nothing more than an insubstantial spectre in the dark. Then, when more and more children were born with strange powers, the world flew into a panic.

Temples were overwhelmed by desperate parents or those pregnant begging them to cleanse or help spare their children. It wasn’t long before the Temple of the Beholden officially declared such children aberrations against the laws of nature and forbade them from stepping foot in a temple. Some children were abandoned in the dark, some disappeared; most were killed in religious fervour, buried in unmarked graves or washed up on riverbanks.

The Temple of the Beholden called it the Great Ousting—a fancy name for genocide.

Faced with the blood staining the eyes of their Most Holy, a silent exodus ensued from the Temple of the Beholden, its Templars renouncing the white and gold of their former regalia in favour of founding a new faith for the people: the Order of the Fallen. Shrines for the Fallen were erected seemingly overnight—a direct challenge to the Beholden, and one they did not take lightly. All members of the Order were promptly excommunicated from the Templar faith, and though years of unrest have followed, a holy war had yet to break out.

You remember running your fingers along the robes of the Order in your mother’s wardrobe, admiring the swift but subtle gradient from coal black to blood red. You had grown up kneeling beside her in front of the altar, letting her hand guide yours as you lit the incense and red candles in front of the effigy of the Beholder. You remember praying for the Fallen to find redemption at the feet of the Beholder; to not be barred from re-entering the stream of souls that trickle down into new bodies; to find love and safety in those around them.

And then you Fell.

A knock on the door stirs you from your muddled thoughts, bringing you out of the trance you allow yourself to fall into in order to pass the time within these four walls. When you turn your head to look, the door is already closing, having allowed in a tall, lanky man with bags of groceries stacked impossibly high in his arms. You watch him walk across your tiny cell and begin to sort the goods into the cupboards and fridge, and that’s when you notice that he isn’t human at all. He has the same smooth, sculpted head that most generic androids do beneath his hood, rather like a supercycle helmet that just melts into the lines of his neck and shoulders.

Despite it all, you find yourself feeling curious; just what game is your mother playing now? The android wears the gloves and robes of the Order, stocking the pantry and fridge with things in soft packaging. You weren’t allowed to have tins or other hard packaging after the incident with the beans and the caretaker who tried to take advantage of your solitude. In fact, most metal was kept away from you, within reason, due to your specific ability to manipulate it. This meant that the building that you were in was built entirely out of plastisteel and ceramicrete, from the supports to the rivets and even the bathroom fixtures. Not even nanotech or biometals were safe.

Why, then, had your mother sent you an android?

The light in the camera in the centre of the room flickers and dies. The android calmly sets aside the rest of the packages and turns to face you, crossing the room in a few even strides and snatching you up from the window seat like a damsel in the old reels you used to watch with your mother. Shock and outrage war for dominance for an instant as your instincts buck, senses seeking metal to rend and destroy, push away from your bubble and—the wall beside you explodes.

The blast is so loud after days, weeks, months of silence that you’re briefly light-headed and lost to a powerful bout of tinnitus, almost entirely missing the transition your body takes from warm and dry to cold and wet. Your bare feet touch the roof of the neighbouring building and you blink through the lashing rain to see rioters at the base of your prison on the other side of the street, a multitude of fingers pointing from your broken window to the building you now stand upon. In an instant you’re airborne again, narrowly avoiding yet another explosive projectile from the crowd, and then you find yourself in the arms of the android as he scales from roof to roof away from your would-be murderers.

You must be dreaming, you think, except that dreams don’t bleed and you’re definitely bleeding, cut by shrapnel and shivering with shock and cold. You know nothing of where you are or where you’re going, entirely at the mercy of the android carrying you through the city.

When at last you arrive at your destination, you’re sure your lips must be turning blue from hypothermia, but you aren’t allowed to stop. The android leads you into a little hovel in a building in the slums, half-collapsing and with petra moths fluttering against bald light fixtures. Here, he gives you clothing to change into and a warm can of coffee, which you sip as he tends to your wounds.

“Who are you?” you finally ask when the chattering of your teeth has calmed, looking up at what passes for the android’s face. “Who sent you?”

“My name is Brace,” the android simply replies, shrugging off the robes of the Order and revealing streetwear as nondescript as the clothing you now wear. “I’m with the Resistance.”

“What Resistance?” you ask, bewildered and out of sorts. “What does a resistance movement want with me?”

“Not you specifically,” says Brace, sliding a gun into a slit in his trousers that leads to a gap in his leg. “Fallen in general. Think of us as a liberation movement. We want your freedom. It’s my job to smuggle you off of this continent.”

“The whole damn continent? I’m conspicuous,” you say, gesturing to the tattoo on your face.

“Minor surgery will remove the brand. Whatever other objections you may have, I suggest you remember what I just delivered you from.” Brace conceals more weapons among his person as you watch, from thin knives to long, terrible needles. This seems to be his storehouse, filled to the brim with all matter of weapons and explosives. “We leave tonight. I suggest you get whatever rest that you can.”

You have more questions burning on your tongue, but you swallow them for now. If this is to be your new normal for however much longer you’re alive, you want to be as prepared as possible for whatever may come.

#exophilia #exophilia fic #robot boyfriend #android boyfriend #androids #robots #monster romance #robot romance #monster boyfriend #Brace #get it? male CODED android? cos he's a robo--I'll see myself out #My work

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ginazmemeoir · 3 years

Text

so i was inspired by @h00man-bean and here you go with a fic about Kaz and Inej as the Devil and the Reaper.

tagging @h00man-bean @mango-pickle @carmen-riddle @the-fault-in-our-inquilab @momo-all-the-way @gopikanyari @aadyeah @reddish-green-personality @weird-u @holding-infinity-and-a-book @dragonfairy1231 @totallyforgotyouwerehere @a-dragon-under-the-stars @taareginn

I crash into consciousness. The sound of gurgling water and rustling leaves greets me as I stand up. Strange. The last time I was alive, I had arthritis and was confined to a wheelchair. All Nina could do was slow mine and Inej’s death. I remember the last breath I drew, the last thought I had, the last time I saw Inej smile. And then nothing. Just an empty void, just – not being anymore.

I look at myself, flex my toes. It appears as if death has returned my old skin back to me, but it still doesn’t look like mine. This one is clear as if it was tended to by a Grisha tailor daily, as if the man who bore it had never worked a day. I am wearing the suit I stole from Pekka Rollins, decorated with a genuine gold pin showing a crow with a lion’s head in its claws. My cane lies beside me along with my hat. Either I am in a coma and am dying a slow, painful death as many of my enemies wished, or I have woken from a dream and nothing that I know happened, never really happened. I would rather prefer the first. Then, I see Inej.

She stands there in her captain’s uniform, the teal coat Sturmhond gave her, coupled with breeches and boots. I bet her knives are still tucked there. Her skin, still the same gleaming bronze, is now wrinkle free. Her eyes are kohl rimmed, and her ink black hair spill onto her shoulders. She looks at me with confusion, her eyes searching. “Kaz?” she asks. I move toward her, and then run. Funny how a good leg is almost as useful as a grisha crafted cane.

I clasp her hands in mine, her breath caressing me. “Inej,” I whisper “What are we doing here?”

“You’re both dead actually.” says a voice behind me. I turn around to see a Fjerdan merchant approaching us. He wears a blood red coat with gold lapels. His blonde hair is slicked back, and he walks with the cool confidence of someone who just cracked a deal. The only thing differentiating him from a Kerch businessman that I once looted is that he’s surrounded by floating rocks. Inej immediately kneels beside me, and nudges me. “Sorry but I have a bad leg. Also I don’t bow to animated turkeys.” I say as I go and retrieve my cane and hat. The Fjerdan chuckles and replies in heavily accented Kerch, “I suspect that bad leg excuse is of any use to now, Kaz Brekker. Also, please get up Inej, you look extremely out of place bowing to me in a teal coat.” Inej gets up reluctantly, and when she does, she has… tears in her eyes?

“Sankt Demyan of the Rime, thank you for protecting me.” She says, and hands him one of her knives. “Ah. How poetic.” He says, and pockets the knife. That is when I realize that we, in fact are dead. And Inej’s saints, are in fact, real. Great. There goes my ten thousand kruge. Thankfully the rest of the Crows aren’t here or I would have ended up as quite literally, a bankrupt soul.

“How many times have I told you Demyan to let me welcome the visitors? You’re hardly a gracious host, let alone a good gambler,” says a Shu woman, as she walks in behind Demyan, along with a Suli girl. The Suli girl was surrounded by floating rocks as well. She looked at Inej, and smiled at her. “And now, I would like those gold buttons of yours.” Says the Shu woman.

Inej hastened to remove her own lapel, a dragon and a fox, when the woman stops her. “I’m not talking to you Wraith, I’m talking to Demyan. We had bet that Kaz Brekker would kick him in the balls when he first arrived. I however had gone for a scathing insult. So seems like I won.” She says, and takes the gold buttons that Demyan removed (albeit while grumbling) in her slender hands. “Sankta Yeryin of the Mill, and Sankta Marya of the Rock, I- it’s an honour to meet you.” says Inej, and proceeds to bow more times than she has apologized when she was alive. I am shocked to see the way these so called “saints” milk Inej’s “devotion”. She was the closest thing to a saint that people actually had down in the mortal realm, and I would rather have kicked Demyan in the balls than let Inej bow again. But I restrain myself for the sake of my jaan.

Inej gives two more knives to the women, and stands beside me. She looks like a ridiculous schoolgirl, all giddy as if she had met her favourite aunts, and I catch myself falling in love with her all over again as a dead soul. Demyan soon interrupts my thoughts with that sinuous high-pitched voice, and asks, “I see you’re unusually quite today Dirtyhands. What’s the matter?” “I’m sorry, it’s just I’m wrapping my head around the concept of not existing physically anymore. Also I’ve heard you carry your belongings with you to the afterlife, so where’s all my gold?” I reply. Yeryin chuckles, her slit eyes crinkling while Marya looks at me in disbelief. Her voice, booming like a mountain echo, repeats what she, and countless others back in the mortal world, including my wife, thought each day, “Have you no honour Kaz Brekker?” I just shrug and adjust my hat.

“Anyways, ah, back to the topic at hand.” says Demyan, as he walks towards a tree. No wait, the tree. It could easily be as tall as a mountain. Five springs gush forth from its roots, and a heart is suspended from thorns right in front of a tear in it. The heart with the thorns I remember from the most epic heist of my career, involving legends and the Ravkan monarchy. The tree I do not. Inej asks, “Mind me, O great Saint of the Dead, but could you please acquaint us with our surroundings?” Wow. That’s a lot of vocabulary from a woman whose last sentence, in my memories, is complaining how the medicine she gave me smelled like rat fart. “Oh yup that’s Djel. Or rather his ash tree. Quite popular with my countryfolk.” he says cheerfully. “And we’re here in a mountain in the Sikurzoi, in a different plane of existence. For you, are dead.” he continues, with that ridiculous smile of his. Marya then steps forward, her voice slightly less enthusiastic, giving me the feel that this is all probably quite rehearsed for a while now. “You are a long way from home my loves. Kaz Brekker, you died a natural death. Inej Ghafa, you also died a natural death. Both of you were a hundred and thirteen years old, with Inej dying within a year of your death. The form you have now, is the form you chose to be remembered as.” she says. Yeryin huffs past us, her robes billowing, and hands the buttons over to Demyan, raising up her hand to his face and showing a symbol that quite contradicts with the Saint of Hospitality. “I should have expected such from you, you merchant scum.” she says. She then turns to directly address us and says, “Enough introductions though. The real reason you’ve been brought here is for another reason entirely. You see, the souls of the dead…”

I roll my eyes as the Sankta prepares for another lecture about how our “feeble human brains can’t comprehend the world.” I regret having married Inej in this moment in the afterlife though. Dirtyhands would’ve conned them by now and found a way back to the mortal realm. Kaz Brekker on the other hand, sits on the grass like a five-year old listening a story. Inej sits beside me, her coat now lying beside her in a heap and her hair fluttering open. How I wish I could’ve seen her in the open sea like that.

“…are usually brought to the other sides of the tree.” Yeryin says, waving her hands in an elegant motion to summon up a throne made out of the river pebbles and rocks, confirming that the trio were all, in fact, Fabrikators. “There, they are all assessed in context with their deeds on earth. Everything that they’ve gone through, and everything they’ve done is all taken into account by the Saint of The Book.” She then points to a woman, invisible until this point, sitting near the tree. She bends over a desk, poring over a giant ledger and surrounded by thick books. Her thick blonde hair covered her face, her glasses perched on her wide nose, and her fair, plump skin flushed. “The three of us then decide their fate in the afterlife. Those, who we decide are ‘good’, enjoy the fruits of paradise for a while and then return to the making at the heart of this world. Those, who we deem ‘bad’, are impaled on the thorn wood until they are purged of their sins. They then bathe in one of Djel’s springs, and return back to merzost.”

“Yeah but why are you telling us all of this? We get it, we’re dead, so which way are we going?” I ask the Saints. Inej elbows me once again, scolding me with her eyes. I shrug, and stand up with my cane. “Unless you have something else to tell us, I would like to take your leave. Saints.” I start to walk, when I find myself tripping over. I right myself with my cane just in time, and see that my hands and feet are bound by vines, Demyan’s hands raised up. These saints want a taste of Dirtyhands? Fine. I will show them Dirtyhands.

I see Kaz’s demeanour change. He slips into the familiar garb of Dirtyhands, his eyes cold as flint, lips slightly pursed, standing like the King of the Barrel. I get into a fighting stance, my heavy coat no longer obstructing me. I feel the presence of my remaining knives, regretting handing over the rest. I respect my Saints, but nobody, and I repeat nobody, touches my husband and escapes alive.

Marya stands immovable, her eyes gazing at something in the distance. Yeryin clasps her hands, and states, “You came here at our wish Kaz Brekker. You leave with our wish as well. No need to reach for your knives Wraith they won’t serve you here.” I feel a tug inside me, as if someone is yanking on my leash. Before I know, I am pulled back, my breath knocked out of me, and I crash into a wooden chair. Kaz suffers a similar fate beside me, and I can see his anger barely in check. “Why are you doing this to us?” I ask Marya. She glances at me, her eyes tearful, and replies, “Because we’re tired Inej Ghafa. Because you’re now, the new gods of death.”

Great. We’re the subject of a cruel joke by the Saints and are being tortured for our sins. “We don’t want anything to do with you or your jobs. Just release us and march us over to the thorn wood, I’m ready to answer for my crimes.” “Oh you silly girl, we won’t kill our scapegoats, will we? Isn’t that right my fellow sisters?” Demyan says in his ridiculously cheerful manner. That smile takes me back to the West Stave, Heleen bartering over me with the slavers, her sinuous smile each time I resisted her. I eventually did track my slavers, although only Kaz knows of their fate, for he was the one who insisted on having them. Demyan then comes over to us, and the Saint of Death’s face becomes morose. He kneels in front of us, as if pleading with us, and says, “You see, we’re linked directly with humans and grisha. Death. Hospitality. Pathfinder. Our roles were fundamental to the balance of the world, to the smooth passage of souls and justice in the afterlife. However, seeing the Starless One return back to merzost, seeing Juris merge with the Dragonqueen, has made us realize that we thought impossible, was actually just – improbable. You would certainly know about that, wouldn’t you Dirtyhands?” Demyan glances at Kaz, his eyes moist, while Kaz looks at him unflinchingly. Weren’t the Saints destined to perform their duties? Then why are they looking for scapegoats? Demyan comes back to me, his tone rushed as he blurted out his plan. “We long to be free Inej Ghafa. We too long to return back from where we came. We too long to feel.” Yeryin and Marya then float over to us. “A Saint that dispenses justice, must have suffered injustice to be accurate in his judgements. He should be immovable, yet sensitive to the souls he receives. Kaz Brekker, you have shown us the resilience and fury of a Saint.” Yeryin says. Marya then glances at me, and begins, “Jaan, you’re one of my own people, and so I hold a special place for you. The Saint that is the Reaper, who brings over the souls of the dead, must kill without remorse. Must feel for each soul with all of her heart. She must be indiscriminate in her search.” “And you Inej Ghafa have shown us that heart.” Demyan finishes, clasping my hand. “The part is yours, should you keep it. However, remember, you must take it up with free will, for handling the deceased is a far more tedious and draining task than it sounds.”

I look back at Kaz. His eyes are focussed on the ground, his brain coming up with another wild scheme. I look at the Saints with disbelief. All this time, as I, as millions, prayed to them, honouring their martyrdoms with festivals and prayers, the Saints just longed to be human. Kaz finally speaks after what feels like an eternity. “I have a question. Are the Saints willing to answer that?” “But of course. That is the least we can do for you.” says Yeryin.

“You might’ve come across two souls in your eternal career. Jordie, and Pekka Rollins. What fate awaited them?” I ask hesitantly. I am both excited and afraid of the answer the saints hold for me. Marya looks at the Saint of the Book. She rises, and comes towards us, a small register in her hands. She hands it to Marya, and returns back, giving me a not-so subtle side look. Marya searches for the names I asked, clears her throat, and begins. “Pekka Rollins, the leader of the Dimes, a gang in the streets of Ketterdam, was impaled on the thorn wood. He was purged of all his sins, and then chose to return back to merzost. As for Jordie, your brother, he did not choose to stay for long.” I look back at Marya. “His soul… was tormented. Even though he was healed with the waters of Djel, even though we helped his soul discover his unknown gift as a Grisha Tidemaker, he kept searching this garden for you. In the end, he chose to take a single bite of Djel’s fruit, and returned back to merzost, finally at peace.”

Jordie’s fate stuns me into silence. Pekka Rollins snatched our life on Earth, but even in the gardens of paradise my brother kept searching for me. My vision blurs, my brother’s destiny opening a well of sadness in me, his peaceful return to merzost the only respite offered to him. This was the place where Jordie’s soul searched for me. Where he waited and waited for me, until he dissolved back into the heart of the world. And this is where I would choose to stay for eternity, the only place that holds my brother’s peace. I look at Marya, and nod.

Beside me, Inej grasps my hand, and smiles. She then looks down at Demyan, and says, “We will take up the mantel of your duties, O Revered Saints.” I roll my eyes. It’s as if Sturmhond’s vocabulary worms it’s way into Inej’s brain each time she talks to her saints.

The saints all look at each other, then smile and open their arms. “Our powers, are then yours, Wraith and Dirtyhands.” Golden rays, the colour of sundried wheat and barley emit from Yeryin. Ink black waves surge from Demyan while a shower of dirt erupts from Marya. The three slowly disappear, probably to a much better place. The knives Inej gave to them clatter on the ground.

Inej picks up her coat, dusts it off, and shrugs it on. She picks up her knives, touching them to her forehead, and wipes them on her sleeve. “So what do we now?” she asks me. “Well we’re here for eternity, alone, at least till you go off to bring our souls. Let’s have some fun.” I say and suggestively smirk. The Saint of the Book widens her eyes in horror as she looks at us. “Oh keep it in your pants, you perv.” I say, as I give a big shout and run towards the gentle slope along the riverbank, Inej’s soft padded boots following me, as we both tumble into each other and hurtle to the earth.

#soc #six of crows #kaz #inej #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #dirtyhands #the wraith #wraith #leigh bardugo #kanej fic #story time #vasu #sankt demyan of the rime #sankta yeryin of the mill #sankta marya of the rock #grishaverse

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elenamiria · 4 years

Text

Better Have My Money

Pairing: Maul x Reader Darth Maul comes to you, a syndicate leader, to join the Crimson Dawn. You offer him a deal that he can’t refuse and one that benefits both of you greatly.

Word Count: 3.8k Warnings: Smuttt, fingering, exhibitionism, fem reader, Switch reader, and Maul is a switch (i don’t make the rules), cannon typical violence, reader is not nice (but neither is maul but they aren’t mean to each other)

Thank you so much to @hxldmxdxwn who not only beta read this for me but also so many of her fics inspired my interpretation of Maul! If you haven’t read her stuff go do it, everything she writes is amazing!

I’m starting a collection of song inspired fics and this is the first one. The song it’s based off of is Bitch Better Have My Money (obviously) by queen Rihanna! If you like this and have any requests for songs and/or SW characters just let me know! (also if you wanna read my other fic it’s here - it’s Obi-Wan x Reader)

You didn’t get to your position by being kind. Running a crime syndicate was a difficult task, running one as a woman - near impossible. Others consistently underestimated you but that was to your advantage, the amount of people you conned into horrible deals simply because they didn’t think you would deliver must be in the hundreds. When they couldn’t flow through on their end you let them know that you would give them time, but you would collect one way or another. You relied not on brute strength like some groups but instead you had a vast network of spies. You consistently gave yourself the upper hand with the most up to date information, using it to leverage the best deals and stay one step ahead of the competition. That’s how you learned about Crimson Dawn and their leader, Darth Maul.

When Maul himself had come to your base to ‘recruit’ your group for Crimson Dawn he was unprepared to be welcomed in. He was so used to fighting his way to the leaders and killing them to assume power not whatever was happening here. So, when he was brought straight to you he was honestly speechless. You were lounging at the end of a large room on an elegant black and gold chaise. You had smiled when you saw him and put down the data pad you had been reading from. Greeting him like an esteemed guest, you told him you would be more than happy to share all of your resources with him. There was only one condition. You explained you had very few employees that were skilled warriors and you could use someone of his skill set for difficult situations. Confused he had inquired how you had made it as high up as you did without fighting and you laughed, a sound he found himself enjoying greatly, before telling him there are ways of persuasion other than violence; but also that it didn’t take a warrior to poison someone.

He was shocked to find himself agreeing to your terms and when you beckoned him towards you with a smirk and he was even more shocked to find himself complying. Perhaps he listened to you because he could see no ill will in your eyes, which you kept trained on him in a way that heated his body. Maybe it was because when he used the force to sense your intentions the only thoughts present in your mind were of bringing him and yourself pleasure. And maybe it was because everyone in the past who had wanted to dominate him had only done so for themselves, never even thinking about what he wanted. So as he found his mouth buried in between your legs and praises streaming from your mouth he expected to be shocked, angry even, but instead only found satisfaction.

When you had learned about his past, how ruthlessly he was used then tossed aside, you tried to end your half of the deal telling him you wouldn’t use him like that and you also tried to end your extracurricular activities feeling guilty in your domination of him. He was eager to reassure you that you were nothing like his former master, that you made him feel loved and that some small part of him deeply enjoyed handing the reins to someone who he could place his trust in but that he would appreciate you submitting to him too, something you were more than happy to do. He didn’t tell you at the time but he had grown fond of you and he actually preferred going with you to these collection calls in order to protect you from any harm.

You were currently heading to collect on a debt that a smaller syndicate boss owed you. He was a stupid man and had continually put off his repayment, you had warned him that the next time you came you would either be collecting or you would be assuming leadership of his measly organization. When you let him know of your impending arrival the slimeball, Willem Brasi, actually tried to charm his way out of his dire situation. All that his flirting had done was anger the Zabrak at your side. When you turned to him and saw how tense he was you ran a gentle hand over his arm quietly reassuring him that the sleepover would get what was coming to him.

Your heels rang out every step you took followed by the metal clink of Darth Maul following behind you. The two of you were quite a sight. He was completely shrouded in darkness, his black robe encasing his whole body and his hood pulled fully over his head casting dark shadows over his red and black face. Barely noticeable was a long delicate silver chain that led from a clasp on his large black collar and led to a ring situated on your finger over a sheer black glove. While he was fully covered your skin was on display with a black satin dress that clung to your hips and split in two on the top leaving your back and sternum bare, covering your chest loosely. Your legs appeared every step you took thanks to the large slits on either side, dark red shoes covered your feet. You wore a delicate necklace of precious crystals that held a clasp for you to attach the chain to if you chose and your lips were painted black. You wore a gold mask that covered majority of your upper face including your eyes, there were small slits permitting vision, this created a sense of regality as well as helping disguise your identity, you did love putting on a show for your lover.

When you reached Willem’s throne room you walked to the center. He hastily rose, clearly realizing the severity of the situation, before sputtering out what he thought would be a charming greeting. You said nothing, letting the room sit in silence until he and his men were shifting uncomfortably. When you spoke your voice rang clear “Do you have the credits you owe me Willem?”

He had the audacity to laugh before strutting towards you “ah love, how much was it again? I didn’t realize you would be gracing me with your beautiful presence so soon”. As he approached you could feel Darth Maul’s entire being tensing next to you. You tilted your head towards him a little, in a calming gesture, before turning your face back towards your current problem.

A false smile quickly painted your lips “Don’t tell me you forgot Willem. You will pay me what you owe me.”

The man faltered in his pace, clearing his throat nervously. “Perhaps I can pay you in another way? I’m sure I can bring you great pleasure”. His pale hands approached your waist and Maul audibly growled. Willem falter again but the idiotic man continued, his hands nudged your gloved arms away from your body before laying his hands on your waist. He was more confident now and started to say something filthy to you before freezing as he felt cold blades press against his wrists. You had knives strapped to your thighs that you unsheathed now to press lightly against the veins of the man touching you.

“I think you’re forgetting who is calling the shots here. I told you your options, there are only two, either you pay me or I take control of your operations. Now, remove your disgusting hands from me before I remove them for you.” As you spoke you pressed the knives in more firmly, a thin trail of blood appearing. Willem immediately backed down with a nasty sneer covering his face.

He laughed again before backing away. “you’re a little bitch you know that. You’re outnumbered here, I think you should leave before I have my men kill you” He snarled at you and this time a genuine smile came over your lips, this was going exactly as you planned. You strolled forward, a small hand motion telling Maul to stay where he was. Shaking your head you spoke “I’ll ask you one last time to pay me, otherwise I will seize control whether you like it or not”.

He had been busy pouring himself a drink and took a heavy swig before laughing for the last time “You? Seize control? It’s just you and your-” he paused trying to think of an insult “your fucking dog against my whole organization, I think you’re the one who’s going to lose control”

Your head tilted and your right hand rose, the chain dangling from your finger gleaming in the light, “C’mere puppy”.

Darth Maul obediently approached you and you turned to face him. Your hands slipped under his robe and met his defined stomach, slowly you trailed your hands up to the clasp that held the robe on. Undoing it deftly you then continued your path up his body cupping his face affectionately. You rubbed your thumbs against his cheekbones gently, small smiles forming on both of your faces, before you gently removed the hood letting the robe fall away from him completely. At his grand reveal quiet noise rang around the room from Willem’s men worriedly whispering as they recognized the Sith. Though Maul couldn’t see your eyes he knew they were looking up at him with pride. Your hands slid down the back of his head and to his large collar, running delicate fingers over the metal you came to the front. You gently rubbed the chain connecting the two of you before unclasping it. You backed away from him and faced Willem, who had gone paler if possible. You tilted your head before sweetly muttering “Puppy, why don’t you show them what you’re capable of?”

The telltale noise of a lightsaber igniting filled the room and you were bathed in a red glow. Pleas started spilling from your preys mouth, and his men drew their weapons in a futile attempt to protect themselves. You turned your head back to the beautiful red and black man, slowly you trailed your hand up your body, just how he would if the two of you were in private, before clipping the chain to the collar at your own neck. At this Maul sprang into action, he moved beautifully saber slicing in an intricate dance of death. Through the whole affair you simply stood there, Maul had taught you how to take care of yourself with dual knifes strapped to your thighs, you were confident with the odds that nothing would happen to you. In his defense, Willem had made a valiant effort - he realized it was no use to go after Maul and so he had turned to you blaster raised with two shaking hands. A cruel smile crossed your face as he tried to rush you. However, he was stopped by a red lightsaber cleanly swiping up severing his hands at the wrists. He screamed out in pain and fell to the floor writhing in pain. Maul kicked him towards you and the sobbing man slid violently to you. You stopped his body’s movement with a well placed heel to his chest. Tutting at him you dug your heel in harder, “You should’ve given me my fucking money. Now, I’m going to take everything you’ve built, too bad you won’t be here to see it.”

You pulled one your knives out but noticed Maul shifting next to you, glancing at him you recalled his anger at Willem earlier and gave him a small nod before backing away. Maul let out a feral snarl that sent pleasant shivers through your body before ending the Willem’s life.

You both sat in silence for a minute before Maul moved to sprawl on the large chair at the head of the room. A smirk covered his mouth and he beckoned you to him, your visits to opposing syndicates usually ended with Maul’s thorough domination of the opposition and then you. Sauntering over to him you added an extra sway to your hips causing a low growl to build in his chest. You slid in between his parted legs and his large hands grasped the back of your thighs. He slowly worked his way up your body, squeezing your waist and slipping his hands under the fabric of your dress to run his thumbs over your nipples, which elicited a gasp from you, before sliding up to your face and tearing your mask off. When your eyes finally met uninhibited after what felt like hours a moan left his mouth, he loved nothing more than being able to stare into your eyes. Your hands rose and you gently pulled off the ring that held the end of the chain placing it in Maul’s outstretched hand. He wrapped the long chain tight around his hand, giving it a test pull to ensure he could control your movement and using it to yank you hard into a passionate kiss. You moaned softly into his mouth responding passionately, your hands ran up his body to gently grab onto two of his horns. A small whimper left his mouth as you tugged on him. You broke apart and he nipped at the parts of your neck not covered by your necklace in between kisses he murmured out “what would you like, my Starlight?”

A breathy sigh fluttered out of you lips and you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes again “My lord, I want anything and everything you will give me”

Maul’s yellow eyes darkened to a rich gold at your words and he spun you around just before he pulled you down onto his lap, gently he took the time to turn your necklace around so the chain attached now ran down your back. His hands slid down your body grasping behind each knee and he roughly tore your legs open and over his mechanical legs, the slits on either side of your dress allowed for this -the silky material rippled then settled in between your thighs the only barrier preventing your exposure to anyone who may wander into the room. You let out a whimper as his hot breath hit your neck, fingers trailing up the inside of your thighs and then dancing over where you craved him most. Slowly he began to run two of his fingers over your pussy, an involuntary cry flew out of your mouth and Maul paused. His head tilted curiously as his other hand slipped under the fabric of the dress feeling around your hips for a moment before a deep chuckle reverberated through his chest, causing a pleasant vibration against your back which was firmly pressed to him.

“Such a naught little princess, not wearing anything underneath this dress. You wanted this didn’t you?”

You nodded desperately but Maul growled lightly, the hand that was under your dress reappearing and he pulled on the chain harshly pulling you impossibly closer to him and your head tilted back.

“Words princess” he whispered into your ear.

A small whine left your throat as you stuttered out an answer “Yes, yes I wanted you to take me here, I-I wanted to....” you trailed off as his fingers resumed stroking you over your dress, Maul loosened his grip on the chain as he prompted you to continue with a nip to your jaw and a seductive “Tell me what you wanted and I’ll give you what you need, my sweet girl”

Taking a moment to try to catch your breath as his fingers switched to swirling around your clit you moaned before continuing “I wanted everyone to know. I wanted them to know that I’m yours, only yours and that you’re mine”

At your words a deep purr vibrated against your back and his hand finally slipped under your dress, two fingers easily slipping inside with how thoroughly soaked you were and your walls fluttered around them. A feral grin covered Maul’s face and he began a slow teasing pace, his thumb ghosting over your most sensitive spot. You let out an impatient whine and attempted to buck your hips against his hand but found you couldn’t move them, you tilted your head back so you could glare at the man who had you spread open so deliciously. A coo left Maul’s mouth, though he didn’t look the least bit remorseful, and he adopted an innocent look .

“What is it my love? Hmm, is there something you need?” His teasing words had you clenching around his fingers as you whimpered and nodded. His other hand trailed up your body to grasp at your throat tightly and you gasped softly, his thumb and pointer raising to tightly grasp your jaw. He was holding you tight enough that it caused a satisfying ache and he shook you a little before speaking again, his words sharp with faux anger “what did I say about using your words, Princess?” Before you had a chance to say anything his pace rapidly increased. A startled noise tore from your throat as his fingers moved at an inhuman pace, pausing only to add a third finger, his thumb pressed hard onto your clit. It was all so much, it verged on overstimulation and small tears filled your eyes as desperate moans and cries poured from your lips. Maul let go of your jaw to let you speak but kept a firm hold on your throat.

“Is this what you wanted? You should thank me princess, I didn’t even make you beg for it. Though maybe I should” He growled out. Desperately praises started falling from your lips telling him how good he made you feel, how desperately you needed this, that only he could make you feel this way. As you continued Maul moved his hand from your neck to your chest, groping harshly. He rolled your nipple in between his fingers and played with you just how he knew you liked it before switching to the other side.

As you approached your peak you continued babbling on “Please my king, I’m so close, so close. Please don’t stop, oh yes,” you cried out as his picked up his pace “thank you, thank you my lord!”

Maul’s hand came up to curl in your hair and his pace slowed slightly as he began to speak slowly “My love, Starlight, will you let me in? Please, I-I want to be one with you, I need to feel you, all of you.”

You turned your glossy gaze to him, you knew he was hesitant about asking this of you - he had brought up using the force to meld your minds before but had never followed through before - though you were prepared to give him everything. Your own hand cupped the back of his head pulling him forward so your foreheads rested together. A blissful smile covered your mouth “Of course puppy, my mind is always open to you. Please love, I want you to feel the pleasure I’m feeling, I want you to feel when I fall apart at your touch”

Maul let out a pleased sigh and inhaled deeply, “Just relax, Princess, just let me in”

His fingers began a sensual pace, enough to keep you on the edge just on the brink of falling over into your climax. It started as a slight pressure against your head that kept growing, your mind automatically rebelling against the intrusion but with Maul’s gentle encouragement to open yourself to him you found yourself relaxing and, again with encouragement, focusing on how you were feeling. The pace of his fingers pumping into you increased until you were blinded by the pleasure and then you felt him - present in your mind, the two of you becoming one. Your foreheads stayed pressed together intimately, your hand on the back of his head rising to rub at his horns. The Zabrak behind you let out a long, slow moan now able to feel all the pleasure you were feeling, every little spark was amplified bouncing between your minds and increasing in intensity. Maul picked up the pace his fingers sinking as deep into you as possible, thumb rapidly circling your clit. You started to whine and whimper begging for release, Maul was just as desperate as you letting out deep moans and there was a content purr insistently tickling your back. His free hand came up to wrap in the hair at the back of your head, pulling hard and pulling away to nuzzle at your neck.

“Yes, that’s it princess, you feel incredible. Why don’t you cum for me little one, let go. Let me have all of you my love” he spoke pressing kisses to your neck in between his words. His tone grew into a commanding rasp of “Submit to me, cum for me” before biting hard at the junction of your neck and shoulder. The pain pushed you over the edge and you cried out as your climax blinded you. Maul let out a loud snarl as your pleasure washed over him white hot, his hips bucking in time with yours.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you sat there not moving, just basking in pleasure, but you slowly came down. Gently your lover pulled his fingers from inside you, raising his hand to his mouth he sensually licked any remains of you off making sure to hold eye contact with your blissed out eyes. Maul then untangled his hand from your hair to wrap around your waist, his other hand following shortly, holding you to him. As you pulled your head off his shoulder you tensed realizing you had an audience. A man stood at the entrance to the room, mouth gaping and eyes darting all over taken in both you and the carnage around the room. Maul looked up from where he had been nibbling at the bite mark he left and a growl harshly left his throat. The man started to back up, clearing intending on running, and with a quick nod of your head Maul’s hand rose to freeze the man in his tracks.

You let out a content sigh pressing back into Maul’s warm chest as a smirk covered your face.

“Is that any way to greet your new queen?” You cooed a small laugh leaving your lips at his terrified expression, “why don’t you go tell anyone you can find that there’s been a change in leadership and if anyone has a problem with that they can come take it up with us” with that you waved him off and Maul released the force hold he had on him.

You weren’t worried, at this point your enforcers should be arriving to ensure compliance. For now you were content to sit with Maul, you adjusted to a more comfortable position (your legs were aching from being spread for so long) and pressed a soft kiss to his jawline. A warm smile rose on your face and you couldn’t help cupping the side of Maul’s face, gently tracing his tattoos.

“I love you puppy”

A deep chuckle reached your ears, red and black lips pressed softly to yours before he replied.

“I love you too my starlight, more than you know.”

#darth maul x reader #maul x reader #star wars fanfiction #darth maul #darth maul smut #reader smut #the clone wars #song inspired fic

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spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

Text

The Best Way for a Spy

A bright flash of lightning streaked across the sky. A thunderclap and a baritone bout of rumbling followed on its heels. The smell of rain crept through the air.

Alone on the muddy road wandered a figure of androgynous shape, robed in fancy attire, in all manners of bright red and deep black and gleaming gold. A porcelain mask of beauteous shape concealed their face. And they stopped. Stared skyward. Pondered.

Evening neared and the cloudy sky had stolen away the sun, bathing the idyllic countryside in a gloomy twilight, a fittingly bleak azure to accompany the chill in the air. A lonesome inn stood by the roadside. Warm and orange lights from the inviting hearth inside lured the masked figure.

The best way for a spy to stay hidden was to hide in plain sight. So spake their mentor. Thus, they always stayed on the road to deliver important messages. For spies who slinked across the rolling hillocks tended to get confronted and questioned more thoroughly by the knights-errant and the militiamen and the inquisitors. The spies and thieves who dressed in muted colors; those who dared to look inconspicuous, they always drew the most attention.

Hence the colorful jester's attire. The fancy mask, unsettling and like to draw questions, but also a face easily replaced.

First drops of rain bounced off the porcelain and turned the garb a shade darker wherever they landed, soaked up by the fabric.

A soft sigh escaped the thin line where the mask's mouth allowed its wearer to breathe, and the spy set into motion. They approached the inn's entrance.

The Boot of the Cockfosters, read the letters on the sign outside the inn. The colors painting the rooster dancing on a treasure chest had faded years ago. The iron rings from which the board hung now squeaked as the signpost swayed in the wind.

The spy, now going by the name of Gladstone—or Rain 'o Blades, or just "Rain", as people in the savvy of their trade referred to them—pushed inside. The wood of the door and the floorboards creaked. They stopped just beyond the threshold, just outside the weather's reach.

The heads of three people turned. Three men sitting at a table by the fireplace, huddled over tankards of ale. They stared. Studied the eerily serene porcelain mask, the garish garb. Did not notice the many knives strapped to Rain's body in different spots, concealed by frivolously fancy layers of cloth.

The men's eyes only ever rested on the darkness of the eyeholes of the mask, and on the short dirk sheathed at the spy's side.

"Who are you?" asked one of the men at the table. A local, given the ring of his accent.

Rain shook their head. Slowly. Tired.

The men still stared.

"Here for a room for the night?"

Rain nodded. Firm and resolute.

"Come, sit with us. My price for boarding is fair, and fairer yet if you share a drink at my table."

"And good news," said the next. "So few guests here this season that you need not share a bed. Unless you want."

Raucous guffaws exploded out from the three men's throats.

Rain approached their table. Crept with strange grace. Some of the beads and gilded rings on the spy's dress jingled.

Always jingled when Rain wanted to be heard. And stayed silent when they snuck.

The keen ear that seeks the sound always misses the silence, so spake the master. The best way for a spy to sneak was to be noticed whenever they wanted one to notice them, so less attention was paid when they wanted one to not notice.

The men watched Rain's approach with a strange glint in their eyes. A lopsided smirk here, carrying a smug sense of superiority; a leering, lustful gaze there, seeking for a feminine form hidden underneath the jester's cloth.

"You some sorta artist? A dancer mayhap?" asked another one of the men.

"Looks like you lost your carnival, eh?" asked another.

More guffaws from the round.

While rain loudly poured from the clouds, drenching the countryside, Rain stayed silent. Stopped midway across the room. Bowed deeply, flowing like water. The fabric rustled; the jewelry jingled. They flowed from bowing into crossing slender arms before their center, and spinning around in a series of elegant pirouettes, excess cloth flapping and twirling colorfully as Rain finished the series of dancing moves with a dazzling somersault.

The rings jingled one last time as they landed in a striking pose, one hand pointed at the men, splaying all fingers to punctuate the performance.

Another rumble of thunder ripped through the heavens outside the inn. Another flash of lightning lit up the windows. Then Rain bowed again.

The three men chuckled nervously. That made way to clapping and cheering in welcome response to the spy's impressive display.

One slapped the table and waved Rain over to sit with them, and the spy took the last steps. Only trained eyes would notice how easily and deftly they pulled out a chair and slid onto its hardwood seat without a sound.

The grin faded from the innkeeper's face. He leaned over the table, grabbed his tankard, and raised it between them.

"Good show, good show. But in these whereabouts, it's not proper polite to wear hoods and hats 'n masks in the presence of your fellow countrymen, jester."

Rain nodded. Slowly.

A hand gloved in black and silver finery crept to the mask. Into the hood. A latch and buckle clicked, thin fingers clutched the faceguard and removed it.

A lock of curly black hair flopped down before a narrow forehead, a set of piercing amber eyes, and the angular features of a long and symmetrical face devoid of facial hair. Rain's thin lips twitched, suppressing a smile in response to seeing the faces of two of the men fall—having expected to see a woman's face revealed behind the mask, now uncertain over what they beheld. The third was intrigued.

This range of reactions—it always amused Rain.

"Come, drink," said the innkeeper. His face beamed less with enthusiasm and more with curiosity as he turned.

Slapped the table again, causing the plate with the candle and a knife on it to clatter.

He shouted over his shoulder.

"Woman! We have a new guest for the night! More ale!"

Soon waddled from another room a woman dressed like a maid, muted earthen colors as her garb and skin flushed red from the heat of the kitchen.

Her eyes lingered for too long on Rain, searching the jester's figure for defining form and drinking in the sharp features of their face. The innkeeper noticed the awkward pause, and the spy felt his burning glare as it rested upon them.

"Give this good man his drink and get on with it," snarled the innkeeper.

Rain bothered not to correct him. Rain never did.

The woman fumbled with the fourth tankard of ale and placed it in front of Rain, some of its contents sloshing over the edge and splashing the tabletop, and not once did she break eye contact with the mysterious jester-dressed spy.

She had a strange air about her. The spy struggled sometimes to read overly subtle expressions, and the long road and the longer day had been too long for them to dwell on whatever they could have read in her face. Sorrow, perhaps. Despair, possibly.

Rain's lips twitched again, this time forming a timid smile. They nodded. The innkeeper's wife eked out a crooked smile of her own—genuine, warm, but feeble.

"There we go," said the innkeeper.

The very moment Rain picked up the fourth tankard presented to them, the innkeeper clapped a meaty palm onto Rain's bony shoulder and hugged them close, clinking their tankards together in a motion of merriment. The woman retreated into the kitchen, taking her time to peel her gaze away from Rain's captivating presence.

Asked one of the other men, "You don't talk much, eh?"

Rain shook their head. Kept a straight face.

The best way for a spy to be forgotten is to give them only what you want them to remember. The less you spoke, the harder it was to recall how exactly you sounded. So spake the master. These men would only remember the garish colors and the fanciful dancing, reckoned Rain.

"I know what I said, and I am a man of my word, but I'll tell you what. Drink's on me, stranger. You wanna pay less for the room, then you let us hear your voice—just once."

The innkeeper grinned. Missing a front tooth. Bad breath, damp and warm upon Rain's cheek.

Rain smiled, though they had to force it. It did not reach the spy's eyes.

"You're too kind," said Rain. Smoky, silky, and smooth.

One of the men gaped while the other squinted, both still unable to determine the spy's gender.

Copper coins jingled as they danced on the table. One of them almost landed on its edge, then toppled over to join the rest. Nobody had ever seen the "jester" produce them, or where on their body the currency had come from. Like all good magicians, they only saw what Rain wanted them to pay attention to.

Rain lifted the tankard to their lips and gulped away. And gulped. And gulped.

The three men watched in stunned silence. The logs in the fireplace crackled, exploding with a tiny shower of embers. Rain continued to gulp away until having downed at least half the tankard.

They finally paused, swallowing before a belch could arise. Exhaled sharply.

The men still stared. Brows arched, their curiosity still burning.

"It has been a long day for me, so if you'll excuse me, I shall retire for the night," said Rain. "Thank you very much for all your hospitality."

Smiled again, this time more in earnest. Gently put the tankard down and slipped out of the innkeeper's uncomfortable embrace—and out of the chair. Slinked away to the nearest flight of stairs. All eyes on them.

Rain swiveled and performed another low bow, as elegant as the entrance they had made, permitting rings to jingle once more.

Said one of the three, "G'night."

The other two nodded as a courtesy. Then they exchanged curious glances amongst each other, and Rain was already up the stairs, making nary a sound.

They poked their head into the rooms to confirm they were meant for guests, then chose the one in which the weakest smells lingered. It still reeked of onions and stew, but it would serve. The spy opened the window to let some air in while undressing. This attire always cost a lot of time to get in and out of.

Just like armor.

Armor for the identity.

The best way for spies to protect themselves from harm was to wear the proper clothing. For the right attire helped others manage expectations and manipulate them into not ever even wishing to do the spy any harm. So spake their master.

Outside, the storm whipped heavy drops of rain against the window, soon closed for the night by the spy to keep the cold and wet elements at bay. The sound of the downpour and the long and thunderous rumbles had a soothing quality to them, lulling them to sleep. Slowly but surely.

It had been a long day.

Rain jolted awake.

The rain had stopped. The storm had subsided.

The darkness of night had blanketed almost everything, broken only by silver moonlight that poured in through the window.

Neither the spy nor the man standing inside the ajar door to the room had seen how fast it happened, only the flash of the dirk, gleaming in that moonlight, held out in front of Rain. A sharp tip pointed at the man.

He blinked. One of the three men from earlier—not the innkeeper.

The smug sense of superiority admixed with a hint of fear as he went cross-eyed in staring at the pointy tip of the blade.

Said the man, "Pardon. Did not know you was in here." Drunken slurring rounded off each word.

He grinned, but it looked forced.

Rain just stayed sitting in bed, measuring the four paces of distance between them, the blade held steady and pointed at the bothersome man's face. They said nothing in response.

"I'll be leaving, then. Unless you want some company to warm your bed?"

Rain shook their head.

He grunted and closed the door behind him.

Rain sheathed the dirk in one fluid motion, then slumped back down into the uncomfortable straw-stuffed bed. The wooden frame creaked.

They sighed. Clamped their eyes shut and twisted and turned under the heavy, coarse blankets, trying to find slumber anew. Exhaustion from the road returned. Rain's world went dark once more.

Commotion from downstairs made Rain jolt awake again.

More time had passed.

The moon had wandered across the sky, judging by how its silver rays now bathed the interior of this guest room in a different light.

The innkeeper shouted something. Swearing, muffled through door and floor and walls. His maid-wife shouted something back.

Things clattered.

They fought with words and objects.

The familiar sound of a slap echoed through these halls.

Sobbing. Another slap, a cry in pain. More clattering.

Rain twitched. Twisted and turned. Rubbed their eyes, pinched the bridge of their nose, then gazed at the sheathed dirk leaning against the wall right within reach beside the bed.

Fighting the urge to act, they closed their eyes again, hoping to get more sleep. The noise might stop soon, after all. Why endanger the objective by interfering in some animated lover's spat?

The best way for a spy to succeed on their mission was to not get distracted. Distractions led to mistakes, and mistakes led to failure. In the end, the mission was all that mattered. So spake the master.

There was no need to get violent, reckoned Rain. They could just threaten the innkeeper a little bit to mediate matters, perhaps. The spy was very good at mediation. People rarely got hurt. Just a gesture here, a little threat there, and they would be quiet again.

But this was permitting distraction—even just thinking about ways to silence the fight downstairs. Rain perished the thought, and Rain's mind quieted again. The noises downstairs had stopped. Perhaps sleep would come again easily.

Several slaps followed, making Rain flinch more each time. The wet sound of something hard like wood or metal hitting human flesh. Repeatedly. The sobbing choked, sounds of pain and misery mixed in from the woman's subdued wailing, interrupted by brutal strikes.

The spy emitted a soft sigh.

Swung their feet out of bed with the grace of a trained dancer. Slipped on the jester's jacket—a tunic lined with several hidden daggers.

Rain made no sound on the way down.

Found the innkeeper standing over his maid-wife, who lay on the ground, sprawled out. Blood had sprayed iron pots and the door to the pantry. The innkeeper held the crude weapon in his hands; a now-bent pan clutched in a meaty fist.

A single slipper of the wife lay elsewhere, astray, the other still dangling from her twitching foot. It smelled of cooked chicken and rust in the kitchen. Two smells Rain never connected but would not easily forget.

A dark pool spread out underneath the woman. She tried to lift herself up from it, but her arms buckled like the legs of a newborn foal. Funny how closely that death and new lives danced together, reckoned Rain.

She looked like she was dying. They would have to act quickly if the innkeeper's wife was to survive the night. And the man raised his improvised weapon high over his head, ready to bring it crashing down in another, potentially fatal blow.

The final step that the spy took to enter the kitchen fully, they allowed some rings on the jacket to jingle.

The innkeeper's head snapped around. He glared at Rain with murder in his eyes.

Growled with a sneer, "What in the hells do you want?"

Rain said nothing.

Let the daggers do the talking. Let them spell out the name.

Rain 'o Blades.

The innkeeper gurgled and the bent pot fell from his hand, banging against the floor and ringing out from there until it stopped bouncing. He pawed helplessly at the knife sticking out of his throat and gripped the one in his belly with a trembling hand.

Rain had crossed the distance with little pause, a deadly pirouette accompanying the motion as two more small blades gleamed in the glow of fire and moonlight. Blood sprayed and then two more knives were sticking out of the man's body. Yet more blood splattered from his insides as Rain yanked out the first two to spell his demise.

The man continued to gurgle as he clutched his opened wounds where blood pumped out at an alarming rate—alarming to the man, at least. A cacophony of falling kitchen utensils and pots erupted as he dragged the entire surface of a table down to the floor with him in his final fall.

"You're going to pay, you basta—"

Whoever of the other two men had entered the same door as Rain just to utter that oath, two more knives greeted him. No gurgling escaped his throat, just a hoarse groan as he slowly teetered back and forth, a face gaping with surprise and one eye wide open while the other had a knife sticking out of it.

Rain already knelt by the woman in the puddle of blood before the dead man hit the floor. The spy turned her over and cradled her head in their hand.

Eyes white, rolled back. Her crinkled chin quivered, allowing only unintelligible whimpers as the lifeblood continued to spill from her skull.

The spy had seen this sort of trauma before. Too late to save her, no such magic commanded they. The only magic Rain knew was mundane, the methods of toying with simple men's senses, the art of deception, and the sorcery of blades in the dark.

Gingerly, they placed the woman back down, bedding her in her own growing pool of blood.

They produced another knife from the jacket and inserted it. Lovingly. Slipped it right in, underneath the chin, driving the blade right from the soft gap into the brain. Stopping that mouth from flapping uselessly like a fish suffocating on land.

Ending it quickly for her.

The best way for a spy to complete their mission was to complete it without bloodshed, because blood always left a trail. So spake the master. But sometimes, death was inevitable. So, also, spake the master.

And sometimes, death was a mercy. So thought Rain.

They held her in her final moments. Her spark of life slowly dulled until fate snuffed it out entirely.

Rain slowly rose to their feet again. Undergarments stained with dark crimson from the carnage.

Wooden floorboards creaked. Something heavy hit the ground. Rain was out of the kitchen like a flash of lightning. The third man fled towards the inn's front door. Ripped it open, letting it slam against the wall.

He had seen everything.

When all had gone wrong, the best way for a spy to stay hidden was to leave no witnesses. So spake the master.

A lesson Rain always despised but understood the necessity of.

The third man took five flying daggers to the back. Rain did not rush, hurling two at a time with deadly precision, walking at an almost leisurely pace after him, slowing him down with each additional knife launched. A sixth blade flew right into the man's nape, and he collapsed outside, face down in the mud.

His hand helplessly clenched the muck, and mud oozed out between his fingers, just as painfully slow as the life escaped his body and his soul passed on to the afterlife.

Rain sighed once more.

Looked skyward. Observed and pondered.

The rolling thunder rumbled farther in the distance. Though the clouds still hung heavy in the moonlit sky, they had parted, and the rain had long stopped.

Not even a faint drizzle remained.

A short rest at best, this was no longer a safe place to stay. Lights still glowed inside the inn, but it had fallen deathly silent.

Now, Rain would have to go against the best ways for a spy to do anything.

Fully garbed and armed again, all daggers cleaned and back in their rightful place, and the porcelain mask back on their face; Rain stood outside the burning inn. Flames licked outwards from the ground floor windows, and the inside of the establishment glowed brighter than ever before.

The Boot of the Cockfosters would be little more than a husk come morning.

By the time anybody could investigate, the spy would have long snuck away across the hillocks, spending a miserable night in a cold crypt to get some muchly needed sleep.

But before all of that, Rain o' Blades unfolded the folded parchment that had been hidden inside their jacket this entire time.

The message.

The mission.

The best way for a spy to ensure their survival was to never read any messages they had been tasked to deliver. So spake the master. And so, Rain ignored the lesson, as this night had been a lesson of its own.

The note read:

PZHZERI UZROVW ZMW RH YFIRVW. GSLFTS IVTIVGGZYOV GL VMW GSV YOLLWORMV GSFH, GSV PMRTSG’H XSROW NFHG WRV HL GSV UZNROB’H HVXIVGH TL GL GSV TIZEV DRGS GSVN. HL HKVZPH GSV NZHGVI. NZPV RG JFRXP.

Rain studied the note. Let their eyes scan over the cryptic arrangement of letters. Then again. And again. All the while searching memories for different ciphers to unlock the meaning of this message.

Once they had understood, anger guided their slender hands—crumpling up the parchment and stuffing it back into their jacket in a huff.

The best way for a spy to live long and die peacefully in their bed one day was to carefully heed the master's every lesson. The best way for a spy to succeed at any mission was to not get personally or emotionally involved. So spake the master.

But that night, Rain decided that their master's way was no longer the best way. Watching the inn burn brightly, they found a new resolve. A new purpose. Someone to protect. A quest to prevent being a mere witness of another innocent death at best, or an instrument of murder at worst. A quest to shed any willful blindness towards the woes of the unfortunate.

That night, walking away from the inn burning bright, Rain decided to blaze their own trail. To no longer serve as a spy. To no longer bow to any kings or masters.

To make their own best way.

—Submitted by Wratts

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ourladytamara · 3 years

Text

Evening Entertainment

Tamara 06/07/2021 - @_ourladytamara

cws: cnc, abuse, betrayal, kidnapping, implied (brain) surgery, blood, animalistic violence

Steel. Ribbed, warm, metal-slick in that defiling way; it covered your entire body for the last… you aren’t even sure how long, but you knew it must’ve been months, at least. Nothing but the pitch darkness and the distant rumbling of unknown machinery – that is, until you felt the lock disengage and your body fell free of the iron maiden upon a hard, basalt floor.

Your eyes adjust slowly. It’s difficult after so long in the dark, but you manage; you’re in a small, cramped room, the ceiling higher than the light stretches. Plain, gripless walls, utterly devoid of furnishing or context.

A Demon stands before you.

She’s tall. Taller than most, or at least the ones you remember; her horns curl backwards around her head and form opulent crescents, decorating her like a regnal crown. Cuboid robes hang over her body and conceal her figure beyond the most minor implications of curvature. Delicate designs in bone white cover the black fabric and make your head swirl.

“Get the fuck off the ground. You’ve rested long enough, qhard.” booms her voice, echoing around the chamber. “You’ve been reassigned.”

Before the iron maiden clasped around you, you were an officer in the Salvation Corps; elected as the best and brightest of your platoon before being pinned first by gunfire and then by a hulking Demon. Were you really… assigned anything before this?

Guess so.

You writhe on the ground as your numb legs attempt to rise. Every limb in your body feels like it’s about to fall off; blood rushes from your heart to the long-restricted vasculature, snowy numbness like television static enveloping you like the maiden had. Your head fucking aches from the inside.

“Imperatrix, you’re more pathetic than the other one. I paid bottom price for you and you still can’t walk after a measly two years in confinement.”

Two years..?

Your eyes go wide and you start to panic. Two years of your life spent in there – gone in an instant! It’s as if they never happened – dates and anniversaries and remembrances all wiped clean like a dry erase board. You -

She kicks you swiftly in the jaw. With a snap, you collapse back to the ground.

A grinding sound from beside you clarifies your swimming vision. The wall is opening up, a hidden compartment within revealed; and inside, a single, human figure. It’s clad in black leathers and covered in nails, spikes, and geometric tattoos. A hood covers its eyes, and yet the lower jaw looks so familiar; it sniffs the air animalisticly and begins to grow agitated.

“My use of your tongue is a genuine luxury, qhard, and I suggest that you heed my instructions – they’ll be the last you’re given for the rest of your life.”

You begin to hyperventilate. The figure in the compartment hears the door come to a heavy, sliding stop, and rears up on its legs. Whoever this is, they’re barely acting human – they begin to crawl towards you a few seconds later, body ringing with a chorus of metal piercings.

“Don’t you remember it? You were such good friends back then, I just had to… reintroduce you,” continues the Demon, an evil chortle escaping her hissing lips, “with a few minor adjustments, of course.”

The figure crawls closer – close enough for you to recognize the birthmark on the side of their defaced cheek.

“A-Amanda??”

She was your best friend. A field medic in the Salvation Corps, you knew her since college; before the Demons, before the bloodshed, before the end of the world. She always had a cute little birthmark on the side of her cheek – now, it’s been completely covered and encircled with runic tattoos and alien scarification, barely visible.

Another kick. “Silence, qhard! You are not to fucking speak the animal’s wretched human designation, jn’akkara. Continue demonstrating your stupidity and I’ll have half a mind to kill you myself – and what a waste it would be, before my guests even arrive!”

She grabs Amanda by the scruff of her neck, revealing a handle on the back of the hood. She’s rapidly growing more aggressive and agitated, your words doing more than a bit to frighten her.

Another movement from the wall – revealing a small platform in a long, long corridor.

“We’ve spent the past two years thoroughly removing any vestigial humanity in the thing; the sigils along its skin came first, to keep it docile, and then we began to carve into its grey matter to keep it obedient. The thing’s existence is little more than fear, anger, and hatred. It’s delightful, isn’t it?”

Amanda snarls and almost screams at you. The Demon is barely holding her on the leash. Your eyes unfortunately shift to the lower end of her body – only for your gaze to lock on the hideous, monstrous cock swinging between her legs. It’s unlike anything you’ve even seen before, and you’ve seen – and sucked – plenty of Demonic cock in the past eight years. Tendril-like, alien, dripping; just looking at it makes you more than nauseous, as if the stomach ache from the pain wasn’t bad enough.

“That wasn’t enough for us, though. It’s disappointingly easy to reduce a human to little more than this wretched state – beneath all the paint, you’re little more than the wretched hair-beasts in the rainforests we so rightfully exterminated, which isn’t much fun for us. You are killers, after all, and what better way to punish you for your indigence than to induce the same hatred that you have for us – for your own kind?”

She loosens her grip on the hood’s hook, allowing Amanda to thrash forward at you. She snaps her jaws, almost barking, voice raw and scratchy yet utterly single-minded in its deep utterance. She hates you. She hates you more than you thought possible for a person to hate, for a person to be hated. The Demon smiles and brushes the exposed back of her neck, forcing the thing to shiver and calm slightly.

“It wasn’t easy, but we believe we’ve successfully written the proper sigils to convert all humanoid visual stimuli into violent impulse. Her brain fell so easily beneath the gouge once we really gave the effort…”

She trails off, but you’re fixated on Amanda. Emotional depths you’d never conceptualized fell out beneath you, the floor of your entire psyche pulled out from under you and leaving you in gut-churning freefall. This was beyond cruelty – this was torture, plain and simple.

“Already losing focus and I haven’t even finished introducing you.”

The Demon releases Amanda’s hook.

“I suppose I’ve wasted enough breath on you, qhard – go on, pet, show it what you think of humans!”

She pounces you in an instant, pierced skin slamming into yours with the force of an MMA grappler. Steel points dig into your flesh, leather chafing your naked, tender body. She snarls, grunts, wheezes, clamping her jaws down around your arm and shaking her head as she tears flesh and draws blood. Her teeth are razor-sharp, evidently modified like the throbbing tentacle where her cute, perky cock used to be. They dig into you like knives; she eventually grows bored of your arm and moves to your thigh, successful repelling your frantic thrashing and pinning you completely to the floor.

A beep. The Demon pulls a small brass device out of her pocket and holds it to her face.

“Goodness! The guests have arrived – just in time.”

By now Amanda – what’s left of her, at least – is straddling you and humping your naked form. The tendril rubs up against you and coats the inside of your thighs slick and disgusting with something; it’s not quite enough to distract from her pointed nails digging into your flesh, but nearly. She rips a chunk of meat away form your shoulder, blood pooling on the floor around you as you thrash with weakening motions. At your peripheral vision, you notice the Demon stepping onto the revealed platform in the wall. It starts sliding upwards a few seconds later, suspended by a long tendon and a steel accordion structure from beneath. More grinding – the ceiling is opening up, folding away like a lotus leaf. So many feet in the dark above you, the bottom of an ornate, round table; the dark begins to clear, revealing the room itself to be some kind of dining room or foyer, a greenish glass floor beneath it.

You were decoration.

All the torture you were about to endure served the purpose of a glorified fish tank. The elevating platform brings the Demon to the top layer and utterly seals both of you within – the walls return to their flat, featureless demeanor. From above, your captor waves at you before welcoming her guests.

Amanda sinks her teeth into your neck and takes what’s hers.

#subscriber stories #millennium penance

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t--rash · 3 years

Text

“Maybe this forest here will have something in it, let’s take a look.”

The group had been traveling through the dusty plains bordering the forests. The tall grass occasionally being thrown about by gusts of wind making the landscape look like green and golden waves. Covered in dirt and grass stains, the five of them had been trudging the grasslands looking for any kind of indication of ruins. The woman who had just spoken, Ilanis, was pointing towards a line of trees to the North. The trail of long golden hair flowed like a line behind her head, where it was tied up high to prevent it from going into her face from the wind. Her lithe form was accented by the light clothing and long brown cloak she wore to help against the winds, to little avail as the cloak rapidly pulled away from her. The two long knives she had were clinking against her hip as she started into a light jog. The rest of the group looked after Ilanis as she started off ahead.

“We’ve been doin’ this for like three days now, can’t we just give it a break?” A harsher voice whined, coming from the shorter, stouter woman named Lidda. Her long black hair was being loosened from her braid as it was whipped around by the wind. She had stopped and put her hands on her sides just as another gust of wind sent her cloak around to cover her face. “Gah! I am sick and tired of these plains! Do we have to travel through here?”

“Yeah! I’m gettin’ dust everywhere! It’s even in my beard, watch!” Vondal exclaims as he bends over and shakes out his long dark beard, sending a cloud of dust into the wind. He stands back up next to Lidda, being not too much taller than her, and rests his arm on her shoulder. His gray-white robes that were normally clean and pristine, decorated with iconography of his religion, were now almost beige due to the travelling, with a small line of green forming at the bottom.

“Oi! Dull head! All that dust just went right at me!” Lidda shoves Vondal away with her elbow as she attempts to brush herself off. To no avail, however, due to her cloak tangling itself within her arms.

The broad form of Jerard turned towards Thaddeus, a small grin forming on his face causing dimples to form on his strong features. “You know, when you said traveling together would bring us together more, I almost believed you,” he said through a small chuckle, his lower voice contrasting the higher voices that was just heard, “there must be something up there though. I can’t take another failed search.”

“I can’t either, to be honest. I was really hoping this would be a short trip, Minth is bound to be dying with anticipation waiting for me to get back.” Thaddeus responds, his low voice ringing out through the howling of the wind. Looking down at himself Thaddeus brushes off the dust from the front of his clothes, trying to hold back his cloak as he does so. His wavy brown hair was starting to poke into his eyes from the strong winds, causing him to run his fingers through his hair every couple minutes.

Ilanis’ voice could barely be heard over the winds, “Wait guys! There’s something here! I see a bunch of stone!”

“Finally! Come on, at least being in the trees will block the damn wind.” Lidda started into a fast jog to catch up to Ilanis, shielding her face from the tall grass as she went. Jerard, Vondal, and Thaddeus all shared a glance together before the started forward as well.

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

The forest’s air was much calmer compared to the plains outside, with most of the wind instead moving through the upper canopies of the trees, causing the leaves to break the beams of light shining in. The deep green colors starkly contrasted by the light brown barks of the trees was a welcoming difference compared to the golden flatlands. Ilanis was trailing ahead of the rest of the group, stopping every so often to point out stone bricks in area.

“There’s gotta be something around here. Why else would there be so many pieces of a broken structure?”

Vondal was the first to speak up from the group. “Why don’t we stop for a second, Ilanis. The rest of us would like to take a moment to regain our bearings.”

“Yeah, it’d be ill advised to not to take a rest. And I think I have some dust I need to clean from my armor.” Jerard chuckled the last part as he sat down onto the forest floor and started to remove his chest piece. The heavy looking metal had a dull shine on it, its silver surface browned by the vast amounts of dust coating it.

Ilanis shook her head as she watched Vondal and Lidda sit down along with Jerard, with Thaddeus still looking off into the distance. “Go ahead then, though I’m going to scout ahead for a bit. We’re close to finding something, I can feel it.”

“Hey, you shouldn’t head out alone. I can go with you.” Thaddeus interjected, stepping towards Ilanis with a smirk in his tone. “Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t go taking all the loot for yourself.”

“Oh, come on, I told you that I was done with that. Whatever though, let’s go then.” Ilanis had rolled her eyes as she turned away to choose a direction to go.

“Have fun you two, but not too much fun.” The wink that accompanied what Lidda had said sent a slight blush onto Thaddeus as he quickly turned away into the forest.

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

The pair had been traveling in silence through the tangled underbrush as the forest grew heavier around them. The trees pushing them closer together as the terrain shifted more and more rocky.

The stillness of the air was cut short as Ilanis mused aloud. “So, why’d you never tell me about your little sister?”

Thaddeus stopped walking as he turned towards Ilanis with a bewildered expression. “H-how would you know about her? I don’t talk about her to anyone.” His voice was stuttering, the mistrust evident in his tone.

Ilanis started to lean back against a tree, crossing her arms as a smirk spread across her face. “Oh, don’t think too seriously about it. I just heard you talking to yourself in your sleep when I was on watch last night. I’m just surprise is all, considering we’re all your friends.”

Thaddeus’ brow was starting to furrow as he started walking ahead again, avoiding where Ilanis was standing. “I know we are, but I just didn’t want to bring it up. I prefer not to talk about my family, and you know that.”

“Oh come on now, I thought you got over that. Is Daphne really still on your mind? It’s been years, Thaddeus, I thought you would’ve gotten over it by now.”

“Gotten over it? What the hell do you mean by that?” The resentment was building in Thaddeus’ voice.

“Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that. You know me, I wouldn’t want to intentionally hurt you like that.” Ilanis jogged forward to catch up to Thaddeus, grabbing for his hand gently. When he did not pull away, she turned him around to face her, a small smile forming on her lips. “You know me better than that.”

Thaddeus looked down at the ground before glancing up and meeting her gaze for a moment, which he then quickly looked back down to the ground and continued walking. Ilanis fell into step next to Thaddeus, maintaining her grip on his hand as the continued onward in silence.

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

After what felt like twenty minutes of walking had passed Thaddeus and Ilanis started noticing metal tracks on the ground, leading them towards a clearing. They followed the tracks as the tree line suddenly stopped, leaving loose dirt and rock in the open space before the giant rock outcroppings. They were like small mountains with rail tracks heading into and out of them on various levels, wood beams supporting the tunnels that they led into. The fading sun shining behind the rocks, silhouetting the structures across the opening. The whole place seemed abandoned for quite some time now, with rocks and tracks strewn about and out of order.

Ilanis perked up as soon as they crossed the threshold into the clearing, running towards a smaller entrance to the mine. “See! I told you I could feel that something was here! Tell the group, let’s camp here for tonight, then we can explore in the morning.”

Thaddeus responded by pulling out his spellbook, muttering some words as he produced a wire from his bag. The wire started to faintly glow as Thaddeus spoke into it, “Hey, we found a mineshaft out here. You should come out here so we can camp here, I’ll start a fire so you can see the smoke.”

A response came to Thaddeus soon, Jerard’s voice sounding out in his mind. “Alright, we’re on our way.”

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

The rest of the group had found their way to Thaddeus and Ilanis’ clearing, setting up some tents and sleeping bags. The moon was high in the sky now, and Thaddeus was absentmindedly writing in his journal during his night watch.

The sound of dirt scuffing the rocks had brought Thaddeus out of his trance as he looked over his shoulder to see Ilanis approaching him, still in her traveling gear. “Hey, why don’t you and I take a look ahead of the rest of the group, just to scout it out and see what we’re dealing with in there.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer to wait until the morning? We won’t be able to get any help if we get injured without Vondal there.” Thaddeus responded, fatigue starting to bleed into his words.

“It’ll be fine, especially with a spellcaster as good as you around, we’ll be completely safe.” Ilanis was nudging Thaddeus as she said this, smirking with a hopeful look in her eyes.

“Fine, but at the first sign of danger, we’re gone.”

“That works for me.”

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

The mineshaft was extremely dark, promoting Ilanis to light a lantern for light. The two were keeping close to the wall as they traveled down into the cold stone tunnel, moving at a quiet pace as best as they could.

Ilanis was the first to speak, “So, back to your younger sister, why’d you keep her a secret? It’s not like any of us know Minth anyways, so what’s the harm in talking about her?”

Thaddeus stopped dead in his tracks. “How do you know her name? I never said her name before.” His firm tone starting to sound harsh as it echoed off the stone walls.

“Oh, I uh… I just heard you say it, that’s all.” Ilanis voice was very unsure.

Thaddeus turned around to face Ilanis, the lantern spilling light from underneath him causing shadows to form deep in his cold expression. “Tell me, now.”

“I-it’s not a big deal, ok? It’s late, can we just forget about it? Maybe we should head back up.” The lantern was starting to make noise now as Ilanis’ hands were trembling as she started to back away, an uncomfortable smile accenting her terrified eyes.

Thaddeus reached out and grabbed onto the wrist of the hand that Ilanis was holding the lantern with a dull arcane glow spreading across his palm. The cold magic caused a burning sensation in Ilanis wrist, causing her to cry out in pain as she dropped the lantern. It hit the ground with a loud metallic echo but stayed alight.

Ilanis was practically screaming in pain now as she grabbed at Thaddeus hand on her wrist, trying to wrench herself free of his grip. “Agh! Thaddeus what are you doing?! Please, let go you’re hurting me!”

“Tell me. Now.” The magic from Thaddeus’ hand started to glow brighter as Ilanis cried out in pain, her wrist and hand blackening from where Thaddeus was holding on to.

“I read it in your journal, ok! I don’t know what I was thinking, I just thought that there was maybe something important that you- AGH!” Ilanis cried out as the blackness started to spread across her forearm.

“Minth was supposed to remain a secret. That is my business.” Thaddeus expression was completely blank now, his eyes locked to Ilanis’.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry okay! P-please just, let go…” The pain that was filling her voice was echoing into the mines. “W-what would the other’s think if they woke up and I was injured like this?”

“They won’t know. They listen to me, unlike you do. It seems evident to me, that there’s some corruption within our group.”

“C-corruption?! I promise Thaddeus, I-” Ilanis didn’t have time to finish her sentence as Thaddeus grabbed one her daggers and brought it across her arm, rending apart the flesh as deep crimson started to flow. Ilanis cried out as she fell back, Thaddeus’ grip still firm on her arm as he stood over her, looking down.

“It’s ok, it’ll all be over soon. We can have our happy ending together later when you learn to listen. We could run off together, like you always wanted, run away to a small town on the coast.” A terrified smile formed on Ilanis’ face; hope started to cut through the pain as the magic in Thaddeus’ hand started to die down.

“Do you really mean it, Thaddeus?” The tears in Ilanis eyes were reflecting the small glow of the lantern away from them. Ilanis took one final breath as blood gently started to spill out of the corners of her eyes as they fell shut. She collapsed to the floor, the smile still on her pale face as her body laid there limp. Thaddeus reached down and picked up the lantern as he started to head back up towards to entrance of the mines, wiping the blood on his hand away onto his cloak as darkness enveloped Ilanis still body.

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

A Story for my Favorite Sister Minth:

You might not know this, but I have a group of friends I travel with, we go on all kinds of adventures together. There’s Jerard, who reminds me of dad a lot. He can be very serious at times, but he has a gentleness to him that shines through. There’s Lidda, a short woman with an even shorter temper. She can cast magic left and right, she almost singed my eyebrows off with one of her spells! There’s Vondal as well. He has his own way of thinking, being a very pious man. Reminds me a lot of your older sister Daphne, in fact reminds me a little too much of her. But we cannot forget Ilanis. She is a very beautiful and witty woman; I think you would have liked her a lot.

The adventure we had this time was quite exciting. We had just traveled through the plains to the south, we were traveling north in search of ruins. Picture that, your older brother going through dangerous ruins with his friends in search of loot. We had just gone into the forest looking for the ruins I had mentioned when we started seeing stone bricks strewn across the ground. There were traces of something that used to be here, but we just had to look. Ilanis was the first to spot it, the mineshaft. There were rails and small bridges built up into a small mound of rock that came up from the ground, with one big entrance. We had camped outside of it for the night, preparing to face whatever was inside of it. However, when we woke up Ilanis was gone. We had gone searching for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. We were freaking out. Sadly, she is still missing to this day. We had left those forests for good then, swearing that whatever took Ilanis away from us would pay.

But hey, don’t let that discourage you from venturing off on your own. I may have lost my friend, but you are strong enough to face anything by yourself with the magic that I taught you. I love you the most Minth, I cannot wait to return home and tell you more stories.

~From, Your Dear Brother Thaddeus

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actress4him · 4 years

Text

Whumptober 2020 - Day 20

So, I basically set this fic in BBC’s Merlin, minus any of the actual characters. Any fellow fans out there? Anyway, I wasn’t sure what to do for today’s prompt for a while before this idea came to me, then I got to spend an afternoon researching. ;) Hope you enjoy!

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Day 20 - Medieval

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Warnings: restraints, death mention, torture, dislocation, broken bones, mild blood, mild gore

The city of Prakkus was stuck in medieval times. At first, they thought it was just the architecture, which really did look like a citadel straight out of the Earth Middle Ages. Lance, Hunk, and Pidge had started in on the “dragons and knights in shining armor” comments right off the bat, which Keith had listened to with silent amusement.

Then they actually got inside, and the natives - a pink-skinned, mostly humanoid race that called themselves Dornads - were all dressed in long gowns, tunics, and robes. It really did look like they had stepped into the pages of a history book. Even Keith caught himself looking around in awe at everything, and the Garrison trio’s commentary just became even more animated.

It wasn’t until later, though, that they’d realize just how stuck in the medieval era these people were. Not until they were greeting King Uster and discussing an alliance, and Pidge brought up a holographic screen from her gauntlet, and the throne room exploded with shouts of treason.

Not until they were being accused of sorcery and dragged down deep below the castle, into a real-life dungeon lit only by torches along the walls and guarded by Dornads wearing polished armor.

Their own armor was taken, leaving them with no easy way out of the cell they were all thrown into. The only good news was that their flight suits still managed to keep out the chill, since in true medieval fashion there was no heating in the dungeon.

Bright and early the next morning, they were woken by a guard banging on the bars of their cell door.

“You.” He pointed a gloved finger straight at Keith. “You are the leader here, are you not?”

Hunk’s hand gripped his arm, but he shook it off and stood before anyone else could protest. “I am.”

“Come with me.”

The others scrambled to their feet, firing off questions about where he was being taken and why, but Keith just followed the guard’s directions and stuck his hands out the gap in the door so that thick iron shackles could be clamped around his wrists. “It’s okay, guys. We’ll get all of this figured out.”

“Just tell them the truth, Keith,” Allura urges. “It may take some work, but surely they will understand if you explain it to them.”

Right. Because he had always been so good with words, with explaining. That was her job, and Shiro’s job, not his. It was one of the many reasons he sucked at being the leader.

But he could do this part. He could take responsibility for his team, take whatever they wanted to throw at him just to make sure the others stayed safe and unhurt.

He was led all the way back to the throne room they had been in the day before, and shoved to his knees in front of King Uster. The man looked down at him in disdain from underneath his golden crown.

“Black Paladin of Voltron. You kneel before this court today accused of the crime of sorcery. Do you recant?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I think there has been a misunderstanding. What you saw yesterday wasn’t magic, it was just an electronic -”

“Do you recant?”

Pressing his lips together, Keith tried his best not to be annoyed at the interruption. “There are other planets and races that are more technologically advanced th-”

“Do you recant?” The King was practically shouting now. “Your crime has already been pronounced.The penalty for practicing sorcery is death. However, if you recant on behalf of yourself and your associates, there will be no further punishment.”

Keith furrowed his brow. “So wait, you’re just gonna kill us without a trial? Without even listening to an explanation?”

“You really expect to need a trial after your crime was witnessed by so many, including myself? I suggest you recant now.”

“And if I don’t?” he shot back.

The King’s three eyes narrowed. “Then, Black Paladin, you will return to the dungeon to face the honed skills of my punisher until you do recant. Then you and your associates shall all be executed.”

So, torture. Right. Not something he was looking forward to, but what he was hearing was that the other choice was to admit to something he didn’t do and immediately get him and his team killed. If he refused, then he got tortured, but they all got to live in the meantime. That was more time for someone to come up with an escape plan, or for Coran to realize something was amiss and figure out how to get them out.

He lifted his chin. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

King Uster leaned back in his throne and flicked a dismissive hand. “Take him away.”

The trip back down was rougher than the trip up. The guard pulled him so quickly that his feet could barely keep up, almost dragging him down the stone steps. He had hoped that the torture would be happening in a separate area from the cells so that his teammates would be none the wiser, but unfortunately it was in an open space just down the hall. Down the hall past the cells.

“Keith!”

“Keith, what’s going on?”

He threw the best smile he could muster their way as he was yanked past. “It’s okay. Just...keep thinking.”

He hoped they’d know what he meant. It was all he had time to say, and he didn’t want any extra suspicion on them. But he really needed them to figure out a way to escape.

The torture room looked exactly how he imagined it would. There were chains dangling from the ceiling, clamps and knives and various devices of unknown use hanging on every wall. Keith was led straight to something that he was pretty sure he recognized before they even began strapping him down to it.

It was a table of sorts, sitting at an incline. The shackles were taken from his wrists, only to be replaced with the metal cuffs attached to ropes on the higher end of the table. Identical cuffs at the low end were put around his ankles - after his boots were removed - so that he was lying on his back with his arms stretched up over his head. Though he knew stretched wasn’t really the word to describe it, not compared to how they were about to be.

Sure enough, the guard stepped to the crank on one end of the table, and a newcomer, the “punisher”, he assumed, took the place by his feet.

“All you must do is recant to make this end.”

The cranks began to turn. The rope tightened. It went just past pulling taut to the point of putting pressure on his limbs before they stopped.

“Do you recant?”

“We didn’t do anything wrong.”

The ropes went tighter. A mild ache started up in his joints.

“Do you recant?”

“It’s called science.”

Another turn, and his knees and elbows began to creak.

“Do you recant?”

“No.”

His knees and elbows were dangerously close to pulling out of their sockets, and his hips and shoulders were popping.

“Do you recant?”

Keith swallowed a groan. You can’t scream. You can’t scream. They don’t need to hear this, you can’t scream.

The crank turned. His knees and elbows dislocated with a loud crack.

He screamed.

“Keith!” he could barely hear from down the hall. Other shouts accompanied, but they all blurred together.

“Do you recant?”

Another turn brought the ropes tight again, and his dislocated joints cried out. His back arched, as if it could somehow relieve the pressure.

The punisher walked away for a moment, only to return holding a small piece of wood with round holes cut through it. He fit the holes over the toes of Keith’s right foot, then produced a wooden chisel and a hammer.

Keith didn’t know what was coming for sure, but he knew he wasn’t going to like it.

“Do you recant?”

“Just do it,” he growled.

The chisel was wedged into the hole housing his smallest toe, then the hammer slammed into the end of it. He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose as the bone broke, but managed not to make anymore noise.

He didn’t, in fact, through all the other toes, until it was the big toe snapping. Then he let out a moan through his teeth that he hoped was too quiet for the others to hear.

“Do you recant?”

“No!”

Back to the cranks again. His shoulders weren’t going to last much longer. It took another two turns, and agonizing pain in his already destroyed joints, for them to simultaneously pop out of place.

He screamed again, and his team echoed their own cries right back.

How hard would it be, his traitorous mind started to think, to confess to using magic? That’s all it would take to make him stop.

But the sound of his friends’ voices kept him from giving in. He had to stay strong. He had to. Otherwise they’d be dead by tomorrow.

“Do you recant?”

His hips were next, and hopefully last, to go. If they went any further, it would be his spine, and he was pretty sure they didn’t want to kill him. Yet. Though the pain was making his brain so fuzzy, he wasn’t even completely sure about that anymore.

The punisher leaned over him. “Do you recant?”

Keith couldn’t have answered even if he wanted to.

The cuffs were removed from his wrists and ankles, and he was jerked up from the rack with more force than necessary. A strangled cry ripped from his throat. The guard marched him across the room, though it was less a march than a series of stumbles on Keith’s part. His legs and toes were in more pain than he realized was possible, but if he fell then they’d just drag him by his also ruined arms.

A coffin-shaped structure loomed before him. Two doors swung open from the front, revealing an interior filled with short spikes.

“Perhaps a night spent with the Iron Maiden will change your mind.”

The guard shoved him forward and adjusted him until he stood in the tiny space in the center. All his weight settled onto his dislocated hips and knees. Tears sprang into his eyes unbidden, but he gritted his teeth and refused to look away as the heavy, spiked doors came swinging in toward him.

Then it was dark. Completely, pitch black dark, and the only sound he could hear was his own labored breathing.

But he didn’t have to see the metal spikes to know they were still there. He could feel them, pricking at his skin every time he swayed the slightest bit in any direction. His legs hurt, so badly. He wasn’t even sure how he was standing on them at all, and had a feeling that it wouldn’t last for much longer. If he could raise his arms, he could brace himself against the walls somehow, but even if he had been able to get them past the spikes without shredding them he couldn’t will his shoulders to move.

Slowly, over the next...he didn’t even know, because time was impossible to mark in the darkness and silence...Keith found himself sinking backwards and to one side. He couldn’t help it. Yes, the spikes were embedding themselves into his flesh. Yes, it hurt. But at least it took his mind off the rest of his pain, just a bit.

And as gruesome as it was, the spikes were helping to hold him up, by his ribs if nothing else, taking some of the pressure off his hips and knees.

It felt like hours and hours later when the doors opened again, leaving a barely conscious Keith to groan and squint his eyes shut against the torchlight that filtered in. There was a flurry of voices and movement, multiple pairs of hands grasped his arms, legs, and torso, and he was gently eased off of the spikes and out of the metal box. He whimpered as blood began to flow from the newly opened holes.

“I know, Keith, I know,” a voice whispered. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”

A gentle hand was stroking his hair. His eyelids fluttered open, and he could just make out the blurry face that hovered over him.

“‘llura…you...got out.”

She smiled tightly. “Yes. I just wish it had been sooner.”

“Why’d you do it, man?” He knew Lance’s voice, though he couldn’t will his head to turn to see him. “Why’d you let them do this to you? You could have just told them what they wanted to hear!”

“They were gonn’...” Keith clenched his teeth as a wave of pain washed over him, “ex’cute everybody. Had t’...stall. So you could get out.” The corner of his mouth turned up as he returned Allura’s worried gaze. “I’m the leader. ‘s my job t’ protect you.”

“Well, now I’ve officially made it our job to protect you.”

“No arguments here.” Lance stood. “I see Hunk and Pidge coming back with our armor. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Allura stood, too, picking Keith up in her arms. He bit back a groan. “Popsicle stand? What is a popsicle, and why are we blowing its stand?”

Keith let his eyes slip shut. “I could eat a po’sicle right now. Soun’s good.”

Lance chuckled and ruffled his hair softly. “Soon as we get back to the Castle, I’ll make sure Hunk makes you as many popsicles as you want.”

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