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animereaderinsertwriter · 3 years

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Cupbearer (Eren/Reader)

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV (in progress)

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (im watching you, if you see this, begone!), vampire!eren, hunter!reader, fem!reader, smut, some amount of predator/prey dynamics but only kinda?? there is also a significant age difference but only cos eren is immortal and all that jazz. we're all adults here. there will eventually be smut.... and do i really need to say that there's gonna be blood in a vampire fic?

Description: A story of falling in love in 4 parts.

Eren is a bad man (well, a bad Creature) who has done bad things. When he meets the great-great-great granddaughter of one of his former friends in his favorite blood bar, however, he thinks it might not matter so much what happened in the past, so long as he can make the future something worth living to see.

Ao3 link here

Part I

A lamb in a den of lions, he thought, watching the newcomer as she settled in, ordering whiskey neat. A fool, for sure.

A fool she may be, perhaps, but even fools could be dangerous. Eren had known that the young woman was a Hunter from the moment she entered the bar (everyone else had, too) but something told Eren that she was hardly cut from the same cloth as the average Bane of Creatures. There was something in her movements— a predatory grace in her stride, perhaps, or a stiff, straight posture, with muscles tensed and ready for action— that betrayed her power to him; but for all that, she really was lovely, and the image of a rabbit caught in a patch of bramble came to mind whenever he looked at her.

Sitting in a corner, drinking his B-neg, he watched the woman as she sipped her drink, checking over her shoulder now and then. She was wary— as anyone with good sense would be— but she didn't appear frightened, and Eren's curiosity was piqued. It wasn't every day that someone so bold happened across his path, and it became harder and harder for him to resist the urge to approach her.

Eventually, Eren gave in to his curiosity— he never had been very good at or even particularly fond of restraining himself— and when he came silently up behind her, the newcomer didn't even notice his presence until he murmured a greeting close to her ear.

"Hello, little love," he said, and she startled in her seat. "Are you lost?"

She turned around then, her eyes big and bright in the dim lighting of the bar, but by the time she managed to look at the spot where Eren would have been, he was already seated on the barstool beside her. Eventually, though, her eyes found his, and when their gazes met, Eren was amused to find no fear in her visage.

"Far from it," she told him, turning her body towards him. "I am precisely where I mean to be."

Eren blinked, nonplussed.

"Curious," he said, leaning forward so that she could see the sharpness of his teeth as he spoke. "Do you fancy yourself a wolf among sheep, little Hunter? Did you really not think we would know you for what you are the moment you crossed the threshold of this place?"

Any normal, human ear would have missed the way her heart leapt in her chest, but Eren missed nothing. The fear he had hoped to inspire in her was present after all, but her face never moved from its impenetrable mask— an affectation that was somehow both soft and steely at once.

"That's not what I'm here for," she told him, widening the distance between her knees as she readjusted on the stool. "I'm here to discover the truth."

The truth— what an odd notion!— and yet Eren sensed no lie in her.

"You're a strange one," he told her, but forced himself to relax his posture to appear lazy, almost drunk. "Most Hunters— even ones so pretty as yourself— shoot first and worry about the truth later. What's your name?"

Her nose crinkled. "It's polite to give your own first."

Sharp, he thought, watching her closely. Names have power.

"Eren Jaeger."

"Eren Jaeger," she echoed, then extended her hand. "My name is (Y/N)."

That name sounded familiar to Eren— and though most names did after living a few centuries, this one seemed to hit closer to home. He knew that name, and knew it well…

"What's your surname?"

(Y/N)'s eyes flashed with an emotion that Eren didn't catch.

"Kirschtein," she replied, averting her eyes. "I'm Jean Kirschtein's great-great-great granddaughter."

And damn if Eren didn't want to laugh. Perhaps his nosiness into the posterity of his old acquaintances really was as bad of an idea as Armin always seemed to imply.

"I see," he said, and he truly, truly did. "Then you know who I am— what I am— and what I've done."

More than that, if she truly did know who he was, it was unlikely that she had come without a specific purpose in mind.

(Y/N) nodded, confirming his suspicions. "I was digging around in my family history and— well— I read what my grandfather wrote, and I just— I wanted the truth."

So wide-eyed, so innocent— so alive. Eren could see now her resemblance to Jean; if they were not similar in looks, she had his sharpness, his humanness… and, as he always had Jean, Eren envied her for it.

"If that's the case, then I'm sure you know that you don't get something for nothing," he told her, sipping his drink just to watch the expression on her face as he let the warm blood slide down his throat. "And that dealings with me can be dangerous."

"Jean Kirschtein loved you, Eren Jaeger," she told him fiercely and with such conviction that Eren nearly choked on his drink. "To take such a tone with me, to threaten me, the last living remnant of him, is the most disrespectful thing I've ever heard."

Eren was about to say that he didn't owe her, Jean Kirschtein, or anyone else any sort of respect, but she plowed on, unwilling to let him say his piece.

"You broke his heart a million ways by doing what you did, but— but he was your friend through all of it, no matter what side each of you were on," (Y/N) continued, passion aflame in her eyes. "I can't even imagine what inspired such a love, such a loyalty from him that he would forgive you for the horrors you caused. That's what I'm here to find out— what you have that a man such as him would find you redeemable."

The reproof in her words stung, but Eren was too old to argue. She could never understand what it was like back then.

"I understand more than you think," she snapped, and Eren actually flinched. "I understand that you hurt the woman my grandfather loved immeasurably, and that he forgave you for that even though he never even particularly liked you. I understand that you were ready to sacrifice the world for that selfsame woman, for Jean, and for all the others. I understand that you're a monster who loved and was loved back, but I want to know why."

How? Eren thought, shaken.

How had she known his thoughts? It was as though she had seen straight through to his innermost being.

Without speaking, she answered his question. (Y/N) took a hand and rolled up her left sleeve, presenting to him a scarred marking in the shape of a pentagram.

"My grandfather didn't settle down with just anyone," she told him, holding his gaze. "I come from a line of powerful witches, all of whom possessed strong claircognizance. Paired with my nature as an empath, you can assume I know what you're going to say before you say it."

Eren hummed, trying to appear less perturbed than he was.

"And yet you hunt Creatures for a living; strange, since you're practically one of us yourself."

(Y/N) glowered. "I hunt monsters that prey on my people, not Creatures. No innocent has died by my hand."

The unlike you went unsaid, but that didn't mean that Eren didn't hear it anyway.

"Don't get high-and-mighty with me, girl," he told her roughly. "Knowing is one thing, but experiencing what we experienced is another."

"I'm not here to judge you," she replied. "I told you, I'm here for truth, nothing more."

"And I told you that the truth doesn't come for free," he told her darkly. "You must give me something in return."

(Y/N) set her jaw.

"What would you have of me?"

It was a mean, base request. Eren was wicked for even thinking it, and vile for wanting it— but looking at the great-to-however-many-degrees granddaughter of a good man that he had once known, seeing the vitality that brought a flush to her cheeks and thumping to her heart, he knew he couldn't pass up this golden opportunity.

It had been so long since he'd had a Companion.

"Become my cupbearer for six moons," he told her, crossing his arms. "Starting with tonight, the moon becomes new; let me drink from you until six of these have passed, and along the way, you will learn what you want to know."

(Y/N) eyed him warily.

"Can you assure my physical safety?"

Eren grunted, almost amused. It was a bit late to be worrying about that.

"I think you know that I can."

"And will you let me continue in my duties as a Hunter?" she asked, her eyes searching his own as if she would find the answer to her question there inside the same eyes he'd had since he was nineteen. "Completely uninhibited?"

"That depends. Will you kill Creatures in the discharge of your duties?"

(Y/N) made a face. Eren had forgotten how expressive mortals could be, but he found that being reminded was not altogether unpleasant.

"You know I will," she replied, "But you have my word that any killing won't be unprovoked."

Eren supposed it was as close to a compromise as he could expect.

"As you wish it, so shall it be."

He turned away, signaling to the bartender for another drink, but a lightning-fast hand shot out to grab his wrist.

"Swear it," she demanded. "I need us to be Bound by it."

The meanness in Eren finally won over. He reached forward, grabbing (Y/N) by the neck, and the silver rings on her fingers burned him as she pulled at his hand to try and restore her breath. Eyes from all around the room were on the two of them— had been, since the very beginning— but it was only once the Hunter before him began to look appropriately humbled that he withdrew.

"Do not touch me without my permission," he said, "And I will return the favor."

(Y/N) looked at him then, but there was still no fear in her eyes. Anger, yes, but no fear.

She must be mad, or foolish one, he thought, considering her for a moment. I always have been partial to mad fools in general, but…

Something about her seemed different, and Eren didn't know what to do other than accept what she had to offer. Heavens knew he was getting the better end of the deal anyway.

"Swear it," she repeated, this time more quietly. "Give your word, and I will be your cupbearer."

Eren brought his hand up and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. At his will, the nail tip of his forefinger sharpened, hardening into a point; he used it to draw an 'X' onto the skin just over where his heart rested inside his chest, cold and dead. Blood welled into the cut— precious little, compared to that of a human, but still enough to run down his chest in smudges— and it was by that blood that he swore. He spoke the terms of their agreement, then took the blood from his wound with the pad of his finger and marked the same spot over (Y/N)'s own heart.

"Satisfied?" he asked, their faces almost touching, and (Y/N) shivered.

"Yes."

Her warm, living breath fanned over his face with her reply, and Eren took the moment to close his eyes and appreciate the scent and sensation of it.

"You may think you're satisfied," he told her, pulling away, "But you don't know the meaning of the word."

She eyed him warily, but before she could speak, he added, "In six months' time, I'll ask you the same question, and it is then that you will truly know what it is to feel satisfied— satiated in every way."

"As you say."

It was a throwaway comment, nothing more than a dismissal, really; but Eren felt like it was the start of something truly remarkable.

#aot x y/n #aot x reader #aot #aot fanfiction #eren x reader #vampire!eren jaeger #aot smut

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the-last-kenobi · 3 years

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Oh for the bad things happen bingo, could you do 'passing out from the pain' with hurt Obi-Wan and the 212th being like 'this is unacceptable let us help you for the sake of our sanity Please'. Good luck with moving!

Thanks willow! 🤍 I hope this fulfills expectations!

General Kenobi had several policies that his men disagreed with. Strongly, fiercely disagreed with.

Unfortunately, all these policies were personal and were applied only to himself, meaning that the 212th had little means of having them changed.

Hoop, the Chief Medic, particularly hated his General’s insistence on handling all negotiations or Council briefings after a battle before he went to the medbay.

“If it’s bad enough that you need to see me straight away, you’ll be carrying me on a stretcher anyway,” the Jedi had said. Hoop sincerely hoped this was a jest. But so far, Kenobi seemed to return from every battle in either one way or the other — beaten and battered from leading the front line but capable of walking and talking, or on the brink of death on a stretcher.

How the man had managed to walk away from Kadavo with the injuries he had — Hoop wanted to punch a wall every time he thought of it.

The man should have been unconscious. He should have had lasting, permanent damage. He should have been on drugs for two weeks.

Instead he strolled alone into the medbay a full rotation after the rescue, still wearing his ruined tunics, every visible inch of him bruised or swelling or bleeding, his rib cage just a little too prominent through his undershirt. “I’m fine, Hoop,” he said, sounding vaguely amused. “I’ve held myself together this long, haven’t I?”

And he had.

But nothing lasts forever.

Not even the infamously stubborn Master of an infamously stubborn Padawan and Grandpadawan, the former protege of another infamously stubborn maverick.

Cody was aggressively trailing after his General like an overprotective guard dog, his lips curled in a snarl beneath his helmet. “Sir,” he said for the dozenth time.

“Never mind, Cody,” Obi-Wan said dismissively, waving an airy hand as he glanced over his shoulder at his Commander. “It will keep.”

“Sir,” Cody said more insistently.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan said, smiling.

They both knew there was no overriding the General, not when he was capable of thought and speech. Still, the Marshal Commander had to try. “Sir, it’s been two days.”

“And I’ve yet to collapse,” Kenobi pointed out blithely, now opening the doors to the bridge of the Negotiator. “If I had been injured on Tameris, then I’m sure we’d all know it by now.”

“Sure,” muttered Cody.

Obi-Wan turned his head again to face forwards, but as soon as he crossed the threshold into the bridge he was accosted by his Chief Medic.

“Sir, you didn’t report for detox,” Hoop said firmly.

General Kenobi sighed. “It appears I’ve come across a plot against me. I never would have expected my own troops to turn on me.” With a gentle tap on the shoulder he bypassed Hoop, who joined Cody in trailing the Jedi closely.

“General, everyone has to undergo the detox,” Hoop said angrily. “Not just the men. The officers too. Every species that was down on Tameris during the explosion—”

“I understand that,” General Kenobi said. He kept walking away, striding towards a group of officers gathered next to a holo projector, studying a slowly rotating map and arguing in low tones.

“I don’t think you do,” snapped Cody. He bit his tongue immediately, cursing his loss of temper. His General didn’t seem disturbed, however.

“I do,” General Kenobi said, and he stopped walking and turned to face them, causing both clones to stumble abruptly to a halt. “I do,” he repeated earnestly. “But so many of the men were caught in that radius, so many of the officers on the ground. I’m having a hard enough time trying to hold things together as it is; what happens if I step aside to be checked over and treated for days at a time while the Separatists close in?”

“I could do it,” Cody swore. “I’ve already been detoxed. I can take care of everything.”

“No,” Obi-Wan shook his head. His expression was unbearably fond as he stared at them both. “The structure is in shambles. The only reason we’re not on standby in need of assistance is because my rank and knowledge shared between the Senate and the Council permits me to make executive decisions. If I surrender my position to be treated…” he shook his head. “We can’t afford the chaos that would cause to our already fractured chain of command.”

He smiled and walked away as if the discussion had never taken place.

Around them, the bridge continued busy, the people present frantic and scrambling just as the General had said. Understaffed, uncoordinated, held together by determination. By the General.

Hoop swore colorfully and stormed from the bridge. Cody turned back to watch his General, a cold determination of his own creeping over him. He snagged a passing lieutenant and leveled him with a stern glare. “I’m setting up a rotation to have the General monitored at all times. He’s under extreme stress and he’s in danger of succumbing to possible illness. Understand?”

The lieutenant nodded. He did understand. With a discreet salute he stepped away, off to spread the word as quietly as he could.

Of course, Obi-Wan noticed that his men were suddenly watching him so intently.

No matter where he went, or how quickly, or how late he stayed up, there was always at least one brother standing nearby, close enough to catch him if he fell.

It was irritating and endearing. “Cody,” he began, his voice heavy with regret and reprimand.

“Sorry, sir, I’ve suddenly gone deaf,” the Commander said with a straight face.

Obi-Wan stated. “Excuse me?”

Cody didn’t even blink.

“What if I wanted to talk about the Chommel Sector instead?” Obi-Wan tried. Cody nodded and stepped forward, leaning over the desk the General was standing over to peer at the information spread out before them.

“And if I wanted to talk about the men followi—” Cody stepped away again, dropping his bucket back over his head.

“Sorry, sir. Deaf.” Cody said loudly.

Obi-Wan sighed long-sufferingly, although the corners of his mouth did twitch upwards, part of him touched by his men’s protective nature, touched enough to perhaps forgive the insubordination.

They were a week out from the disaster on Tameris when the General’s luck — or will of iron — finally failed him.

He was halfway through a holo transmission with the available Council, meaning that Mace Windu, Yoda, Shaak Ti, and Plo Koon were all watching when Obi-Wan dropped like a discarded droid part.

It happened so quickly that not even Cody, hovering a respectful three feet behind, was able to reach him in time. One second General Kenobi was staring up at Windu, nodding solemnly as the other man derailed their plans for the Chommel Sector, and the next second he was on the ground, his head striking the console and then the floor.

“No!” Cody screamed. He forgot about the Council, about the others in the room, and dove forwards, quickly removing his gloves so that he could search gently for injuries. And a pulse.

“Commander Cody!” Windu shouted, his voice full of concern.

“He’s breathing,” Cody said shakily, and he turned the General over ever so gently, nervous of aggravating the damage. “But his head… he…”

There was blood everywhere. Head wounds bled profusely, but there was already bruising forming around the places where the red-haired Jedi’s forehead and cheek had collided so sharply with the console and then the floor. His breathing was shallow, and his cheeks overly flushed on his pale face.

“He’s weak,” Shaak Ti said softly. Her image wavered. “He’s been weak for awhile. I can feel it, now.”

“We all can,” said Plo Koon. “Commander Cody.”

“Hoop!” Cody screamed over his shoulder. He pulled the General into his arms, cradling the broken head, the tired shoulders. “Someone get a medic in here!”

“Commander Cody,” Mace Windu said.

“Help is on the way,” Cody said, and he tilted his head far back to look into the holo-blue eyes of the Jedi. “Should I bring him back to the Temple? We can be there in four days.”

“Commander Cody,” Yoda said. Cody turned his eyes to the diminutive, ancient Master, pleading.

Yoda looked back at him, leaning heavily on his wooden staff. “Let him go, you must,” he said softly. “Too far gone, is he.”

“No,” Cody said. The word was defiant, but his tone wavered, wobbly and confused, like a frightened child woken suddenly in the night. Nothing made sense. He wanted to go back. “No, he’s just ill—”

“Sickness, there is,” Yoda murmured. “And strain. He will not survive the fever. Possibilities there are — hope, always hope. But very little. Overextended himself, has Obi-Wan.”

“No,” Cody said again, but this time there was not even the ghost of defiance in his voice. Just despair. “No.”

He curled around the General and held him tightly, even as Obi-Wan’s breath began to fade.

“He said— he said he had to—I shouldn’t have listened to him!” Cody screamed out between hitched sobs.

“You did what he asked,” Windu’s voice drifted to him through the ringing in his ears. “You trusted his judgement in a time of crisis. There was nothing else anyone would have asked of you. Come back to the Temple. Bring him home, no matter what happens.”

“I would have asked more!” Cody shouted, and he lifted his head from Obi-Wan to stare up at the other Jedi, his face twisted with rage and with tears. “I should have! I should have — I failed him. I failed my Jedi,” he said in disbelief, and Obi-Wan’s limp form trembled in his arms as his shoulders began to shake with wracking sobs. “I failed my Jedi.”

The Council was speaking, the other men were speaking, but Cody wasn’t listening.

He dropped his forehead to rest against Obi-Wan’s and waited.

Hoop burst through the door, furious and panicked.

The ship began to turn as they plotted their route back to Coruscant.

Obi-Wan’s breathing faltered.

fin.

#bad things happen bingo #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #212th medic Hoop #212th attack battalion #the clones love their jedi #someone hug obi wan #someone hug cody #my poor boys #kind of in theme with codywan week #codywan #my writing

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helnjk · 3 years

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The Way To Your Heart - F.W.

Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Requested: yes

helloooo, can i get #33 with freddie from prompt list #1? pretty pleeaaase, thanks :)

“this is of the utmost importance” “it’s a spider in your bathroom”

Warnings: mentions of food & alcohol consumption but other than that, just pure fluff!

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: moving in with Fred is not exactly going how you thought it would.

A/N: domestic!Fred makes me 🥺 & i love this prompt it makes me laugh. pls pls pls give comments and feedback i rlly appreciate it :)

Prompts are in bold

---

It was a big step for both of you.

With the war ending almost a year ago and things going back to some semblance of normalcy, the twins’ shop was starting to gain traction once again and things were getting busier and busier. The flat above the shop had begun to feel slightly too crowded as you, Fred, Angelina, and George had taken up residence, so you and your boyfriend had made the executive decision to find a place of your own.

Although you had been living with the twins since before the Battle of Hogwarts, you had never lived alone with Fred. It was exciting to say the least.

To celebrate this next step in your lives, the four of you had gone all out with a delicious home cooked meal and some great wine. Fred and Angelina were off in the kitchen preparing the food, since you and George could not be trusted in the kitchen. Instead, the two of you prepared the alcohol and set the table.

“Smells delicious in here,” You smiled, entering the kitchen to grab some cutlery.

“Thanks,” Angelina grinned, “Fred’s done most of it honestly, I’ve kind of just been the extra helpful taste tester.”

“What can I say? The way to Y/N’s heart is through her stomach, I had to convince her to move in with me somehow.” He grinned cheekily from in front of the stove.

You rolled your eyes as Angelina gave out a laugh, “Too right you are, Freddie. What would I do without your delicious cooking?”

Dinner went smashingly. In all your life you had never felt as safe and as happy as you did whenever you were with Fred, sharing laughs and gentle touches, in the presence of some of your closest friends. The delicious cooking and the perfect wine settled in your stomach happily and the warmth that spread across your body was almost intoxicating.

You sighed happily as you leant back on the couch, Fred’s arm slung casually over your shoulder, holding you close to him. George and Angelina were sat by the fireplace, giggling about something or other as George whispered something into her ear. The overall atmosphere of the night was something you decided you wanted to feel every night for the rest of your life. It was soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the nights during the war filled with fear and anxiety, but a welcome change.

“I can’t wait to spend more nights like these with you,” Fred mumbled in your ear, “Full bellies and warm by the fire. Seems like the perfect combination.”

“Me too,” You smiled up at him, “And there’s that added bonus of finally having the privacy of our own place.”

“Definitely,” He winked, “I can think of several things I plan to do with you when we’re alone.”

The weeks following your grand dinner were a whirlwind of packing up your lives into boxes and transferring them to your new flat. It was mindless work, but when you brought the last box through the threshold of the door, you huffed proudly. There was still the daunting task of unpacking all of these boxes, but at least you were finally going to be in one place for a significant amount of time.

The distinct crack of Fred’s apparition into the middle of your living room brought you out of your thoughts. You jumped slightly, almost dropping the box of picture frames in your hands, but he deftly caught them before they fully escaped your grip.

“Thanks,” You said, adjusting your hold on the box.

“Need any help?” He asked, eyeing your move to put the box on top of the pile slowly growing in the corner of the room.

“I’m alright. Although, would you mind unpacking the boxes in the bathroom? I think that’s the best place to start since we’re gonna be using it quite frequently.” You asked, starting to mentally list down what needed to be done and in what order, “I’ll go and start on the bedroom stuff.”

“Aye aye captain,” Fred jokingly saluted before ducking into the bathroom.

You set out to the single bedroom in your apartment, taking in the lone bed up against the wall, the dresser taking up residence beside it, and the door to the small walk in closet you were lucky enough to have. There were boxes labelled “BEDROOM” stacked into a high pile in the corner that you started sifting through. You hummed to yourself softly while picking up and placing clothes in their designated places before you heard a loud crash coming from down the hall.

“Fred?” You called out, “Are you alright?”

“‘M fine, love, don’t worry!” You heard him yell back reassuringly.

He must have been bluffing, though, as you felt (and heard) him apparate into the bedroom behind you.

“Freddie!” You yelled, almost jumping out of your skin, “Was that really necessary? The bathroom is not that far away, and you scared the hell out of me!”

You went to slap him on the arm, all the while shaking your head at your boyfriend.

“Sorry love, but desperate times. I had to get out of there as quickly as possible.” He said, placing a kiss on your cheek and going to help sort through the boxes in the corner.

You eyed him suspiciously, “What do you mean? You finished sorting through all the bathroom stuff already?”

“Nope,” He admitted nonchalantly, “There was just, erm, a sticky situation that I found myself in after I dropped one of the boxes.”

“Fred,” You warned, “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” He defended, throwing his hands up in surrender, “I didn’t do anything.”

You fully turned to face him now, crossing your arms in front of your chest, “Okay, so who did something so wrong that you had to apparate from the bathroom into our room?”

“Not who, what.” He stated simply and you waited for him to continue with your eyebrows raised, “I just found a spider in one of the boxes in the bathroom after I went to fix the mess I made.”

Your jaw dropped at what he said, “And? Fred Weasley you are a grown ass wizard who owns a very successful business, I’m sure you can deal with something much smaller than you.”

“No I can’t! Why do you think Ron’s so scared of spiders? I was the one who turned his teddy into one because I knew how frightening they were!” He exclaimed, the box he was unpacking lay unattended in front of him, “Can’t you go deal with it, love? Please?”

You wanted to laugh at the sight in front of you. Your boyfriend looked at you with his best attempt at puppy dog eyes, reaching his arms out to wrap them around your waist and pull you close to him.

“Please, love, it is of the utmost importance that you do this for me,” He murmured, pressing kisses along your neck and making you giggle.

“Freddie, it’s a spider in your bathroom, I’m sure you can handle it. You’re a wizard for Merlin’s sake! Just use your wand!” You pushed him slightly, trying to wriggle out of his grip and his ceaseless attempt to coerce you with kisses.

He didn’t bother to say anything, just pouting slightly and looking at you with those big brown eyes. You rolled your eyes and huffed, but said “Oh, alright. You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

Fred grinned triumphantly and planted a fat kiss on your lips. The sound reverberating around the relatively empty space, “You’re the best love. What do you want for dinner? I’ll cook you the best meal you’ve ever had!”

At his statement, you immediately perked up, “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He immediately set out for the kitchen, only after peppering kisses all along your face and neck, whistling happily and only slightly rushing past the open door to the bathroom. You shook your head, a soft smirk on your face, your boyfriend really is something else.

“You better keep your word, Fred Weasley! That better be the best damn meal of my life,” You yelled, taking your wand out and walking into the messy bathroom.

#fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley fic #fred weasley fics #fred weasley x reader #angelina johnson #george weasley #fluff #domestic!fred

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spottedenchants · 3 years

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(helping the self through another- recollected sorrows rest upon those who got out, who survived.)

(cw: vague references to Caleb’s backstory)

A forceful series of knocks reaches all the way to Caleb’s bedchamber and he is suddenly very awake, hazily pleasant dreams shattered.

This is strange, entirely abnormal.

Frightening, almost.

Without much thought, he rises and throws on a robe, passing through door and door to the final one.

He opens this third door, the one out to the rest of the tower, to find its only other current resident at his threshold, eye-to-eye.

The height is unsurprising given Essek’s favored locomotion.

But Caleb has never seen Essek like this.

A deeply haunted, half-present look in his red-rimmed eyes, his ears entirely away, followed by disheveled hair and rumpled clothing, an entire deconstruction of his usual well kept presentation. Arms crossed and clinging to his sides, clenched against the fabric there.

He’s shivering.

It’s concerning.

Concerning enough to call forth a faint echo of a cold, cold tower, a lingering memory of a warm, warm dorm room, and Caleb’s forearms itch at the involuntary recall, despite how weak he’s managed it to be.

But he keeps his hands away. Takes some breaths to stave off slight nausea.

This can’t be that. It’s not. This is different, Caleb knows. He knows.

But that look. And why is Essek shaking?

Caleb’s words escape as a hiss wrapped in worry.

“Essek, what is wr-?”

But dismay jolts his voice to a stop when Essek immediately glides even closer - very close - and raises a trembling hand to Caleb’s throat, wordless with shallow breaths, eyes narrowed, a slightly unfocused scowl pulling at his pretty lips and drawing his brows together.

Caleb dare not move in this moment, dare not swallow or breathe too deep, dare not react to this uncharacteristically bold motion because there is no hunger in Essek’s shining, panicked eyes, and atrophied habit carries no follow-up without it present.

Essek’s cold fingertips - is he actually cold or is this only further remembrance? - find that particularly vulnerable soft spot between jaw and neck and press gently, firmly, likely just enough to feel Caleb’s rapidly beating pulse.

Ah, that’s what this is.

Caleb dare not move, dare not scare Essek from this oddly executed assurance, this check he must be making with those intent eyes of now-dripping violet as they shift to bore into Caleb’s chest.

Right where Essek palpates cautious fingers against clothed scar tissue.

Right above the residence of Caleb’s hammering heart.

After an unbearably tense second or century, Essek’s face, his entire form, seems to crumple small as he lets out a shaky breath, hands tightening against Caleb’s robe, head bowed and tears now unseen.

Caleb dips his head, trying to catch Essek’s eyes.

“I’m alive.”

Essek looks away further, nods, and his breathing stutters into rough sniffles as he releases Caleb’s robe, voice watery.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Hands still raised and now directionless, Essek’s tensed fingers fidget with themselves, thumbnail sides pinched by fingertips, before swiping at his eyes, as if his teardrops are frivolous things to be plucked and crushed.

Caleb opens his arms, extending them to his sides and proffering a quiet warmth.

Essek trusts him to be here and this is different from so long ago.

This is not comfort for survival; it’s a conscious vulnerability on both their parts.

But Essek flinches at the motion, drifting back and away from Caleb’s embrace, away from this room they have spent time sharing, like they would catch and trap him, and he rights himself uncannily well despite the ways his face still leaks.

Disappointment, concern, and relief all burn together.

Essek does not need Caleb like that.

Even so, his muted, jarringly pleasant façade is askew; it doesn’t fit quite right anymore now that Essek has grown to encompass more than another vizard underneath. Caleb knows, can see hesitance slip through the cracks in the way Essek clenches his hands motionless.

Seeming to remember his magic, Essek clears his face and throat, mending the mask some.

“I’ll go. Thank you.”

Still, Essek stays of his own volition, untethered even to the ground.

This current bond between them is something very different from what Caleb had before, very different from what he and Essek had before; it’s something grown newer, blooming fresh of their own choosing, tended to on purpose.

This is alright.

So what can Caleb do but continue to pay forward a gesture of goodwill and good intent, born to soothe memory and fostered to mark safe opportunity, among other hopeful sentiments?

Slowly, slowly, as Essek watches with a level gaze, meeting his eyes all the while, Caleb takes a careful step out of the room.

Over the course of an eon, he raises a single hand to ghost fingertips over Essek’s cheek, to steady himself, to ensure Essek is willing to accept this smaller touch, and waits.

Though he does not flinch again through these snail-paced motions, does not back away from Caleb any farther, the mask slips as Essek seems to realize what Caleb is planning and he bows his head.

Squeezes his eyes shut and buries them under taut brows like he’s anticipating a swat.

This is nothing of the sort.

Caleb leans in and up, and presses a gentle kiss to Essek’s forehead before withdrawing both hand and face, volunteering no further touch.

He keeps the quiet, the closeness, but still asks, head dipped and voice soft, a murmur.

“Sit with me?”

No response, only the same grimace, the same clenched jaw. Tear trails reappear.

“I can show you how to count.”

Essek’s eyes open, violet deep as pre-dawn dusk and framed by dew-melt clung hoarfrost lashes, and they grow sharper, more focused.

“I know numbers fine.”

His eyebrows slant with what could even be read as defiance against presumed patronizing.

Good, good, welcome back.

Caleb crooks a gentle grin, feels the steep upturn of his brow line.

“But do you know my way?”

A tiny fleck of curiosity lightens Essek’s eyes, lifts his ears; it’s a shift imperceptible enough that Caleb would miss it had he not spent time deliberately learning the difference between its presence and absence.

So Caleb turns aside and pulls a cat-call cord, gesturing through the door to their well-familiar couch, before following his own guide. He takes the middle rather than his corner and pats Essek’s side of the seat, looking back to him, keeping his face open.

Essek follows and settles into his place, drifting down and pulling small, clearing his face again.

A moment more and then Gretchen, dutiful as ever, waltzes into the room with a chirp, making a point to rub against Essek’s idle hands as she jumps onto the couch on her way to Caleb.

“Hot cocoa, ice water, and some snacks, those little finger foods with fiddly bits that Jester brought last time, for my friend and I, ja?”

Gretchen purrs as Caleb scratches on either side of her jaw before she disengages, pesters Essek again to receive a few more disjointed pets, and pads away to fulfill the request.

As they wait, Caleb demonstrates how he counts for breath when difficult thoughts swarm and tension grabs his lungs tight.

Staying quiet, Essek breathes along, seeming to sink further into the couch with each exhale.

Cats come and go, filling the low table in front of the couch with drinks and nibbling tidbits.

Perhaps it would be best to keep such things handy and readily present, Caleb notes.

Just in case.

Without much deliberation, Essek claims a mug of cocoa, holding it between both hands, staring in as steam matches the jumbled swirls of his hair.

So he does want some warmth.

Having no specific appetite, Caleb only keeps watch on the fireplace, ready to follow along with whatever Essek decides next, even if that means Essek leaves entirely.

The hearth plays a crackling solo to the room.

Ice makes a single clink to glass.

“Verin taught me that, a long time ago.”

Caleb glances to Essek- he’s gripping his mug tight.

“Checking the pulse?”

“Mh... And I-”

Caleb waits, listens.

A sharp inhale.

“I apologize. For barging in and- doing that. I realize it was strange, unseemly, invasive. I couldn’t collect my thoughts well enough to say anything meaningful, but I should have kept boundaries in mind instead of falling to…”

Essek’s lips push flat as he releases his breath through his nose, an expression of consideration, Caleb decides.

“Buried… habit.”

Habit, hm.

Caleb absently runs a hand down his sleeved forearm before resting his hands together, held loose in his lap. Fingers to palm back, he kneads one thumb to the heel of the other, and looks back to the flames.

“Well, I’ll be prepared should it happen again.”

“Ah.”

Firelight catches in condensation, bejewelling the water pitcher with golden cabochons and veins of amber.

Caleb glances aside.

“Would you like to stay?”

Tired violet eyes turn to Caleb when he asks this, wide as the saucers on the low table.

Then Essek looks back to his untouched drink, nods reticent.

The ice in the pitcher catches Caleb’s ear when it shifts upon melting some from the fire’s warmth.

He tips his head to Essek.

“Would you like me to stay?”

Essek gives a wry huff to his cocoa.

“Would that be selfish?”

“I’d like to stay.”

A quick shift of violet to Caleb before Essek’s gaze returns to the mug.

“Then be my guest. Or- oh. I…. Ha.”

It could be a trick of the shifting firelight, could be Caleb’s sleepy eyes, but Essek’s expression seems to turn just a little tender, just a touch softer on the edges, as his voice lilts a murmur.

“I suppose I’m yours, hm?”

A gentle smile pulls at Caleb’s lips, and he watches as Essek traces the rim of his mug with a thumb, fingers and palms still held against its warming sides, the contents inside rippling slightly.

“Is there anything else you’d like? Anything to help?”

A glinting fang worries a lip. But no words.

“Show me?”

Essek looks up from his mug to Caleb, eyes flicking between Caleb’s, brows softly furrowed, but he neither says nor does anything further than the glance.

No matter what Essek could ask for, Caleb knows this is safe.

“I won’t run.”

A moment.

Caleb will give Essek all the time he needs to consider.

A moment more.

Then, careful and slow, not spilling a drop of his drink, Essek unfurls and abandons his corner in favor of tucking himself next to Caleb, going so far as to nestle his way under Caleb’s arm and press against his side, shoulder to hip, legs folded up and feet drawn under.

This close, Caleb can feel Essek’s tremors immediately lessen, can feel Essek’s chest expand and contract alongside his own.

Caleb can feel Essek’s fluttering heartbeat, rather in sync with his own.

They are both very alive, present together.

“This, if it’s alright?”

Caleb remains stationary, not wanting to spook Essek from this rare moment of outreach, looking into those too-careful, entreating eyes.

His heart feels fit to burst.

“Ja, this is alright.”

Essek blinks, nods, settles further into place and turns his eyes to the fire.

And so they sit, leaning side-by-side, breathing together, sweet steam warming the air around them, the fireplace casting its gentle warm light through crystalline ice water.

Essek’s eyes grow unfocused as he watches the flames.

Deep in thought, Caleb assumes.

Muscles held taut relax, slowly, slowly.

Eventually, Essek takes a sip of his drink.

Caleb, drowsy, comfortable, definitely does not stare when Essek reflexively licks the chocolate from his lips.

He definitely does not wonder how it would taste.

The water pitcher’s ice shifts again.

The hearth cracks in reply.

Caleb holds Essek close until he wants his space again.

Read I Lean In and Kiss Him [Right Here] on AO3

T, M/M, No Archive Warnings apply, Complete (5 Chapters, 10.9k)

#shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #critical role #critical role fanfiction #i just really like this bit #chanse writing

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hermannsthumb · 3 years

Note

Newt picks up a parasite while working on a sample, like we talked about!!

basic summary: think sex pollen but parasite...that removes your inhibitions and makes you all lovey-dovey 👀 👀 👀 this marvelous idea belongs to @k-sci-janitor and we talked it over in discord the other night. hope u enjoy!!!

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

“You’re in a right foul mood today,” Hermann says one morning, when Newton stomps—grumbling, scowling, and slamming the door behind him hard enough to send Hermann’s pencil cup teetering over the edge of his desk—into the lab. Hermann catches the cup with one hand and rights it. He arches an eyebrow at Newton as Newton ignores him in favor of hurtling himself into his desk chair. Newton’s sudden downward mood shifts are no stranger to Hermann, but they rarely take this sort of form—he’s far more the sort to engage Hermann in pointless arguments or lock himself away in his bunk than throw a tantrum. “What on Earth is the matter?”

“My request to join the Singapore trip got denied,” Newton announces.

Ah. That would do it. Newton was excited about the prospect of overseeing the salvaging of fresh samples for weeks, to the extent that it was all he would talk about to Hermann. Hermann is not typically in the business of extending pity to Newton (and Newton is not typically in the business of wanting pity from Hermann), but he does feel a small twinge of it anyway. “Ah, bad luck,” Hermann says. He wonders if he should offer Newton a conciliatory pat on the shoulder, but then realizes that would require him to get up and move across the laboratory, and decides it’s more trouble than it’s worth. He twists his mouth down sympathetically instead. “Well, perhaps it’s a good thing. Travelling’s just a great big bloody hassle, isn’t it? All the packing, and airports...”

“I love travelling,” Newton says.

“What I mean to say,” Hermann tries again, “is that now you can devote your time to more, er, worthy pursuits. Your work, for example. I imagine there’s plenty to be done here.”

“Dude,” Newton says. “No.”

Hermann appreciates the opportunity to shut up. Newton, still grumbling to himself, pulls on a pair of disposable work gloves and straps on his headlamp. “I’m workin’ with shit that’s three months old, dude,” Newton says.

“Mm,” Hermann says. Finding it highly unlikely he’ll get any proper work done until Newton finishes his oncoming tirade, he picks up that morning’s uncompleted crossword puzzle.

“It’s decaying,” Newton says. “It’s barely viable. You see this bullshit?”

He holds ups a greyish strand of kaiju intestine. Hermann pushes up his glasses and pretends to observe it. “Mm,” he repeats.

“It was barely viable when I got it,” Newton says. “So stupid. Whoever they have in charge of salvaging is a fucking clown. I should be in charge of it everywhere.” He rips a chunk of the intestine in half with a disgusting wet sound that makes Hermann wince. “They should let me go to Singapore. I said I’d pay for my own plane ticket. My work here is too important, apparently. Ha! Then why don’t they give us some funding, huh?”

“Quite right,” Hermann mumbles, and fills in a clue of the puzzle.

“I already bought those little travel-sized shampoo bottles too,” Newton says. “And I—“

He stops, suddenly, mid-sentence. As if the words have been seized from his very throat. Hermann looks up: Newton is standing, still, quiet, mouth half-open. He remains that way for a full minute. It’s no small amount of disconcerting. Is this some strange new act of protest he’s decided upon? Not speaking at all? “Newton?” Hermann finally says, cautiously breaching the silence.

Newton shakes himself, and casts a funny look at Hermann. As if Hermann is the one behaving in an utterly bizarre fashion. “Wha?”

“Are you—?” Hermann sighs. It’s not worth it. “Never mind. Well, at any rate, I’m sorry about your trip.”

He’s made nice headway on the rest of the crossword puzzle—some ten-odd minutes later, perhaps—when he hears Newton set down his scalpel with a clatter. Newton has been strangely, though blissfully, silent up until then, a stark departure from his mood upon arrival. “Hermann,” he says. Rubber snaps as he pulls off his work gloves, one by one. “Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?”

“Beautiful eyes?” Hermann snorts. “No. And someone’s told you that you do, I suppose?” Rather odd thing to get competitive over, but perhaps it’ll cheer him up.

“Why would someone tell me that?” Newton says.

Hermann looks up. Newton is still staring at him in that funny little way—almost dazed, Hermann realizes, as if someone’s smacked him upside the head, or he’s had a bit too much to drink. The last time Newton looked like that, he upended the contents of an ill-advised trip to a club for his birthday all over Hermann’s trousers. “What on earth is the matter?” Hermann says. “Are you feeling ill?”

“Your cheekbones drive me nuts,” Newton says.

“Did you hit your head?” Hermann says.

Newton crosses the lab in several quick, easy strides, and—to Hermann’s utter and abject confusion—swings himself down onto Hermann’s lap. Hermann stays stock-still as Newton burrows in against his neck. “Hermann,” he sighs. “Hermann—” His fingers slide up the back of Hermann’s scalp to toy with his hair, and Hermann’s hands fly out to grip his waist instinctively. “You must be the most gorgeous guy in the whole world. On the whole planet.”

Hermann makes a funny choking noise.

“And so smart,” Newton says, “and talented.” He twists a short strand of Hermann’s hair between his fingertips, and exhales heavily. His breath is warm against Hermann’s skin and sends goosebumps prickling across it. Hermann feels too-hot under his collar; his ears, he’s sure, are turning a spectacular red. “I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to kiss you, like, all the time, dude. Do you remember last month, when I cut my hand?”

Hermann nods, not trusting himself to speak. It was a rather frightening moment for them both: Newton pale, red human blood mingling with the blue of the kaiju’s on his workbench, his (red) scalpel dangling limply between his fingertips. It was why Hermann began insisting on his wearing work gloves in the laboratory after that. “I was distracted because I couldn’t stop looking at you,” Newton admits. “Your were wearing a new sweater, and all I wanted to do was go over there and...”

He whispers something in Hermann’s ear. “Newton,” Hermann squeaks, eyes widening.

Newton pulls back just so slightly and looks at him. His mouth is inches away from Hermann’s—their noses so close as to bump together. Newton’s eyes drop to Hermann’s lips. His tongue darts out across his own, wetting them. “Dude. You know how much I...”

“Yes?” Hermann says.

“Ever since—”

“Since when?” Hermann says, eagerly. He can scarcely believe this is even happening—it feels as though all of his fantasies have come to life at once.

Newton begins to lean in. In a heartbeat, Hermann will be kissing him. “Oh, Newton,” Hermann murmurs, and (shutting his eyes) reaches up to cup the back of Newton’s head.

Instead of feeling nothing but Newton’s soft, brown hair, however, he feels something vaguely...slimy, atop it. Slimy, and...pulsing. Hermann falls away from him with a yelp. “Newton, there’s something on your—!”

“Huh?” Newton says, and leans back in for a second attempt at a kiss. But Hermann dodges him and jerks Newton’s shoulder around to get a good look at the back of his head. There—right at the nape of his neck—some odd, small, blue little thing. Otherworldly leech, perhaps. Hermann’s stomach churns unpleasantly at the sight of it. “Is something wrong?” Newton says. He blinks innocently at Hermann behind his glasses.

“No!” Hermann says. The little thing stares innocently at Hermann, too, or at least it would if it had visible eyes. “Er—just had a few questions answered, I suppose. By Jove, Newton, you—”

“Hmm?” Kiss evidently forgotten, Newton begins to stroke the close-cropped part of Hermann’s hair. He gives a high-pitched giggle. “Your hair is so fuzzy.”

Right. Off to medical, it is. “Get off of me, please,” Hermann says, as calmly as he can manage. Apparently not as calmly as he intended: Newton flinches, and he scrambles to his feet as if Hermann had shouted it.

“Oh, dude, your leg! I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry.”

“My what?” Hermann says. He glances down at his lap. His thighs are still tingling from Newton’s body—Newton’s warm, warm body, which Hermann had his hands on only moments prior... “Oh. Er. Yes. Right.” He coughs. “Would you hand me my cane, Newton?”

Newton obliges. Hermann pushes himself up, and grabs a firm hold of Newton’s hand; he steers them both out the laboratory door, Newton providing very little resistance. In fact, he appears even happy to follow Hermann. “Where are we going?” Newton says. Then he frowns. “Wait. Don’t you wanna make out with me?”

Hermann swears under his breath. “Believe me,” he grumbles, “I would like nothing more than that.” Then he says, louder, “We’re going to get...ice cream.”

“Oh!” Newton says. “Yay!”

The doctor on duty in medical doesn’t look surprised to see them. “I was wondering when Dr. Geiszler would be back in,” she says, as Hermann nudges Newton over the threshold. “What is it this time? Kaiju venom? Is he bleeding to death again?”

“Some sort of...parasite, I think,” Hermann says. “He’s been saying—” He clears his throat. “Odd things. He’s not quite himself.”

“I thought we were getting ice cream?” Newton says.

The doctor catches Hermann’s eye. “Yes, of course, it’s right back here, Dr. Geiszler,” she says, and ushers Newton into the examination room. When she catches sight of the back of Newton’s head, her eyebrows jump in alarm. To Hermann, she says, under her breath, “Oh.”

“Isn’t Hermann the hottest guy ever?” Newton asks her just as the door shuts behind them. Hermann blushes fiercely.

They emerge twenty minutes later, Newton clutching a small Tupperware container. Inside of it is the little blue leech. He grins when he sees Hermann. “Hey, dude, check this out!” He thrusts the Tupperware out so Hermann may take in a better view of it. “This was stuck to me! Isn’t that gnarly? I was wondering where it went.”

“Ah,” Hermann says. He hopes Newton doesn’t ask after his blush, which has yet to fade, and indeed only grown more prominent; the door to the examination room is rather thin, and he heard every single thing Newton said about him in those twenty minutes—extollations of everything from the various facets of Hermann’s physical appearance, to Hermann’s mental prowess, to what an, er, attentive lover he imagines Hermann would be. Most of these were in great detail.

“It appears to be something of Anteverse origin,” the doctor tells them. “Some sort of leech which removes one’s inhibitions. Dr. Geiszler likely came into contact with it on one of his samples. I’m glad you brought him in when you did—I’m not sure what effects prolonged exposure would have.”

“I kinda want to keep it in a terrarium or something,” Newton says. “Isn’t it cute?”

The leech stares blankly out at Hermann, its blue body pulsing. Hermann suppresses a shudder of revulsion. “Bring him back in if his...condition returns,” the doctor finishes. “And, Dr. Geiszler—please keep an eye on that thing.”

“Sure thing,” Newton says, and then taps the Tupperware and begins to coo.

Hermann doesn’t ask the question that’s weighing on his mind until they’re almost back to the laboratory. “I don’t suppose you...remember the last hour?” he says.

“Nah,” Newton says. “One minute I was examining this little guy, the next, I was in medical.” The corners of his smile twitch down. “Why? I didn’t do anything too embarrassing, did I?” He punctuates this with an awkward laugh.

"No, no,” Hermann says, quickly. He can’t tell if the knowledge disappoints him or not, for surely if Newton did remember, he might feel a tad more courageous in, er...following up on things, so to speak. Removes inhibitions. Just bloody typical, isn’t it? “Not at all. Let’s get you back to the lab, shall we? I imagine we could both do with a cup of tea.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

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sassyhobbits · 4 years

Note

ohhh could we have a “why are you awake right now” part two? 😍🙏

pt 1

enjoy!!!!

~~~

Rowan hadn’t been sleeping for nearly long enough when he awoke to the thud of someone banging their fist impatiently on his front door.

He really didn’t want to get out of bed. For some reason, it was extra comfortable and warm this morning. When he finally deigned to open his eyes, Rowan realized why.

Aelin was curled into his bare chest, his arms wrapped around her, holding the woman close. The events from the previous night rushed back to him. Maybe it made him a selfish prick, but he couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to have her back.

The knocking came again, harder this time. Rowan reined in a groan, carefully detangling himself from Aelin, not wanting to disturb her peaceful rest. He slipped quietly from the room, cursing under his breath as the banging came again. Who the fuck had the audacity to be so demanding this early in the morning?

The answer to his question became obvious when Rowan threw open the door with an irritable “What?” and found Chaol Westfall standing outside his front door.

Chaol looked as though he had seen better days. His chestnut hair was messy, dark shadows under his eyes suggesting a night of little sleep, and his usually clean-shaven face had a hint of scruff.

“Where is she?” Chaol demanded, forgoing any greetings or even apologies for disturbing him. He looked over Rowan’s shoulder towards the couch, as if she would be sleeping there, before looking back at him. Chaol’s jaw clenched when he took in Rowan’s bare chest. He knew how it must have looked to him. Yet, he didn’t care. Not anymore.

Rowan knew who he was referring to, but he crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. This was the man who had hurtled insults at Aelin the night before. “Where is who?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Rowan,” Chaol ground out. “She still shares her location with me. I know Aelin is here.”

“Regardless if she’s here or not, I don’t think she wants to talk to you.”

“It’s none of your fucking business. She’s my girlfriend.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes. “Funny. She said you two broke up last night.”

“It was just an argument. I just need to see her.”

“Go home, Chaol. If she wants to talk to you, she will.”

Chaol opened his mouth as if to spit something nasty out, but faltered when the sound of a door opening came from behind him. Rowan looked over his shoulder and found Aelin stepping out of his room, eyes widening as she noted who he was speaking with.

“Chaol,” Aelin breathed. “What are you doing here?”

Rowan knew that this situation was looking worse and worse. Opening the door without a shirt, Aelin wandering out of his room so casually. Chaol was clenching his jaw so hard that he could have been on the verge of breaking a tooth.

“I wanted to talk, Aelin,” Chaol bit out.

“Oh,” said Aelin simply. “Uh, alright then.”

She padded down the hall, brushing by Rowan. He managed to catch her eye as she lingered in the threshold, raising a questioning brow. Are you sure? I can kick him out. Just give the word.

She gave an almost unperceivable shake of her hand, brushing her hand on his arm. It’s alright. I can handle this.

Rowan knew Chaol saw the tiny exchange and the casual touch. Chaol had always seemed uncomfortable when he and Aelin had touched casually, had those little conversations through their eyes. They had tried to keep it to a minimum when Chaol was around, but Rowan found he didn’t really care what he thought anymore.

Rowan reluctantly stepped back inside, shutting the door to give them so privacy. He had been fully intending to head back to his room, not wanting to eavesdrop, but the first words that came out of Chaol’s mouth stopped him in his tracks.

“You didn’t wait long, did you?” he asked, voice dripping in venom.

Rowan froze, understanding the insinuation.

“Excuse me?” Aelin said back slowly, in a way Rowan knew promised violence. He could practically see her crossing her arms over her chest stubbornly.

“We have one argument and you go right to him. To his bed.”

“First of all, it wasn’t an argument. You broke up with me. Second, because you ended things with me, what I do after is none of your concern.”

Chaol released a bark of bitter laughter. “I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“That no matter what I did, you would never pick me. You’d always pick him.”

Rowan sucked down a sharp breath. He shouldn’t be listening, but he couldn’t get himself to walk away.

“Chaol-”

“No, Aelin,” he snapped, cutting her off. “Part of me probably always knew, but I hoped that I was wrong, that I could do something to get you to care for me the same way I care for you. But it had been a lost cause. Because you never loved me. You love Rowan, you have since we started dating.”

Rowan could have sworn time stopped in that moment. He barely dared to breathe, waiting for Aelin to speak up, to deny the accusation, to say he was being paranoid.

But she was silent.

Rowan knew that was an answer within itself.

…

Having Chaol turn up to Rowan’s apartment this morning had been an unpleasant surprise to begin with. The conversation they were having wasn’t doing much to change that.

Aelin had no defense against his last accusation. Because Chaol was right, even if she had hoped he wasn’t. She had been in love with Rowan for longer than she wanted to admit, but had been so frightened of losing his friendship, she had never said anything. When she had met Chaol, she saw it as an opportunity to finally move past those feelings she held for Rowan. That had probably doomed them from the start.

When Aelin stayed silent, Chaol took a step forward. “How long were you planning on stringing me along, Aelin? Until Rowan finally made a move? Was I just a distraction until then?”

“No, Chaol. Gods, no. What kind of person do you think I am?”

“I honestly don’t even know. I don’t think I ever did.”

Aelin wasn’t sure why, but his words hurt. He was acting as if their entire relationship was based on nothing. She had cared for him, and she still did. Just… not in the way he cared for her.

A tense silence blanketed them. Aelin knew she should look him in the eye, but couldn’t get herself to. She hugged herself tightly, staring down at her bare feet.

“Did you fuck him?” Chaol eventually asked.

Aelin flinched, looking at him incredulously. “Are you serious? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know, Aelin!” he shouted. “I just really don’t know anymore! Are you even sorry? The least bit guilty?”

In that moment, she could have said yes and apologized. But then she would be lying. And she didn’t give a damn about Chaol’s feelings right now. Aelin only straightened, holding her head higher, before saying. “No. I’m not.”

Chaol scoffed bitterly. “You’re such a bitch.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He shook his head, eyes filled with fury. “I swear to the gods, Aelin… one day-”

Whatever vileness was about to spill out of his mouth stopped when the door opened. Aelin was prepared to snap, thinking it was Rowan coming to defend her when she already told him she could handle it, but her words withered on the tip of her tongue at the sight of Lorcan Salvaterre lurking in the doorway.

Lorcan had been living with Rowan for a while now. He was an unpleasant man, and Aelin delighted in antagonizing him. They had a relationship built on hurtling cheap insults at one another, but kept it cordial beside that. On top of being Rowan’s roommate, he was dating one of Aelin’s closest friends, Elide. They didn’t maim each other for their sakes.

Lorcan’s face was stormy, extremely pissed off. Normally, that expression was directed towards Aelin, but today, it was for Chaol.

“It’s my day off,” Lorcan said lowly. “And I’d like to sleep in without you being an ass towards Galathynius so loudly. I’d appreciate it if you left.”

Chaol ground his teeth, but relented. It seemed he was just as tired of this useless argument as she was. He turned his gaze towards her once more. It was cold, like they were stranger. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned.

“Goodbye, Aelin,” Chaol said before stalking off.

There was a sort of finality to his voice that told Aelin there would be no coming back.

She released a long breath, unfurling her fists and looking towards Lorcan.

“I’m sorry we woke you,” Aelin said earnestly.

Lorcan shrugged. “It’s not your fault. You two done with?”

“Yeah. I suppose we are.”

“Good,” Lorcan grunted. “I never liked him anyway.”

“You don’t like anyone.”

“Exactly.”

Despite everything that had just happened, that the wounds from Chaol’s words still stung, Aelin snorted out a tiny laugh. Even if she and Lorcan always gave each other shit, they tended to stick up for one another when anyone else was giving them shit.

“Well,” Lorcan sighed, glancing back inside. Aelin followed his gaze, finding Rowan standing there. Her stomach dropped, realizing he must have heard everything. “I’m going to go back to sleep. You two can… talk, I guess.”

Aelin gave a stiff nod, allowing Lorcan to close the door behind her. He didn’t say anything else before heading back to his room and quickly shutting himself in, leaving her alone with Rowan in the living room. Aelin had never felt nervous in front of Rowan before until now. Her hands opened and closed a few times, wondering what to say.

“How much did you hear?” she managed to croak out.

Rowan’s lips were tight. “Everything.”

Aelin nodded, finding it hard to look Rowan in the eye. Gods, if Chaol had fucked up her friendship with Rowan, she would murder him. Bastard.

“Was it true?” Rowan asked, taking a step closer. “What he said?”

Aelin heart was pounding in her chest, body flushed with fear. She managed to look him in the eye. “Yeah… yeah, it was.” She bit her lip hard. “I- uh… you’re my best friend, Rowan but you’re more than that. And if you don’t feel the same, I understand. And I understand if you need space after all of that.”

He didn’t say anything. The silence was killer. Aelin’s eyes flickered down to her feet again, feeling her eyes burn. She felt vulnerable, and she hated feeling vulnerable.

She heard Rowan take a few long strides forward until he was before her. His fingers nudged her chin, tilting her face upwards to look at him again. Aelin was always struck stupid by how handsome he was, how comforting the familiar planes of his face were to her. His green eyes held hers, refusing to back down.

“You love me?” Rowan whispered, so soft that Aelin nearly didn’t hear him.

Aelin swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes. I do.”

The air between them was electric, setting her skin on fire. Aelin wasn’t even sure she was breathing as Rowan slowly leaned forward and closed the distance between them, brushing his lips against her softly. It was nothing more than a whisper of a kiss, but it destroyed and remade her nonetheless. Aelin’s eyes fluttered shut, leaning closer to Rowan and his warmth as he cupped her face gently.

Rowan pulled back, her lips still tingling from his kiss. Aelin peeled her eyes open as Rowan rested his forehead against hers.

“I love you too, Aelin.”

Her heart jumped, a shaking smile finding its way to her lips. “Yeah?”

Rowan nodded, his eyes alight with joy. “Yeah. I really do.”

Aelin released a tiny, disbelieving laugh, feeling her eyes well with tears. She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around the back of Rowan’s neck as he pulled her close, face buried in her hair. Never in a million years did she think that her feelings would be returned.

She didn’t know how long they stood there, wrapped up in one another. Aelin would have been fine remaining like that for the rest of eternity, but weariness caught up with her. The late night combined with the early morning argument had taken a toll on her.

“Ro?”

“Hm?”

“Can we go back to bed for a bit?”

“Of course, Fireheart.”

He slipped his hand into hers, walking them back towards the bedroom. Aelin happily crawled back into the bed, snuggling back under the comforter. Rowan slid in next to her, not hesitated to pull her tight into his side. Aelin relished his warmth, his pine and snow scent, the feeling of his strong arms around her. She could get used to this.

Aelin fell back asleep with a smile on her face.

#rowaelin #my writing #throne of glass

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aregebidan · 3 years

Text

the nice one

Or: A small (1.6k) pile of angst featuring a darker take on the two eldest Feanorians, based on the popular fanon that Maglor is only known as “nice” because he’s good at propaganda and my own Discord Maglor headcanon.

tw: mentions of blood and torture

“Maglor?”

“Hmm?” he says, never taking his eyes off the worn parchment. The ink has smudged, the corners of the scroll damp and ragged from being carried through the battle, but the writing has somehow managed to survive both the clash of blades and the fell songs of the golden one. Now, safe in Himring, he must copy it down before some other danger strikes the precious notes.

The act also serves to calm him, drawing him into the familiar scratching rhythm of quill and ink, all delicate lines and quiet chords in the air that speak of peace safety honor. He is loath to separate himself from it, this piece of home, and so he does not make any further reply until his brother calls for him again: “Maglor.”

He should have noticed straight away: the way Maedhros stopped just outside the threshold of his new chamber instead of coming in, his awkward stance and slight shuffling, the fact that he called him by his Sindarin name instead of Kano or brother.

But it is past midnight, and they are both exhausted by the loss of the Gap, so he expects nothing out of the ordinary when he turns around and gives Maedhros his full attention. “What is it?”

Maedhros shifts, again, and he finally realizes something is wrong and puts down his quill. “Are they attacking us again?”

“No...”

“Well, then.” Maglor pitches his voice lower, tries to speak as clearly as possible. He hasn’t used his “King-Regent voice,” as the Ambarussa call it, in years, but he senses Maedhros needs someone else to be responsible now. “Tell me what you need me for.”

His brother fairly squirms. The only candle in the room flashes in Maedhros’ eyes, making him flinch, and Maglor reaches over to put it out, pulling back his hair with the other hand. Having it loose in the dark would bring back memories of... well. Suffice it to say it is not an option, especially on the bad days.

“We took some-” Maedhros’ jaw clenches, seemingly involuntarily. Maglor watches, concerned but strangely fascinated with this rare loss of control. For a moment he just looks like Maitimo-Nelyo again, frustrated with his brothers’ antics and able to express it.

That is, until the next words make it past his throat. “We took several of the orcs captive. I need you to make them talk.”

Maglor stills and glances up at his brother again, a tall shadow against the well-lit corridor outside. His brow is twisted in an emotion none would ever expect to see on a kinslayer, and it makes him look young again. Pity.

Make them talk. The others would not put it this way: they would say break them, or question them, or when Maedhros was away break them in, like a new weapon. But break him and question him further, then is what Thauron said in the pits of Angband, as far as Maglor could tell from his brother’s feverish sleep-talk in those dreadful few months after his rescue.

Maedhros, he realizes with a jolt, still considers himself to be in danger of becoming like his captors. The mental image slithers in- Maedhros standing over the orc prisoners, comparing himself to them, seeing some warped reflection of his stupid, beautiful self in them, avoiding the best decisions for their sake- and he is reaching for his swords before he knows it, pausing only at the stricken look on his brother’s face.

“Kano.”

Ah, it’s Kano now, is it, now that you have been reminded of what I am. He pulls back the words- even he has enough sense to keep that particular thought in his head- and smooths down his tunic as calmly as possible, if only to stop making fists.

“You may question them yourself, brother,” he says curtly. “You captured them, therefore they will fear you the more.”

Maedhros lets out a sudden, harsh laugh and takes a few more steps into the chamber. There you are, son of Fëanor. I have missed you. “You of all people should know that can easily be remedied.”

It hurts, how eager his heart becomes at these words. He shoves any more treacherous thoughts aside and lets some of this indignation into his next words, punctuating them with the kind of wild gesture that he thought he had left behind with the rest of his adolescence. “It is not my job to torture these prisoners at your beck and call-”

“So you admit it is torture?” Maedhros’ voice rises. “If you knew what this means for me, why in Arda would you want-”

“You have done plenty worse!”

“Nothing is worse to me.”

“They are the Dark One’s servants, not his foes- they are not as you are! I am trying to help you understand that, Nelyo-”

“And I,” Maedhros snaps, “am trying to do you a favor.”

Maglor freezes mid-gesture. Moonlight streams in through the window, showing the satisfaction and shame mingled on his brother’s face, and he has the absurd urge to slam the door shut, as if someone could be listening in on them at this hour.

“You go too far,” he whispers, hearing the terror in his own voice. It has been centuries since they agreed never to speak of this again; is Maedhros so sympathetic to his captives that he is ready to break his word to his own brother?

“I go this far because I am concerned for you, because you are not the only one who worries,” Maedhros retorts. “I have heard the tales of your fight with the golden beast.”

Maglor spits out a curse and ducks his head; the weight of Maedhros’ most disappointed stare is too much for any single elf to bear, oath-bound and insane or no. “They were not meant to tell you…”

“Your people spoke of darkness and sounds of death.” Maedhros advances in small, careful steps, aiming his words like the Ambarussa aim their arrows. “How long will it be until your veneer breaks again, brother? How many have you convinced that your false face is your true self, now? The kind one, the nice one, the soft one, the only one here with a conscience. What would they say if they could see you for yourself?”

Maglor finds that his eyes are suddenly stinging. “I do have a conscience.”

“And it only comes out at the worst possible moments.” The shadow of Nelyo comes into Maedhros’ face again as he reaches out to push back Maglor’s hair with his left hand, loving and brutally honest in equal measure. “I do not know much of what happened to you at Alqualondë, but I know that it pains you to keep it locked in after a battle. I do not want to see you hurt, brother. I cannot say that is the only reason I avoided speaking to the prisoners, but it is by far the most important.”

Ah, so they are getting to the heart of the matter now. Alqualondë.

Alqualondë, where he had used his music as a weapon for the first time, half mad with the ease with which his voice flowed, his darkest thoughts translating perfectly into the realm of sound. Alqualondë, where the bodies were piled high and the crimson color of the blood on his swords had matched the blood from his own throat, dry and torn up by the first battle-song he had ever dared bring to life.

They had all died and come back in some way during that first battle, but something else had come back with Makalaurë, something cruel and sharp-toothed and hungry that Maedhros couldn’t stand to come near in these first terrible months after Angamandi.

The Discord, he had called it, the song of the enemy. The very essence of him, carried on his own voice.

And Maglor, deep in denial, had built up his reputation, only to ruin it by facing the golden one.

He has to fight to keep himself in the present; the memories have grown too strong now, hissing in his ears, burrowing into the cracks in his mind. “You are trying to distract me.”

His brother’s face is unflinchingly understanding, as frightened by their many hard truths as the Calacirya may be by a summer wind. “I am trying to help.”

It is easy, so easy to yield when he puts it that way. Maglor inhales slowly and feels the walls of his mind come down, letting the beat of fire-blood-ruin and the cold notes of his swords wash away all other thoughts like waves smoothing out the sand of a beach. The moon has hidden itself again; he looks up from the floor and absently notes that his hands have grown paler, and the ache in his throat has disappeared.

“We will speak of this again soon, brother.”

Maedhros tenses at the sound of his real voice, and a last pang of guilt lodges in his heart before it is swept away again. His brother knew that was coming; he is not to blame for his fear.

The prisoners’ fear, on the other hand…

He sighs, thrilled and embarrassed at himself in equal parts, and takes up one of his swords, letting the tip of the blade scrape against the floor as he heads out. “Tell your guards to go to sleep. You don’t need them anymore.”

His brother calls him again, softly, but he refuses to bring Lady Nerdanel into this mess by answering to the name she gave to her son; instead he merely raises his free hand and turns a corner, putting Maedhros and the ink and parchment behind him.

If anything, he means to find out what they call the beast from the Gap. Perhaps he can repay him for his people’s pain if they should ever cross paths again.

#my writing #fanfiction #maglor #maedhros #tolkien #silmarillion #feanorians #discord maglor au #this was written at 11pm and i am sorry #they're both disasters that's all i wanted to say and then it exploded

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let-the-dream-begin · 3 years

Text

A Place to Belong Chapter 38: The Wandering Soul

Chapter 37

Read on AO3

Jenny crossed the threshold with a basket of wash, Maggie and Kitty trailing behind. Kitty was dragging her feet and groaning.

“Why doesn’t Brianna have tae help wi’ the wash?” she whined.

“Because Brianna isna my bairn, and she’ll do what yer Auntie says,” Jenny said simply. “And she had chores to do while ye were gallivanting all over the grounds on yer horse wi’ yer Da. Today is her turn tae be wi’ her horse.”

Kitty kicked a pebble with her big toe, grunting in annoyance.

“I like helping wi’ the wash, Mam,” Maggie piped up. “Especially on a fine day like this.”

“Och, shut yer gab!” Kitty rolled her eyes.

“Oi! None o’ that talk!” Jenny smacked Kitty upside the head with her free hand.

Kitty rubbed the back of her head and stuck her tongue out at Maggie, who was more than happy to return the gesture, however daintily.

“Come on, lass. Get the stool.”

Kitty obliged, not without kicking another pebble.

Jenny constantly had to remind Kitty to stay put, stopping her from harassing the goats and chickens or from wandering down the road and into the woods. She got away somehow -- again, leaving Jenny to call after her.

“Mam!” her little voice answered. “There’s a man comin’ up the road!”

Jenny’s throat went dry, and she dropped the sark she was scrubbing and rushed toward the grand archway. “A Redcoat, Kitty?”

“Nae! It’s a great big man, and he looks dirty!”

“Come here to me this instant,” Jenny called, and Kitty’s sandy head soon reappeared, bounding back to her mother. Jenny firmly seized her hand and dragged her back into the front yard. “See why it isna safe to be roaming around alone? See why ye must do as ye’re told?”

“What does he want, Mam?” Maggie asked.

“He’s giant, Maggie. Maybe he wants tae eat ye!” Kitty splashed Maggie with the water in the tub, eliciting a little squeal from her. “He’s got hair like fire, and he’s tall as a tree!”

Jenny felt her blood run cold.

“Brianna’s got hair like fire,” Maggie said haughtily. “And she’s never wanted tae eat anybody, ye numpty.”

Kitty giggled madly as if she were planning on announcing to her cousin that she must have been a goblin all along.

“Enough,” Jenny said shortly. “Back tae work. If he comes to us, I’ll deal wi’ him.”

Jenny was doing quite a poor job of hiding how her fingers trembled.

There are other redheaded men in Scotland, Janet. Redheaded men that are alive.

Yer brother is dead.

She briefly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then scoffed at her own stupidity, having gotten soapy water on her face.

She heard the sound of footsteps crunching up the road, getting closer and closer. She did her best to ignore them, to not appear as if she were ready to welcome a strange visitor without the menfolk nearby.

“Jenny.”

Her heart leapt into her throat, and she swore she stopped breathing. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up, and her hands froze in the water.

“He kens ye, Mam?” Maggie said in a small, frightened voice.

Jenny looked up from the washtub, and she screamed.

“Ma? Ma, what’s wrong?”

“Ma! Who is he?”

The girls were a cacophony of noise, tugging on her skirt.

“Thig an Diabhal a mhallachadh sinn!” Jenny cried, crossing herself several times. “Inside, girls, inside! Now!”

“But Ma!”

“Now, Katherine!” Maggie said, tugging on her sister’s hand, and they clambered up the steps, Kitty asking questions all the while.

“Begone!” Jenny shrieked. “We dinna welcome evil spirits in this home! Begone at once!”

“Janet -- ”

“Don’t ye dare say my name! I willna be Satan’s hoor!”

“Can’t ye see I’m flesh and blood?”

“Dinna come any closer!” Jenny lifted the washboard from the tub and held it over her shoulder, water dripping and all, poised to strike. She was aware of the absurdity of waiting to strike at a spirit, but every instinct in her could not listen to reason. “I rebuke Satan! We dinna want ye here!”

“It’s alright, a piuthar…” His voice was too soft, too sweet, too soothing. Too real.

Too Jamie.

“No!” Jenny shrieked, angry, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. “Enough! I’ll no’ bend to ye! I won’t!”

“I didna die, Jenny. I ken what ye’ve been told. All lies to keep ye safe. I’m home now. D’ye see?”

Jenny let out a fierce, high-pitched growl, hurling the washboard at him, which he sidestepped with ease as he moved closer to her.

“Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”

“It’s really me, Jenny. I swear it. I’ve come home.”

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth -- Stop! Get away!” She was fully sobbing now, fully terrified, so deep in denial that even if it were true, she wasn’t sure she would ever accept it.

“Let me touch ye, sister. Let yerself feel that I’m no more than a mortal man.” He reached out with trembling hands.

“...as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our tresspasses…”

“Jenny…”

“As we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation…”

Dinna be tempted. It canna be true. It canna be true…

He was only arms’ length from her now.

“Jenny.”

“And deliver us from evil…”

His hand came to rest on her cheek, and she shrieked again.

“Janet!” he cried, very abruptly seizing her shoulders and shaking her violently, nearly lifting her off the ground, Jenny screaming all the while.

She stood on her toes, held firmly in place by it, whatever it was, frozen in terror. She couldn’t stop herself, could not resist the temptation to look in his eyes, her soul be damned.

“Christ…” she breathed.

No spirit could hold such depth in its eyes as her brother. No spirit could ever replicate their mother’s soul so completely.

It’s him.

“It canna be...It canna…”

“ ’Tis, Jenny. It’s me.”

She shook her head, her mouth flapping uselessly as her eyes watered again rapidly.

“It’s...very fine to see ye again, Janet.”

“You bloody bastard!” Jenny howled, her rage completely overshadowed by the guttural sobs of relief tearing through her. “Where in God’s name have ye been…? What the Devil d’ye mean just...just showin’ up here like this…?”

Jamie did not answer her. Instead, he crushed her to him and buried his face in the crown of her head. Despite herself, Jenny clung to the fabric of his shirt and buried her face in his chest.

“Damn you, Jamie...God bloody damn you…”

Jamie hushed her and held her tighter, whispering Gaelic into her hair.

She suddenly tensed in his arms. “My God...My God…”

Jamie released her immediately, pushing her away and gripping her shoulders, looking her desperately in the eye. “Where is she?”

Apparently he’d read her mind.

“She’s here, brother, she’s here...my God…” Her voice caught in her throat.

“I need to see her, Jenny.” His voice was tight and rough, his grip on her shoulders nearly bruising her.

Jenny nodded wordlessly and dashed off, nearly certain she was not running in a straight line.

“Claire!”

——

And then there she was.

She was even more beautiful than the image he’d conjured of her, even more beautiful than the angel that graced his dreams every night.

He watched as every possible thought and emotion danced over that glass face, and he thought his heart would burst.

“Will ye no’ say anything?” Jenny shoved her, but she remained rigid as wood, unblinking.

“It’s me, Claire.” It was difficult enough to breathe at the sight of her, let alone to speak.

She finally moved, however minutely; perhaps only he even noticed. Her chest spasmed, and her chin began trembling.

“I’ve come home to ye.”

She made a terrifying sound, and collapsed like a sack of grain, and whatever little was in his stomach leapt into his throat.

“Christ!” Jenny cried, dropping to her knees beside her. Before she could even blink, Jamie was upon her, scooping Claire into his arms, leaving Jenny to scramble to her feet, hiking her skirts and taking long strides to keep up with him. He stomped through the halls, right into the parlor. Jamie laid her limp form gently on the sofa, kneeling beside her on the floor.

“I dinna ken what ye expected!” Jenny said, exasperated. “Ye may very well have shocked her to her death!”

“Don’t. Say that.” Jamie burned his eyes intensely into Jenny. She blanched, feeling her face and neck getting hot.

“I…I’m sorry, brother…I only meant…”

“I ken what ye meant,” he said quickly, though less aggressive.

“I’ll…I’ll get her some water.”

Jamie nodded, returning his gaze to Claire. He looked down at his hands, suddenly very aware that they were touching her. Her. The real Claire. He removed his hands, suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation. They hovered over her face, ghosting over her features, afraid to touch her.

When he no longer felt like he would lose consciousness, he willed his violently trembling hands to move closer to her face. He swore he was lit afire as the very tips of his fingers came in contact with her skin again. He raked his fingertips down her cheeks, reverently, as if she were the Holy Mother of God herself. Still shaking fiercely, he willed his hands to cup her cheeks, ever-so-gently caressing her sweet face. He let his thumbs swipe over her eyelids, desperate to see them open, looking back at him with the same hunger that was in his eyes as he looked at her.

There was dirt on her forehead from her fall, and he gently wiped it with his thumb, smoothing her hair with his other hand. She suddenly whimpered, and his heart leapt into his throat. He dared not speak, lest he frighten her out of her wits again before she even opened her eyes. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed at first, but they quickly came into focus, and then widened. He heard her breath catch in her throat.

“You’re real…” she whispered.

“So are you,” he answered.

“You…they said…you’re dead…”

“I’ll explain it all…right now I…” Claire struggled to push herself into a sitting position, and Jamie helped her. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, removing his hands from her. “I dinna mean to presume…”

Tears gathered in her eyes. “Presume…?”

“Well I…I want to touch ye of course…but only if ye want me to.”

Her chin trembled again. “I do.”

He took her hands in his; they were shaking as fiercely as his. “I want…” he stammered, pausing to lick his lips in hesitation. “I would very much like to kiss you.” Claire thought her heart would explode. “But only if ye want me to.”

She exhaled sharply, and he could taste her breath. “I do.”

Both of their lips now trembled like their hands. They hovered over each other, feeling the vibration of each other’s lips, but still not touching.

“I havnae done this in a very long time,” Jamie breathed. Claire finally closed the distance, and her stomach felt like liquid fire. They could each feel the other’s tears slipping onto their cheeks. The kiss deepened, only slightly so, before they pulled apart to look in each other’s eyes.

“I’ve dreamed of you for so long…” Claire’s voice hitched, and she swallowed thickly. Touching him, holding him, kissing him…it was enough for her to lose herself completely in the bliss of it all. But the realization of exactly what this meant was starting to come to her, and she blinked rapidly, her chin trembling.

“I mourned you…for eight years…” She shook her head, her eyes widening in a mix of horror and astonishment. “You were dead…we had a bloody funeral for you! We grieved you for eight fucking years…I…I buried my heart in that empty coffin…I raised…oh God…”

“Claire…” he groaned desperately. She was breaking his heart.

“There is a headstone with your name on it! I sat in front of it and talked to it like you were there…but you weren’t even there because they wouldn't give us your body…your body…and all this time you…Oh God!”

Her hands balled into tight fists, grasping the collar of his shirt, shaking him furiously.

“Where have you been?” she spat. “I have been your widow for eight fucking years…” She opened her mouth to say more, to scream, admonish him, but the only sound that came out was a wretched, miserable sob. Her fists loosened and trembling fingers spread over his chest, pressing her palms into him.

“Claire…oh, Claire…” His hands hovered over her uselessly, entirely unsure of what he should be doing.

“Oh, hold me…” Claire sobbed. “Hold me, Jamie. Please.”

He obeyed immediately, enveloping her in his strong arms. Rather than Jamie getting onto the sofa with her, she ended up slipping to the floor beside him, melting into his embrace. She buried her face in his chest, weeping freely into his shirt. He held her as tightly as he possibly could without crushing her, caressing her beautiful, brown curls with one hand, pressing her head into him, desperate to feel closer to her than he already was. If he could fold her into himself permanently he was sure he’d do it.

“Jamie…Jamie…Jamie…” She whispered his name, over and over, as if to convince herself he was really there.

“I’m here, Claire…Oh, Claire…mo nighean donn…Claire…”

Neither of them kept track of how long they’d held onto each other, but they were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Claire only partially moved, just her head so she could see. Jamie did not relinquish his hold on her.

“Glad to see ye’re awake, Claire,” Jenny said. “I’ve brought ye some water.”

“Thank you, Jenny,” Claire said, her voice hoarse. Jamie suddenly felt her tense. She gently pushed herself out of his embrace so she could sit up to address her. “Jenny, keep the children outside. Tell Fergus to keep them busy. We just…need a moment, first.”

Jenny immediately understood her meaning, and she nodded vigorously. “Aye, I’ll do that.” And she was gone.

“Fergus? The lad is still here?” Jamie said.

“Yes. He…he calls me Maman now. He has for…a long time.” Claire eased herself onto the sofa, and Jamie followed, their hands not leaving each other all the while. “I did as I promised, Jamie. I raised him as my own...our own. Our boy.” Two lone tears trickled down her cheeks, smiling bittersweetly.

Jamie exhaled with a great shudder, another single tear escaping his eye as well. “I had no doubt ye’d be a fine mother, mo ghraidh.” He pushed her hair back, threading it through his fingers.

Her stomach flipped at his words, and she nodded. “Yes...which...I...” Her heart was bruising her ribcage. “Jamie…there’s something I need to tell you.”

Jamie’s hands immediately left her. “Ye remarried.”

“No.” Claire said firmly, frantically taking his hands back into hers. “No. Never.”

He sighed in relief. “Even when ye let me kiss you, I couldna be sure.” He kissed her again, possessively this time. “That was my greatest fear, ye ken.”

“I…I couldn’t. Not ever, Jamie. You are the love of my life, only you.”

“And you are mine.” He hungrily kissed her again.

She put a gentle hand on his chest, separating their lips. “But Jamie,” she continued, their faces so close she couldn’t even discern his features. “There is something I didn’t tell you. At Culloden.”

“What are ye talking about?”

“Something I knew would…would make you change your mind about sending me to Lallybroch.” She took a deep breath, bracing herself. She backed up only slightly so they could look into each other’s eyes when she said it. “I was — ”

“Mummy!”

Fuck.

Her scampering footsteps got louder and louder, and Claire scrambled to detach herself from Jamie, scooting several inches away.

“Claire, why’ve ye — ?”

“Mummy!” Brianna appeared in the doorway to the parlor and immediately approached Claire at the sofa. “Oh, Mummy, I ken you didn’t want me going very fast, and I promise it wasna that fast, but Alastair got to a trot, and I promise Fergus didn’t let go the whole time, and the wind felt so lovely in my hair, and Alastair was so pleased, he was so very bored before when we were only walking, and — ”

“I am sorry, Maman.” Fergus appeared in the entryway, breathless. “I tried to keep her in the corral, but she was too excited, and she got away from me…” His voice trailed off as his eyes fell on Jamie, his jaw falling slack.

“Fergus, tell Mummy it wasn’t really that fast, tell her! Tell her how I was a good girl and that’s why you let me go fast! Tell her, mon frère!”

Jamie very abruptly stood from the sofa, stumbling over it as he backed away from Claire and the child.

“Fergus!” Brianna started to panic. “Tell her!” She fretfully looked back at Claire. “Oh, Mummy, I’ll never do it again. I’m sorry. Please don’t be cross wi’ me.” But Claire wasn’t looking at Brianna; she couldn’t take her eyes off of Jamie, who couldn’t take his eyes off of Brianna. Brianna followed her mother’s gaze. “Mummy! Is that man a giant? Did he come from a faery hill?”

Too little too late, Claire returned her attention to Brianna. “Darling, why don’t you and Fergus — ”

“He has hair like mine! Copper, and gold, and auburn, and red, and cinnamon,” she sang the words, a silly song that Claire had invented. It had first come about when she was a baby, still afraid of the water and the soap. It was a list of the “ingredients” that went into her hair. It was just nonsense words strung together in a sing-song pattern, meant to keep her calm while she got clean. Claire had planned on forgetting it after a while, but it kept coming back for every bath thereafter, and now they sang it together, in the bath and even when Claire brushed her hair.

Jamie turned suddenly, knocking over the little table that Jenny had placed the water pitcher on, shattering it as he quickly strode out of the room.

“Jamie!” Claire stood up, terror seizing her heart. She threw a distressed look to Fergus, then hurried after Jamie. “Jamie! Stop!”

“Mummy! Are ye angry wi’ me?”

“Viens, Brianna. Now.”

“Jamie! Wait!” Claire followed him through the house and out the back entrance.

He stopped several feet away from the back door, his back to her, running his hand through his hair.

“Jamie…”

“Is that — ” He whirled around, pointing into the house. “That…Is she…”

“Yours, Jamie. Yes,” Claire said. “She’s your daughter.”

Jamie opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. The hand that was pointing at the house ran through his hair again. He began pacing, putting the pieces together. “You were…you were with child, at Culloden. Ye were carrying my child…”

“I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid!” Claire cried. “I was afraid you’d send me back through the stones to keep her safe, and I couldn’t bear it! I couldn’t leave you!”

“The…the stones?” Jamie stammered. “The stones?”

“She’s safe here, Jamie! She always has been! We are both so much happier here than we ever could have been if you’d sent me back.”

“You…you lied to me?”

“No! I just…didn’t tell you…”

“That’s lying, Claire!” Jamie took several menacing steps toward her, pointing that finger again. “I canna believe…after what happened to Faith…ye gave up the chance to have yer modern medicines, ye risked yer life, and her life…my child’s life…”

“I know it was selfish! But I only regretted it one time, and only very briefly!” Claire’s voice threatened to break, so she paused, taking a breath and swallowing against the lump in her throat. “I never, ever thought of being happier in my own time with her,” she continued evenly, as calmly as she could muster. “I couldn’t leave Jenny, or Fergus. He needed me; you said he needed me to stay,” she reminded him pointedly. “My life at Lallybroch was just as much your idea as mine. She belongs here, and so do I. I’ve only ever once had cause to regret it.”

He took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair yet again. “Why…what made ye regret it? Even the one time?”

“Her birth was difficult…almost deadly. But your sister saved both of our lives. And I am grateful to her every day.”

“As am I, but she wouldnae had to do it if ye’d kept yer promise to me!”

Every word he said was another blow to her chest, widening the crack in her heart.

“Aren’t you happy I’m here? That she is here? You would never see me again, you’d never even meet her if I’d gone back!” Her voice was rising dangerously, her throat searing with pain. “I never could have known you weren’t dead! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does! Ye dinna think I’ve been burning for ye every day these past eight years? Ye dinna think I thanked the Lord and every Saint above to see ye still standing on this Earth? And ye dinna think…” His voice caught in his throat. “My heart wasnae fit to burst when I saw that…that bonny wee lass, calling ye her mam…” Tears spilled down both his cheeks, and Claire felt splinters in her heart. “It’s…it’s almost too much to bear.”

Fresh tears sprang out of Claire’s eyes as well. She fought the urge to run to him, to close the space between them and take him in her arms and never let go. Instead, she hugged herself around the middle, wetting her lips before she spoke, calm and level.

“I…I’ve told her all about you. How brave and strong you were…or, are. How you fought for your clan and country. How you…how you protected her from Heaven, how you…” She breathed shakily. “How you had to leave us to be Faith’s father in Heaven.” Her voice broke, and Jamie looked like he could collapse. “That’s what I told her. That’s how I got her to understand how you couldn’t be with us and still love us as much as I said you did. You’re…you’re her hero, Jamie.”

Jamie sank to his knees, and Claire could not stop herself from rushing forward and gathering his shuddering frame in her arms.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he wept. “Please, forgive me. I dinna mean…it’s just…my heart…I canna bear it…”

“I know, Jamie, I know…” She was all the way up on her knees, and he was back on his haunches, leaning into her, so she was able to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Forgive me for betraying you all those years ago. It was never my intention. I just…I wanted you to be able to meet her if you survived.”

He gently pulled himself out of her embrace, rising to full height on his knees. “Forgiven.” He tilted her chin up to kiss her, sweetly, tenderly.

“All the times I imagined you coming back...none of them ended up like this.” Claire offered a weak smile, feeling foolish even as she said it.

“Aye...I’m sure my shock could rival yers at the moment.” His brows furrowed, and his gaze became far off as he slowly sank back on his haunches. Silently, they settled into the grass together, sitting side by side, holding each other.

“What are you thinking?” Claire said softly, looking up at his face, following the patterns of the protruding veins with concerned eyes.

He remained silent for another brief moment before answering. “I’m thinking that I canna imagine what I’ve done to deserve ye.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Claire sat up straighter, taking his face in her hands, holding on perhaps just a bit too tightly.

“All this time I’ve been...a shell of a man. My soul wandered aimlessly, reaching blindly fer any semblance of...of you. To come home to you, Sassenach, my wife, to see yer face and hear yer voice...Christ, I was grateful enough fer that.” His jaw hardened; he was struggling not to cry. “The pain I know I’ve caused ye these eight years...fer ye to take me in yer arms again is more than I deserve…”

“Jamie…”

“But to know that through it all...ye brought my child into this world, ye raised her, even in yer pain. Ye told her...about me.” He swallowed thickly, and another tear trickled down his cheek. “I dinna ken what I’ve done to be so blessed.”

Claire’s face screwed up with the effort of holding herself together. “Raising your child is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. She has saved me over and over. And I only have her because of you.” She pressed her forehead to his, and he sighed shakily again. “I told myself...before...that you were saving me from beyond the grave through your daughter. And I was so...so grateful for that.”

He cupped the back of her head and kissed her, their tears mingling together on each other’s cheeks.

“No grave, Sassenach. I’m home now. To stay.”

Claire whimpered with a mixture of relief, disbelief, and fear -- fear that it was a vivid dream that would disappear any second.

“I mean to be yer husband again. And I mean to...to be a father to our child. If ye’ll have me...if she...will have me.”

“Of course. Of course we will have you.” Claire kissed him fervently, holding his face firmly in place for several seconds, only pulling away when she was sure she would faint again for lack of air.

“This is more than I’ve ever dreamed of,” she whispered.

“Aye. I could say the same.”

They smiled tearily at each other for a brief moment, before Jamie pulled her into his lap, cradling her like she was fragile as glass. They sat for a while in reverent silence, relishing in the strange familiarity of each other’s embrace.

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intothewickedwood · 3 years

Text

Once Upon A Time Rewatch: 5x22 Only You

Does that mean Storybrooke’s magic is gone now that Rumple has tethered it to the crystal?

Well, I guess he can’t have taken all of it or Regina wouldn’t have been able to teleport etc.

Henry’s relationship with magic is like a freaking rollercoaster. At first, he thinks it’s the best thing in the world, then he hates it so much he wants to destroy it, then it’s the best thing in the world, then he tries to destroy it, then it’s the best thing in the world! But that’s kids for you, I guess! I’m sure I was like that and still can be. Come to think of it, would putting dynamite in the well in season 2 have destroyed magic?

Is that needle that’s put dozens of people under a sleeping curse the same one Maleficent used on Aurora?

Henry’s literally so powerful. I wish he could use his author powers more.

How is taking the crystal out of SB gonna destroy magic in SB?

Oh, so Rumple tethered the magic but didn’t technically absorb it from the town, so they can still use it.

Why can’t Regina text Henry to say that destroying magic would destroy SB? 

Guess they can go over the town line now, for the first time in like forever. But I guess Emma & Regina & Henry could already cross the threshold, possibly Violet too as she didn’t come over with the first curse. And then the others are brought to New York by a portal. 

Oh! So that’s why they can use magic in the lwom? Because Henry brought the crystal aka all the magic of Storybrooke there.

Aww. Henry and Violet are cute. I just wouldn’t recommend reading the Henry and Violet book if you appreciate their relationship in the show.

Oh, thank God. Zelena does promise to bring baby Robin to visit her brother Roland! I need them to have known each other growing up! I bet they’re really close. And Roland is just as sweet as ever and has to stop his sister being reckless. The Hufflepuff to her Slytherin (+ Gryffindor tendencies), if you will. And I need fics where Roland doesn’t grow up to be vengeful and angry. Once a Hufflepuff cupcake, always a Hufflepuff cupcake.

Did Regina agree to Roland going back to Sherwood Forest? I’m surprised she didn’t adopt him. It must have been the Merry Men’s decision because no way would they take orders from Zelena. 

Aww! Roly kissing his baby sis!! I’m gonna miss you Roly!! Literally the most adorable kid! Aww and Granny kisses him on the head too! I die!!

Look at his little mittens!!

I’m guessing he doesn’t know she killed his mama but maybe he knows that she posed as her and in a strange way enjoyed his time with her? I mean, I guess you can say that as Marian Zelena did, at least, take care of Roland and bond with him. Maybe she always wanted to be a mother? Still doesn’t excuse her killing Marian and posing as her. Just trying to make sense of this hug. Maybe Roland is just super forgiving! And you can say it’s cause he’s a child but let me tell you, I was so much less willing to forgive really terrible things as a child than I am now. 

Omg. They all fell so hard through that portal! Ow!

Emma’s genuinely worried Regina’s gonna put a sleeping curse on her.

Baelfire was trying to destroy magic in New York?

Ron used sellotape to try to fix his wand, so why not?

Omg Davis Bloom, love of my life! Well, it’s Hyde but this guy loves to play literal monsters! Listen, before Once Upon a Time, Smallville was my hardcore special interest show. I rewatched it so many times since I was 9! Anyway, Chloe was my favourite character and I’d always been a Chloe x Clark shipper and then Davis came along and Chlavis became my otp. He loved her so much! He gave her the love and attention she deserved! Yes it was messed up but that’s what 12-year-old me was and is here for! My mum and I were so excited when we found out the actor was gonna be in Ouat! I loved Davis to bits and ngl, was highly attracted to him (as was my mama), so excuse me as I continue to be thirsty over Hyde.

Back to the rewatch!

Hyde strangling people is my jam lol.

Snow, my girl, you really can’t keep a secret. She darn told Hyde about the Dark One’s love being pregnant! Oh well, love her anyway. And also, she was 10.

I’ll never forget, I once cut my eye and it legit looked like one of Hyde’s but scarier. It was so frightening to look at and really uncomfortable, but it healed eventually. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it. But it looks cool and sexy on Hyde xD. 

Is that the same book Tilly finds at Henry’s place in 7x14?

Regina: “like with Hook, my first impulse was to rip his throat out.” Jesus Regina! You’re saying that to the woman who just went to the Underworld for Hook and thought she’d lost him forever. He’s someone she loves. That’s intense! As someone who’s been told by a loved one, threateningly, that they are (completely seriously) going to violently kill another loved one, several times, that is so not cool. Luckily no one was killed though, it’s okay. 

I recently read a really interesting meta about Regina’s motivation for redemption being intellectual. Like she says here, she doesn’t want to do good. She hates doing good but she knows that villainous acts won’t get her her happy ending and so she reasons that in order for things to go less awful for her, she must to good. She doesn’t do it because of empathy, guilt or regret, she does it because she figures it’s what the heroes are doing and things are going right for them and because if she goes back to her evil ways she knows she’ll lose Henry and her new and only support network. I think the same can be said for Zelena’s motivations to do good. No shade, just an analysis.

Well at least she’s using the word “I” to express that she did those things. But, she seems more concerned about those things hanging over her than for what she did to her victims and how they felt and suffered.  She even seems more upset at the fact that she has lost a love again than the fact that Robin lost his life and his kids have lost their father.

Hmm. Interesting. She seems to suggest here that before she didn’t know the difference between good and evil. You know what, that could be true because she didn’t really get why people called her the ‘Evil Queen’ and then there’s the fact she was raised by Cora and Henry Sr. Cora probably warped her perception of good and evil and her father positively reinforced a lot of the evil Regina did and didn’t explain to her why the things Cora did and the lessons she taught were wrong.

Why are all those stories in the library? That makes no sense. 

There’s a problem. If the grail is the origin of all magic and Merlin found it around 1500 years before the present (apparently Merlin was a runaway slave too. Of course he flipping was!), how comes Gothel and Seraphina had magic thousands of years ago? I mean, I suppose they were from another land (that Gothel killed almost all the inhabitants of), so I guess people just don’t know magic didn’t originate from the grail. I mean, since the God’s had magic before the grail, and nymphs possibly have relations to gods, I suppose it makes sense that Gothel had magic but then, what about Seraphina? How does she have magic and how did she live so long? Did Gothel cast a spell on her that made her practically immortal or was she already immortal?

Well, that was easy for Rumple lol.

Transforming looks really painful.

The thing is. They shouldn’t have separated Jekyll from Hyde. I think it would have been cooler if they hadn’t. Sure, they can make Jekyll the true villain but why not have the heroes try to save Jekyll as Hyde thwarts their plans at every turn to the point where they have to agonize over hurting Jekyll to defeat Hyde. The same can be said for Regina. Don’t split them up! Just have Regina transform into the Evil Queen so you can’t tell when she’s Regina and when she’s the EQ working on her evil plan. That would’ve been really fun to watch and to try to figure out which persona she was and when! Also, they should have just made Jekyll transform when emotionally compromised rather than when taking the potion because without an assistant Jekyll could have easily lived without Hyde ever returning. 

I hate the look of that wand.

Hydes theme sounds so awesome!

Also, it would have been really cool to explore the Land of Untold Stories. It looks so rad!

How can Hyde summon the portal? Don’t you have to have enough dark magic?! I guess maybe his strength and durability are enhanced by dark magic?

Rumple, I don’t think Belle can here you in that box.

Can I marry Hyde now? I want to marry Hyde. 

#ouat #once upon a time #henry mills #ouat hyde #ouat rewatch #ouat rewatch 2019

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catlordewrites · 3 years

Text

The Waif ~ Chapter Two

As an alien science experiment, she remembers nothing. Knows no one. With nowhere else to turn, Claudia must rely on the Doctor and his companions for help. She's mutating. The Doctor knows more than he's telling. But why does the Time Lord seem to hate her so much? Rated M.

Masterlist - Fanfiction.net - Ao3

Prologue - Previous Chapter - This Chapter - Next Chapter

Chapter Two: The Box

The room Claudia was in was impossible.

Or at least she thought it must have been, but she couldn't exactly consider herself to be an authority on things that should and shouldn’t exist. But it definitely wasn’t anything like she had seen before in her short life.

Rose had guided her through long hallways of the facility and into some kind of storage space. Within the closet, amongst the neatly packed boxes of papers and scientific equipment, sat what Claudia could only think of as a blue wooden shed.

At first, she had been too afraid to set foot in it. It was too similar in size to the glass cylinder she had just escaped and it had taken Rose several minutes of coaxing before Claudia was willing to cross over the threshold and into the bizarre world beyond.

And it was a world all its own. Inside the box was easily the largest room Claudia could remember being in. The floor was metal, much like the grating of the floor of the tank. But the light was warm, organic. The room stretched up into a massive dome, held up by coral struts. At the center of the room was a console, covered on all sides by a wonderful assortment of buttons, levers, and other strange devices.

“It’s beautiful,” Claudia breathed as she wandered further into the ship, plucking up the courage to brush her fingers along the smooth metal of the console.

“Yeah, isn’t she?” Rose agreed, grinning at the other girl’s simple, childlike wonder.

“She?” Claudia echoed, accepting the pronoun without much thought. Why shouldn’t the beautiful place be a She? “What’s she called?”

“The TARDIS.” The blonde answered, her tongue poking out between her teeth. “She goes anywhere. In time, too.”

“Time?” She accepted it instantly, as she had everything else despite the gut instinct hat she should have thought it impossible.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Rose circled the console, running a hand along it as she went. She made it back in front of the other girl, studying her with kind curiosity. “And you said your name was Claudia?”

“Yeah.” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted it to. “Maybe.”

“So, where are you from? How do you know the Doctor?”

“I don’t know,” Claudia shrugged, trying to hide how vulnerable the questions made her feel. She liked Rose. Her lack of memories made her feel tainted. The last thing she wanted was for her to think she was crazy. Or defective.

“You don’t know what? The Doctor?”

“No.”

“But he knows you.” It was a statement, not a question.

Claudia shrugged and stared down at her toes, not sure how else to respond.

Rose nodded thoughtfully. Claudia wasn’t sure if the blonde believed her or not, but she seemed willing to leave it for now.

“What about where you’re from? Where’s home?”

“Don’t know,” she admitted quietly, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve.

“What, you haven’t got a home?”

She shrugged again, not meeting Rose’s penetrating stare.

Rose shifted uncomfortably, but persisted. “What about family?”

Claudia forced herself to look the other woman in the eye. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Her eyes narrowed and a skeptical grimace twisted her pretty features, as if she was having trouble understanding how someone could just not know about their parents. Claudia cowered, feeling naked under the blonde’s judgemental gaze. “How d’you mean?”

“I mean: I don’t know.” She tried her best to seem indifferent, but only managed to come off as a sheepish child.

“You can’t remember?”

“No.”

“So what can you remember?” Rose said in a slow, calm tone that Claudia found oddly belittling.

“Not much. I was on the side of the road, a few days ago, but beyond that…” She tried another shrug, as if it were no big deal. “There’s nothing.”

Rose nodded slowly, a flicker of mild alarm and concern replacing her skepticism. “Nothing?”

Before Claudia could elaborate, the Doctor burst through the doors. He bounded lightly across the room, footsteps clanging loudily on the grating, coming to a stop at the console, where he began pressing buttons and pulling levers in a flurry of motion.

“Hang onto something. It’s gonna get a bit bumpy,” Rose instructed Claudia, who, while confused, immediately snagged onto the railing.

With an onslaught of terrible sounds, the entire place began to shake. The center of the console heaved like a great beast as her passengers were tossed about the room.

“Don’t worry, it’s meant to do that,” Rose assured, tossing a smile at the frightened Claudia. She then lunged to grab hold of the console, making her way to the Doctor’s side, where she asked, “What happened?”

“Ship’s losing orbit. I’ve got to lock onto the Storm Drive before it enters the atmosphere.” At Rose’s confused expression, he elaborated, “Great big old science vessel needs great big power cells. If they hit the surface they could wipe out half the planet.”

“Must be Tuesday,” Rose grinned. She did that a lot. Claudia wondered if her face ever ached from it.

The Doctor returned it, but it seemed to be more of an afterthought than as an expression of how he was actually feeling.

With a flourish, the Doctor slammed a final lever into place and the room stilled.

“There we go! Timaltian vessel out of Earth’s orbit, safely on it’s way to the sun.”

“The sun?” Rose argued. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

The Doctor shrugged, evidently unbothered. “If I just leave it, it would be an open invitation for them to come straight back and pick up where they left off. Can’t have them sending your lot into a panic now, can we?”

“What about the people?”

The Doctor began fiddling with the console. “They’d all evacuated by the time I rerouted the power. Whatever they were doing, they had it all packed away in the escape pods and halfway across the solar system before I could get anywhere near it. So…” he spun on his heel to face Claudia, his eyes hardening inexplicably. “That brings us to you.”

Claudia fidgeted with the sleeve of her dress. It was identical to the one she woken up in. Dinstral had provided a new one every couple of days, passing the fresh one through and collecting the old through the small window in her tank. She’d been a bit embarrassed at changing in front of other people, but had gotten used to it quickly. She’d had to.

“What were you doing on that ship?” The Doctor asked with a sharpness that Claudia didn’t feel was justified.

“I don’t know,” she responded quietly, hating those words more and more as time wore on. Even she was beginning to wonder if those were the only words she knew.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” The Doctor snapped, causing her to flinch slightly at the tone. “What kind of rubbish answer is that? You were there, in the lab while they were experimenting. Surely you’d have been able to pick up on something. Or are you just thick?”

The outburst shocked both of the young women equally, but Rose wasn’t as limited by the same uncertainty as Claudia.

“Doctor! What the hell’s gotten into you?” The blonde snapped, coming to Claudia’s defense. “She said she’s got no memory past a couple weeks ago. So if she says she doesn’t know, she probably doesn’t know. Alright?”

The Doctor didn’t apologize but at least seemed to realize that he’d been out of line. He took a step back and frowned before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a slender silver tube with a glowing blue light at one end. He held it out and waved it around Claudia’s head.

“Human. Female. Twenty three, give or take,” the Doctor mused, half to himself. “Odd. Very odd.”

“How’s that odd?” Rose inquired.

“What?” The Doctor rocked back on his heels awkwardly. “Odd? Why would that be odd? Human. Perfectly normal human.”

“You said it was odd,” Rose pressed, not about to let it go.

“Did I say odd?” He fumbled. “I meant to say not-odd. Completely average.”

Rose rolled her eyes but let it drop. The Doctor returned his attention to Claudia.

“So what did you notice?” He asked, more controlled this time, though she didn’t miss how his eyes refused to rest entirely on her face. She tried not to feel hurt by it, but what Mr. Stray had said about being crippled flashed in her mind.

“Assistant Dinstral would come by sometimes to give us injections and start an Optimising cycle,” she explained quietly, her voice so low that it was nearly swallowed up in the spacious room. “But other than that they left us alone.”

“‘Optimising’, what’s that?”

She tried to explain it the best she could. It was pathetic, at best, but the Doctor seemed to grasp the gist of it.

“Cellular remodulation through harmonic resonance? Could be. Science is a bit shaky, mind you…” The corners of his lips twitched up at the pun, earning a small smirk from Rose. “But could be. What about those injections?”

“They were green,” Claudia offered, though she knew it wouldn’t be much help.

“Right, because that really narrows it down,” he sighed sarcastically. “Were there any others or was it just you?”

“There were three of us. There were four, but…” Claudia trailed off at the memory of the young boy convulsing as he was suffocated by gases.

“But?”

“They… terminated one,” she admitted bitterly.

Rose grimaced but the Doctor didn’t bat an eye. “Because the experiment went wrong. What for?”

“Umm… they said he was aggressive.” She shuddered, remembering the blood that had been drying on his mouth and chin. “I think he killed someone, on Earth.”

“That’s what brought us to the ship,” Rose added. “The killing. Human experiments set loose on Earth. That’s how we found you.”

“There were people that found me before I was brought to the lab, they thought that I had killed someone,” Claudia murmured.

“Did you?” Rose asked sharply.

“I don’t remember hurting anyo…” Claudia hurried to explain.

“I doubt it matters,” the Doctor interrupted. “What else? Anything useful?”

“Solane said something about how they weren’t trying to make mindless killers,” Claudia voiced her thoughts aloud, hoping he would find some part of it helpful. “And Dinstral argued because he was the first test subject to accept the serum, or mutation, or something like that. Sorry, I don’t remember it very well. It’s been a while,” she added apologetically.

“That’s alright. You’re doing brilliant,” Rose comforted.

The Doctor ran his fingers through his hair, lost in thought. “Mutating. But into what?” Not for the first time, he turned to study her through narrowed eyes. “You said that you don’t remember anything past a few weeks ago. Does that mean you don’t remember what happened a few weeks ago, or that you don’t remember anything at all ever?”

“There’s nothing. Past a few weeks ago, I might as well have not existed,” Claudia admitted quietly. “I don’t even know my name. I made this one up.”

The Doctor frowned thoughtfully and reached into his jacket. He produced a small plastic case that opened with a slight pop as he took out a clear cigar shaped tube with little black cubes on each end.

“I need a blood sample,” he explained and at Claudia’s nod, he pressed one end to her upper arm.

Claudia winced as an unseen needle pierced her flesh and watched as the clear section was filled. She was used to having her blood drawn after her time in the lab, so the sight of her own blood didn’t make her stomach turn.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” The Doctor commented, holding the sample against the light of the console. He stood there stiffly for a moment, and she thought maybe he was deliberating on something.

Finally, he met her eyes, and his expression left Claudia both bewildered and breathless. She couldn’t even begin to decrypt the complex emotions swirling in his eyes, much less understand the cause of them. She managed to pick out pain and anger, but the rest were far too deep for her to comprehend.

Then he started, shaking off whatever train of thought he’d been on. He turned suddenly and vanished down a corridor. Claudia took a step, intending to follow, but was stopped by Rose.

“Let’s just leave it for now, yeah?” The blonde draped her arm across the other girl’s shoulder. “You’ve been locked up as a science experiment for weeks. What you need is a hot bath and a good night's sleep. We can figure out all the details later, right?”

As desperate as she was for answers, Claudia had to admit that sleeping on a bed, a real bed and not a cold metal floor, sounded heavenly. Then she realized that she had never slept on a bed before, nor had she taken a real bath. Then she was confused again.

Rose smiled sweetly and took Claudia by the arm to guide her deeper into the impossible ship. As interested in exploring as she was, Claudia couldn’t push the mental image of the way the Doctor had looked at her out of her mind. It made her feel disoriented and exhilarated, but inexplicably like she’d done something wrong.

“I’ll show you around later,” Rose was saying, ignorant to Claudia’s whirling thoughts. “This place is massive. It could take days to see all the main rooms, and you look like one good push would do you in.”

“That bad?” She had no idea what she looked like, only that she was tired. The adrenaline that had been pounding through her system was fading fast, leaving her drained and just a bit shaky.

“Nothing some proper sleep can’t fix,” the blonde reassured with another warm smile.

They took a few turns and when Claudia was thoroughly lost, Rose showed her down a narrow corridor. There were doors on either side, all metal with a name plate displaying the occupant’s name in swirling gold letters.

“Are all these people here?” Claudia asked, startled. She skimmed some of the name tags. Names like Ian, Sarah Jane, and Adric jumped out at her, making her feel a bit overwhelmed at the thought of having to memorize that many people.

“No,” Rose hummed, not giving the doors so much as a glance. “Lots of people have stayed with the Doctor over the years. I’ve just been here a year, and already we’ve had Jack and Adam travel with us. Adam only stayed for one day, and his room’s still here.”

“What happened to them all?” Claudia felt the urge to flinch at the name Jack. The chances of it being the same Jack that had threatened her in the park were hilariously slim.

Rose shrugged, suggesting that she hadn’t given it much thought. “Dunno. Probably had just been visiting. Suppose they just went home.”

Something about that didn’t sit right with Claudia. Looking up at their names, crafted with such care, she couldn’t help but think that they all had been important.

“What about you?” Claudia couldn’t help but ask, reaching up to trace her fingers along the name Jo. “Are you visiting, too?”

“What makes you say that?” Rose demanded shrilly, causing Claudia to turn to see the blonde staring at her haughtily. “Do I look like I’m temporary?”

“I don’t know,” Claudia said honestly, unhappy that she’d already managed to offend the closest thing she had to a friend. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

Rose sighed heavily through her nose. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and Claudia couldn’t help but think there was more to the other girl’s anger than her clumsy comment.

“S’alright. Anyway…” Rose nodded at a door without a name engraved on it. It was right next to a door that said Jack and directly across from one that read Rose. “That’s mine, there.”

Claudia couldn’t help but notice that Rose’s name was in exactly the same script as all the other names in the hall.

She blinked the thought away, deciding to puzzle over the other names later, and instead focused on her own door. She looked to Rose briefly, not wanting to do something wrong.

At the other girl’s nod, Claudia reached out and grabbed the handle. The smooth metal went from icy cold to warm and tingly in less than a second. Claudia yanked back her hand, holding it protectively against her chest in case the door randomly decided to bite.

Rose laughed quietly. “It’s not going to hurt you. Look.”

Claudia watched in fascination as lines began appearing, melting into the metal like an invisible force was stamping them into the door. After a moment, Claudia was written proudly in elegant gold letters.

“That’s me,” Claudia said dumbly, causing Rose to laugh again.

“Course it does. It’s your room, isn’t it?”

“My room,” Claudia repeated, staring at her name in awe. A small flame of happiness flickered in her chest. My room.

“Are you gonna open it or not?”

Claudia shook off the bizarre sensation of having something that was hers long enough to actually turn the handle and open the door.

“Blimey,” Rose mused, following Claudia through the threshold.

Blimey, indeed. The low-lit room was fairly large, and absolutely every surface was covered with a variety of pillows, blankets, cushions, wall hangings, paintings, and carpets, none of which contributed to any form of theme or color scheme. Cushy, dysfunctional, organized chaos. Not to mention the sheer number of plants scattered about the room, sitting in ornate pots, sitting on the floor, perched on every table and dresser, and hanging from the ceiling.

Not that it was messy or disorganized. In fact, the clashing colors and surfaces came together rather nicely, creating a warm, somewhat boho environment. A maximalist grandmother’s haven, emboldened by the smell of sugar cookies and eucalyptus that wafted faintly through the air.

“Nice. But busy, though,” Rose commented.

“I love it,” Claudia declared, beaming as she fondled the lace of a throw pillow between her forefinger and thumb. The carpet was thick and squishy under her bare feet, a wonderful change from the cold metal or tile floors she was accustomed to.

“Course you do,” Rose laughed. “The TARDIS builds rooms for each person. She must’ve known how you’d want it.”

“How does she know?” Claudia flopped down on the small velvet couch, bouncing lightly on the burnt-orange surface and getting back to her feet.

“She telepathic,” Rose explained, bemusedly watching as Claudia tenderly stroked the silky leaves of a tropical plant with a certain amount of reverence that made the blonde wonder if she’d ever seen a plant before. “Gets inside your head.”

“She’s inside my head?” She touched a finger to her temple experimentally to see if she could feel the machine’s presence.

“In a good way,” Rose said quickly. “It’s a bit weird at first, but you get used to it. Now, look…”

Claudia snapped to attention, blinking at Rose with wide eyes.

“...Bathroom’s there.” Rose pointed to a door just off to the side of the room. “Closet just over there.”

“I don’t have any clothes,” Claudia said quietly, looking down at her plain white frock and shoeless feet abashedly.

Rose smiled kindly. “That’s alright. The TARDIS keeps it stocked. There’s a main wardrobe, too. Stuff from all sorts of time zones. But she keeps all the daily stuff in the personal closets.” Her smile broadened. “We can always go shopping, too. There’s this one moon, and it’s entirely made of shops. Me and the Doctor went a while back, but it’ll be nice to go back with someone I can shop with.”

“The Doctor doesn’t shop?”

“He tries, but he gets bored easy. Honestly, you turn your back for two seconds and he’s getting kicked out for starting an argument over the proper use of some sort of space toaster.”

Claudia grinned. “Space toaster?”

Rose beamed back. “Yeah. Now, what d’you say you start getting settled? I’m sure the Doctor’s got a lot planned for tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Claudia said simply. She ambled over to the bathroom. The light turned on automatically, revealing the dark stone tile and the smooth curves of the sink, toilet, and footed bathtub.

“This is nice,” Rose commented from where she was leaning in the doorway.

But Claudia wasn’t paying attention to the bathroom’s aesthetics. Her focus was on the large mirror over the sink, where an unfamiliar young woman was staring out at her.

“That’s me,” she said stupidly, studying her own face.

“Yeah?” Rose said, uncomprehending. She frowned. “Did you not know what you look like?”

Claudia shook her head. She’d caught a few obscure glimpses of her own reflection in the glass windows of shops when she was wandering around on Earth, but those had been faint and distorted. Now, she got the opportunity to properly study herself for the first time.

She was of medium build and average height, with dark hair that came to just below her shoulders and olive skin. Her eyes were soft brown and a few freckles dotted her button nose.

Average, in all, but Claudia thought that she might be pretty. She liked the way her plump lips curved and the shape of her ears. Rose had been right earlier, she did look a little worn. There were circles under her eyes and her cheeks lacked any sort of healthy color while her hair was frizzed out and lifeless.

Claudia turned back to Rose, realizing that the younger girl had been strangely quiet. The blonde was watching her with a slightly sad expression, something akin to pity dancing in her eyes.

Claudia didn’t like it.

“Do you need anything else?” Rose asked after a moment, brushing back a lock of yellow hair from her face.

“No, I think,” Claudia said softly, turning back to the mirror.

“Then I’ll just leave you to… rest or whatever. You know where my room is, if you need anything.”

“Rose.” Rose turned back, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Do you think he… you know… Can he… fix me?” The question was tinged with desperation.

That’s how she felt. Broken. She was half a person without her memories. The scientists had known that and had seen her as nothing more than an experiment. A lesser being.

Claudius. Crippled. Lame.

“If there’s anyone who can help you, it’s the Doctor,” Rose insisted. “I know he was a bit rough earlier, but he will, you’ll see. Tomorrow, we’ll get it sorted, alright?”

Claudia nodded, comforted by the other woman’s conviction.

Rose left Claudia to bathe and sleep. An hour later, Claudia, clean and warm, drifted off to sleep on her bed, covered in way too many blankets and pillows. For the first time, she felt completely safe. Her last thought before sliding into unconsciousness was of her imaginary mother and father. They waited for her in her dreams, calling out to her and making her feel loved.

#doctor who #doctorwho #10th doctor x oc #10th doctor x reader #tenth doctor x oc #tenth doctor x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #doctorwho fanfiction #doctor who fic #doctor who fanfiction #doctor who fanfic #Tenth Doctor #10th doctor #oc

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

Text

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 6: Bi Bi Bi - Generations

1957

Henry asks him to detail his encounter, again. “I – I didn’t have my, uh… my pen.” He shakes it, awkwardly chuckling.

The other man – Paul – whistles a sad note at having to repeat his story but does so anyway. “Like I said, I was minding my business – taking a walk through the park…”

Nodding, Henry scribbles over the little notepad what he should have been writing from the start. If he hadn’t been distracted. By disheveled hair, five o’clock shadows, blue eyes and broad shoulders under a too-tight t-shirt. Paul describes his encounter with the shifter in full detail. Henry barely collects enough information for his investigation. When their meeting ends, Paul ushering him out the door, Henry almost cries in relief. Still, there’s a routine to this. Rules he, a Men of Letters, must follow.

“If you see anything else,” Henry says, handing Paul a business card, “you can reach me, here.”

Not really. Henry rarely spends time in the Bunker, unlike his fellow colleagues who skulk around like the very ghosts they study. They’d more than likely answer the phone. Why he told Paul that, he cannot explain. Neither the rush Henry felt when Paul grabbed the card, and for a few scant seconds, they both held it. Thumbs inches apart from one another. Until Henry let go, stepping past the threshold and breathing deep from clean air not tainted by aftershave and loose cigarettes. Confusion flies from his mind like the birds overhead in the sky. Cawing while he walked the short distance from Paul’s trailer towards his car.

That’s all he would need. A simple trek would send those queer thoughts heavenward, never to bother him again. Paul’s face stayed with him, though, when he entered the car. How his lips moved when asking simple questions, like if he wanted a drink. His fingers on the bottle while he poured, somehow maintaining eye contact with him. That damned business card.

Henry tightens his grip on the steering wheel, shuddering as it all replays in his mind, frame by frame through his mental projector.

Luckily, pinned on the rearview, was a picture of his beloved. Millie. Smiling like a ray of sunshine, parting those awful clouds. She gives him strength, and with one final push, shoves those thoughts far away. Paul’s strong fingers were replaced with her delicate ones, and the only lip he thinks about is her soft, pink ones. Her face is all he ever needs. With Millie, he can overpower any temptation.

“And that’s normal,” he mutters, starting the engine, “we all have temptations… as long as I never give in.”

On the roads, it’s hard. But that’s why, wherever he goes, he carries a piece of Millie with him. To make it easy.

1989

John wakes up with a sharp knife cleaving his head in twain, and a dull ache low near his stomach. Gurgling, he rubs a tired hand through his hair. Blocks intrusive sun rays with a calloused paw, mumbling all the while about extinguishing the sun.

“Yeah,” someone chuckles nearby, sheets rustling as he moves. A heavy arm wraps around him. “The sun’s a fuckin’ loser.”

Despite the monster-sized hangover he nurses, John sprung from the bed. “What the –“ He bites hard on his tongue, enough to draw blood, as he fully takes in the bed’s other occupant. Bronzed skin, chestnut hair fanning out behind him on the pillow. Bloodshot, blue eyes squinting up at him. Chest bare, the rest thankfully hidden under the blanket. But judging by his own state, and that of the room with clothes strung about, he saw enough. Blissfully forgotten, lost when he sobered.

“Hey,” the stranger drawls, sitting. Watching John with a furrowed brow. “What’s wrong?”

He twitches, telegraphing his next moves with blaring sirens. John barks a quick order, “No!” in time, startling the other back into bed.

“What?”

“No,” he continues, growling. Reaching for a pair of pants, one leg inside. “No, you… you stay there –“

“What?” he says again, angrier, “John, what the hell is going –“

“No!” he roars, whipping around. Jeans still unbuttoned, unzippered. “Do not address me, you –“ Like a gunshot, he hurls the insult and watches all the life drain from the other man. Paler than earlier, his lips thin. “I am going to get dressed,” John says, shoulders quaking with rage. At the stranger. At himself. At what happened last night. “And I will leave. You will wait exactly ten minutes. Not nine, not eleven – ten. After that you can do whatever the hell you want as long as we never see each other again. Because if we do I…” John advances, snagging his button down on the way. Strangles the fabric in his grip. “I promise you will not like it.”

Learning from his earlier missteps, the stranger wordlessly nods, drawing up the covers around his waist.

“Good.”

He throws the shirt on, hastily buttoning it. Tucks it into his now-fastened pants, and finds his stained jacket. Then, he grabs his shoes. Exiting barefoot, no care to waste time putting them on. More important that he create distance between him and his mistake.

It won’t be far. First, he notices his Baby. Parked haphazardly but in one piece. The relief that ballooned in his chest bursts as his gaze trails from that towards the overhead motel sign. A familiar one. The same he saw when driving in three weeks ago, checking in while he skulked about for hunts.

John looks behind him, at the room he left. Even in a stupor, he found a room on the other side. Far from his kids, his secret safe another day. He slams a boot against his head, ringing increasing from the blow. “Stupid, stupid…” he mutters, walking, “You promised… after the last time, you promised -!”

This happened before. More than the standard one time – because every boy practiced kissing with their best friend. At least, that’s what Marty told him in the eighth grade. Once isn’t a big deal. Repeat performances and… and other lewd acts, that crosses over into queer territory. Dangerous territory. For him as a man, and a father.

If only Mary… she stopped it, for a while. Woman or man, there wasn’t a person alive who stole his breath quite like her. Who made his heart skip a beat in a normal way. When she died, normality went with her.

He hoped at least some of it would stay. But with enough drink, anything is possible.

Standing outside his door, shifting on his feet, John promises to be better. Resist falling into old habits, into men’s arms. Otherwise, one day, he won’t be as lucky. And where would his boys be…

“Whatever,” he sighs, opening the door, “women’re better anyway.”

John expected, with how low the sun was, he’d find a quiet room. Two children fast asleep, and a table John can sit at and consider his life choices. The table’s there, and at least one child lay unmoving on the bed.

Dean, however, sits on the edge of his bed. Bowl of cereal on his lap, he barely flinched at John’s entrance. Mesmerized by the television screen.

Creeping forward, he curiously spies on the cartoon Dean watches. He recognizes the explosions and music, glad his son enjoyed a perfect boys’ show like G.I. Joe. Still, freaked by his morning, John sees the cartoon with new eyes. Were the men on the show always that jacked? Abnormally so? And men don’t hug, why are they? John only hugged his fellow soldiers for select reasons, and those nights ended in hushed whispers and regret.

He strides across the room and clicks the television off.

“Hey!” Dean cries, “I was watching –“

“You won’t ever watch that show again, you hear me?” he says, sternly wagging his finger. “Do you hear me?”

Dean whines, kicking his legs. “Why? What’s so bad about it?”

“Because,” he splutters, cheeks flushed, “because, you don’t want people to think you’re a fairy, do you?” His oldest frowns, clearly confused. Unused to the term. John, reticent, turns from him. “Besides, you’re too old for cartoons anyway. Men don’t watch cartoons.” At Dean’s silence, John heads for the bathroom. “Wake Sammy, tell him we’re leaving –“

“What?”

“Your things better be packed by the time I finish showering.” He shuts the door, blocking any response.

Hidden from his kids, John bleeds every ounce of tension from his body. Shoes drop, booming in the small space. Shuffling further, John braces himself against the sink. Stares at his reflection, hating every sinful inch. “Never again,” he whispers, “you’re stronger than your mistakes.”

2020

Dean watches his reflection mouth the words, easy without sound. But when he tries voicing those thoughts, his voice crackles and cuts out. Plug pulled before anything happens, too frightened by what might be.

“You can do this,” he mutters, splashing some water on his face. “You can do this.” He’s had how many years? Of figuring things out. Of lying. Of acceptance. It’s three words. There are scarier things than that, and Dean has taken them all down.

But this?

Sam knocks on the door, “Dean? You finished in there?”

“Give me a sec, Sam!” he calls, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. His brother drumming continuing behind him, testing his patience. “Seriously!”

“Come on… I want to shower!” Scoffing. Sam slams a heavy hand on the door. “Can you please come out already?”

Dean swings it open, Sam’s brows jumping in surprise. “Fine!” he shouts, flailing, “I’m bisexual. Are you happy?”

Sam scowls, looking unimpressed. “Is that all?”

“…Yeah?”

“Good,” Sam says, offering a tiny smile. Only momentarily, as in the next second it flattens into a frown. “Now, if you're done, can you please exit the bathroom so I can wash the witch gunk from my hair?”

“Sure, sure…” Dean stumbles out, Sam rushing in after. Chest lighter, as was his mood. He giggles from the absurdity of it all, raking shaking fingers through his hair. “I’m bisexual,” he repeats, “I’m bi – I’m bi!”

A hurricane of thoughts whip through is mind. Many of them a variation of what he’s already announced. In the eye of that storm, however, is a crystal-clear lake of blue. A comfort, that makes his heart swell and feel safe. The same color as a very, important person’s eyes.

Dean dials his number, holding the phone to his ear. He answers on the third ring, Dean speaking over him. “Hey, Cas! I – I have something to tell you. I’m –“

(Day 5 - Now That’s an Angel Blade)

#cracktober #profoundnet #supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfic #spn fanfic #destiel #deancas #henry winchester #john winchester #dean winchester #bi henry winchester #bi john winchester #bi dean winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #sam winchester #castiel

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monchikyun · 4 years

Text

07. No turning back

“I have to be honest with you, Gavin. It’s only fair.”

When Connor dropped the dead weight of “we need to talk” at him, it was bad enough as it was. This frightening opener just managed to make it even worse, not that he thought it would be possible.

Gavin doesn’t see one valid reason to doubt the thing they built together. He has never worked so hard at anything, never sacrificed so much. And it was worth it, since every single piece of himself he had given away came back to him, fixed and improved. He can’t remember ever feeling so alive. This improbable happiness is so out of character his past self would probably denounce him. But it’s okay because he mostly feels it just so he can have something substantial on offer for the one and only android who managed to crack his rigid shell. There is a bit of selfishness in it too, naturally. It’s just that the more content Connor is, the brighter his world becomes. One and the same thing, really.

He tries to dig up something he did that might break them, but nothing comes out, despite his imperfect personality and all their insignificant fights. Maybe it’s been long enough for Connor and he wants to get out, it wouldn’t be that unbelievable. At the end of the day, Gavin is not the ideal person to care about, he would probably never be. It just took the android a while to figure that terrible truth out.

He can still taste the oatmeal cookies Connor made for him this afternoon - his favourite kind and the dread overwhelms him through and through. Was it meant as a consolation?

It surely doesn’t make the pain in his heart any less severe. Maybe he should have shown the silly bot how much he means to Gavin. More often.

“I don’t think I’m happy here.” … as in their relationship, right? The only thing missing in this horror-scenario is a bullet in his head. He’d like to take it right about now.

Connor must have noticed the treacherous tears promising to spill over were he to utterly lose control, because he’s holding his face in his hands like he’s not about to aim the ultimate blow to his fragile heart.

“Gavin. Look at me.” Predictably, his control betrays him when their eyes meet, his weakness on display for everyone to feast on. But he doesn’t care, Connor has earned the privilege to witness him in all his forms.

“I don’t mean us. You’re one of the best things that have ever happened to me and I can’t… imagine my life without you anymore.”

If Connor wanted him to stop crying, he failed spectacularly. It has only been a year since they crossed the threshold od friendship and something more, but to him, it seems like an eternity ago. He blocks out the empty years he just barely survived before his life took a definite shape and it works, most of the times. He wouldn’t even think of going there when he’s enveloped by the person who made him into something much less ugly.

It took a couple of soft kisses before he was ready to listen again.

“I want to leave.” Connor grasps his hand to remind him that it isn’t his fault. Gavin is still scared, a little.

“It’s just… lately I can’t stand my job, it’s driving me mad how much I hate looking at all the dead bodies and that other general… unpleasantness that’s all around us. I’m sick of the city itself. Can’t stay here anymore.”

His brain is trying to process this new information, showing no signs of a positive conclusion.

“So… that means you wanna move somewhere else?”

He gets a nod.

It should make him feel all complicated and hesitant, but the truth is he’s kind of relieved to hear this. This city bears too many bad memories, for both of them, and there is nothing really keeping him here. Sure, he does love his job, but he loves Connor even more. It’s not all that smart but he’d follow the stupid, brilliant lump anywhere. Even to his death.

“Okay.”

It doesn’t need to be tricky. They had their fair share of difficulties already and this is one decision that has presented itself without effort.

“Okay?”

He plants a gentle kiss on the back of Connor’s fingers to let him know he means it.

“When and are we leaving?.... You do want me to go with you, right?”

“Yes, I don’t think I’d have the courage to do something this big otherwise.”

The android squeezes his eyes shut, his LED turning crimson. Gavin’s least favourite sight.

“But… are you really sure? You don’t have to decide right away, Gavin. It’s not a trivial thing like choosing where to spend the night.”

He presses his thumb on the flashing light and draws soothing circles over it, willing the red to go away.

“Well, maybe we won’t have to do that anymore when we move…” Suddenly, his cheeks mirror Connor’s LED. “I mean, it would probably be the smartest way to deal with the rent and…”

“I thought that was given?” What a fucking menace. He’d kiss him and there is absolutely nothing stopping him.

“What about Hank though?” If there ever was a father figure Connor could look up (or down) to, it is none other than the lieutenant who recently claimed the title of a recovered alcoholic.

“I’ve already talked to him about it. He understands, under the pressure of becoming unlikable, but still. … and it’s not like we won’t ever be able to set a foot in Detroit after we say our goodbyes.”

Connor’s right, as always. They are long overdue for some fresh air, and why return to the poisonous fumes when they could breathe freely forever.

Gavin can’t help the ridiculous smile that’s spreading everywhere, infecting his loved one.

“You plan on opening your own bakery or something like that?”

“Something like that.

Sweets making is one of Connor’s many secret talents, the one he enjoys utilising the most. He spoils Gavin with his homemade treats any chance he gets and he can’t get enough of the sugary smile that comes with it.

If it’s Connor’s dream to leave his old life behind and create a new from scratch, the only thing he can do is to fully support him.

“You have to promise me something though.” Gavin’s voice gains a kind of urgency that clues in just how serious he’s right now.

“No turning back on this. Don’t make anything stop you from getting what you truly want. I mean it, Connor.”

“Alright. No turning back,” he whispers like he’s sharing his deepest secret, and Gavin finds it impossible not to believe him.

@convinseptember finally something light :D

#convinseptember #convin #here have something soft as a compensation for the angst I force-fed you those past few days :D #this one feels nice like a sweet and fluffy cloud #They deserve to be HAPPY!!!

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thetorturerwrites · 4 years

Text

Puer Deus: Strings

This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @faestae-writes. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

***

Captured / Hurricane / Sustenance / Liar / Scars / Proof

Summary: When he wants more

A/N: OK YOU GUYS -- Look, if you're here this far in, you know this is some dark shit. So, please heed this warning: This is a DARK, heavy kink chapter. SO, some things... 1. The content herein has been dramatized for effect, but this is real shit that happens in the real world. Please feel free to ask me any questions. 2. If you feel the need to explore anything here further, do your research and be risk aware. 3. Strap in. This is some shit. 4. 50 points to your house if you spot the FYA reference. :)

Word Count: 9.3k (I AM NOT SORRY)

Day Seven

It was a flicker of a moment, a subtle jolt of injected power, when the night cycle ended and day officially began.

What day is it?

Today was the first time you wouldn’t stumble to consciousness or fight through a fog. You were still embroiled in questions, though. Ren told you that you’d been here four days, but how many days ago was that?

You decided it was simply too surreal for you to actually be here, to be in your body, in Ren’s room, on board his ship. Each time you thought up a level, you felt smaller and more insignificant. Maybe you really had died. Maybe you’d bled out on his floor, and this was your afterlife.

No, not that lucky…

Your eyes were dry and red from so much crying. Your body was beyond battered, a landscape of harm and wound, mania and furor. You wore the hue of bruise like a new catsuit, covered by Ren’s painful passion from throat to toes.

The idea that some part of you would hurt, sting, throb, or ache every day you were with Ren had been hard to swallow; but a week into this persecution, you knew it to be fact.

How long until he breaks bones?

Sitting in the center of his great, wide bed, you ran your fingers over the still-bloody sheets and contemplated the last however many hours. Ren made it clear that he still meant to keep you, and the idea was solidifying more and more in your brain. You pondered whether or not you would be allowed to leave this fucking room as his personal pet.

Having spent a lifetime under open skies, being caged inside four walls for days, weeks, maybe months sent your anxiety into overdrive. The notion that you would only ever see light cycles and never again sunlight strangled you, chased away all your air. At some point, you knew you would try to flee again just for a damn change of scenery.

After he’d left, you complied with Ren’s instructions insomuch as you did eat and did not try to escape. Sleep, on the other hand, was put to the back burner because you were still in his chambers. Even if he didn’t spend all of his time here, these were his things, and they could tell you a great deal. With the guard outside this time, you simply could not pass up the opportunity to explore.

The room was eloquent in its simplicity and deliberate in its function. You ran fingers and palms over all of the flat surfaces, seeking out hidden drawers or levers in the walls and along the sides of the bed. Everything was dark gloss, industrial in its execution and easily maintained.

Of note, there was a threshold of polish right at the door, a long stretch just on the inside where the shine was high. However, that luster faded two or three steps inside. Ren did not allow people in his room often, even a cleaning crew.

Defeated, you slunk back to the bed. You’d checked all of the hiding places you would use, but you found nothing. Ren either didn’t have anything to hide or he was exceptionally good at it.

Sometime in the night cycle, you’d awoken alone in an empty bed, struggling with this swirling sense of loneliness. Captors didn’t usually sleep with prisoners, but weren’t you more than a prisoner now? With a scowl, you shook the stupid thought from your head.

You were an object to him, easily discarded and forgotten.

You hadn’t slept much after that. You curled onto your side, facing the vacant side of the bed and overrun with disquiet, anticipation. You were faced with warring options. Relent and become the devil’s plaything or escape and be hunted. The bitter truth was you wanted both, and this was not the sort of universe to grant such possibilities.

Morning came, food was delivered, and you were still alone.

Now, you were trying to forget the familiarity you thought you’d seen in Ren’s eyes yesterday, trying to wash it down the damnable drain. He was no more capable of gentleness than you were of speech. Trying to smother the ache, you turned the shower up as hot as you could handle and drifted into distraction, turning inward in a forlorn bid to comfort yourself.

The darkness that had always been there for you, though, was an empty consolation. Ren had blown apart every part of you and stomped on the ashes; he’d even taken your blessed darkness, the one place you could hide. Because when you closed your eyes to sink into that blissful nothingness, you saw him, his bloody face, his burning eyes.

Kylo Ren had infected every part of you, right down to the subconscious.

When you could pity yourself no more, you turned off the shower, scraped the water from your body as best you could, and purposefully avoided your reflection. The woman in the mirror wanted you to make choices you weren’t sure you could live with.

Exiting the bathroom, you were stopped dead in your tracks by the sight of Ren sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. He had a smallish black case to his left and was resting with one arm on a bent knee, his long body relaxed and waiting for you.

You were irked by how beautiful and calm and unhurried he looked. Must he always look so put together when you only ever felt on the verge of shattering into dirty, unrecognizable pieces of yourself?

Hi...

“You haven’t eaten today.”

He gestured over his shoulder to the tray that still had food on it. You were flushed from the hot water and stark fucking naked, but you burned redder at the idea that you were going to be punished like a child for not eating. Again.

Canting your head a bit, you gestured towards the shower. You’d wanted to wash away the feel of dry, endlessly recycled air, dirt, and shame before you did anything else. Conquering the day wasn’t on your agenda, but surviving it was.

“Good,” he looked you over speculatively, and your eyebrows shot to your hairline.

He’d shoved food directly into your throat to make sure you were decently-nourished; and now, he didn’t care if you ate? The speed with which this man changed course made your head swim, and you just stared at him, complete irritation plastered all over your face.

Fucking pick one, would you please?

The withering look he leveled at you set your blood to boiling. You’d forgotten that he could hear you now; but by the darkness in his eyes, you knew he’d be sure you didn’t forget again.

“Come here.”

You tensed, arms crossing over your chest as though you could armor yourself against him. For a second, you couldn’t make yourself move. He wanted you to willingly deliver yourself to his torment.

A shiver worked its way up your spine, blossoming into sparks at the back of your brain, but you couldn’t tell if it was from fear or pining. If you refused, he would simply put his angry hands on your body and bend you to his whim. You didn’t know what would happen if you complied without a fight.

Taking in a steadying breath, you closed the distance on tender steps, the soles of your feet still bothered at bearing weight so soon. Stopping when you were within arms reach, you looked past him to study the kit he’d brought, uncertainty wrinkling your forehead.

It was a med kit, a field kit. You’d carried one yourself for years, but your wounds had already been tended. You were littered with surgical tape and Bacta patches.

What could he possibly need a field kit for?

Are you hurt?

Ren’s rough hand slid up along the curve of your body, settling at your waist and sending fissures of desire playing along the swell of your belly. Your knees and thighs pressed together, and you shifted under his appraisal. He’d seen you naked before. Multiple times, in fact. But this felt different, affectionate. He had stripped you completely bare, laid out your mind and soul for him to reanimate at will.

Feeling naked in front of this man was about more than just your flesh.

Digging his fingers in, he maneuvered you to sit on the edge of the bed in front of him. All of the tension you’d washed away in the shower came barreling back. Every muscle was tight, and every synapse was screaming that you needed to get away.

Sat like this, unrestrained before him, you fidgeted, frightened. Your heart drummed so loud you thought he could certainly hear it. When he was silent and calm like this, you were lost to apprehension, images of lightsabers inside your body where they shouldn’t be flooding your mind. You could likely conjure up more ways for him to murder you than he could.

Just as worrisome, you couldn’t look away. He captivated you each time he was in the room. His dark irises gleamed as he held your stare, his full lips curving up on a smirk. He was daring you to look away first.

He won.

You wilted from the intensity of his gaze, turning your inflamed face away and averting your eyes. In your stupor, you didn’t realize that he was talking to you. The only thing you could hear was the metronome of your heart, its pace quickening moment by moment.

Displeased that he had to draw back your attention, Ren’s hand was around your calf, fingers pushing in between the muscles and rubbing demandingly. You glared and hissed, twisting your legs together, knees tight.

What!

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and swept his thumb along your mouth, smoothing away the bothered sneer. When your lips relaxed, he pushed in and hooked his thumb into your teeth the way you hated, the way you loved.

Your core clenched as he tugged you forward. He brought you nose to nose, so close you could feel his warm breath. He cleaved apart your desire to fight, soothing you into compliance with weaponized stillness.

“Open,” his voice was melodic, low, and rousing.

Your forehead crinkled in confusion. Lifting a hand to settle at his wrist, needing the contact to go on, you shook your head ever so slightly because his thumb was already in your mouth. It already was open.

You felt his fingers tapping on your knee, then, and you burned red from ears to toes. Whining, you tugged against his grip in a bid to keep him from seeing the way your thighs rubbed together at the very idea.

“I will not be repeating myself today, puppet.”

Blanching, you stiffened, building up any courage you could muster. Finally, as though your maidenhead was actually still intact and valuable, you hesitantly parted your knees.

Other than his eyes trailing downward to watch your legs barely obey, Ren didn’t move or speak. When his fingers dug harshly into your cheeks, cutting the weak skin inside against your teeth, you lurched and struggled. This only tightened his hold, and you thought he might break your jaw. Clutching his forearm, you fought to settle back onto the bed and opened your knees wider and then wider still.

He didn’t release his rough grip on your face until your thighs were splayed far enough apart that your pussy opened for him, too, and your face ignited with humiliation. You rubbed at your abused jaw and cheek, wondering how long it would take the finger-sized discolorations to develop.

Are you hurt, though?

You surprised even yourself with the repeat question, circling back oddly and still not certain why you should be bothered. He turned his beautiful, dusky eyes to you, and your breath caught. Was he pleased with your concern? Did it satisfy him to think he’d brainwashed you into caring?

He trapped you there, pinned by his mesmerizing eyes, while his fingers slid up your calf, thigh, hip. You were nearly lulled into thinking his light touch would extend to your aching cunt, but he gripped your outer labia into such a tight pinch that you felt punched in the stomach.

You yelped and surged forward, folding in as much as you could, hips from screwing side to side trying to lessen the pressure. He squeezed and tugged upon the tender flesh until it puffed up, swelling under his ministrations.

A satisfied sound bubbled up from his throat, and you slowly brought your focus back to him.

Kylo..please...

In a hot second, he switched and snatched up your left labia, digging his fingers in so deep you could feel the nails. You shouted out, the wheeze of it tapering off as your breath heaved. Mirroring his grip, you dug your fingers into his arm but didn't try to push him away.

Screwing your eyes shut, you shuddered and tried to roll through the pain.

The whole middle of your body throbbed in time to your heartbeat, and you groaned when the endorphins finally kicked in to flood you with acceptance, the sound of it indecent even to you. The sting and pulse abated slightly, and your head fell back, lips parting on a relieved sigh.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice smooth like honey. “Open your eyes.”

You very nearly refused and vaulted from your perch, but it was inevitable. You wanted to obey nearly as much as you wanted to fight, and it was this internal war he wanted to witness every time. Willing your breathing to steady, you relaxed your fingers at his sleeve and opened glassy eyes.

The look of him, the utter craving displayed on his godlike features, was arresting, intoxicating. His eyes shone a shade of twilight you’d never get used to, and his lips trembled, barely keeping his hunger contained. The way he was looking up at you was erotic and evoked a terrible longing.

Kylo!

Your face twisted into a pained frown as he switched back and forth between the two bloated lips. He clucked in condescension when warm juice tracked down onto his fingers, and you buried your face in your hands. When he finally stopped crushing you in his vice grip, the gratitude rushed out unchecked.

THANK you…

Absent his touch, you pressed a hand at your abdomen and forced yourself to breathe deeply. You were wholly disgusted with your response to such vulgar treatment. Would you blossom under every madness he put upon you?

Your eyes lit upon his hands and the case he was holding, and you forgot to feel repulsed.

Dread filled your chest, squeezing your lungs back into panic. You had no fucking idea what he was about to do, and you were too terrified to look away. You didn’t think you could curtail his plan, but maybe you could persuade him that you would be good.

If you’ll just let me, I’ll go do it right now...

Ignoring you completely, he produced and threaded a slender surgical needle. Your torso hunched of its own volition, trying in vain to put more distance between you and that curved metal. You mewled and whined, begging him to look and not do whatever this was, but he brushed your hands away, reaching out to tug and pinch at your labia again, inching nearer to his goal.

Fuck, Kylo..I’ll eat dammit! Please stop...

He looked at you, smug and cruel, and you finally understood that he was swelling your labia on purpose and with clear intent, and it had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not you'd eaten.

You shook your head wildly, leaning forward and pushing at his arm in a different spot every time he would wave you off. Desperate, pleading tears sprang to your eyes, and you clung to him.

No no please no not that please no…

Finished with your begging, Ren anchored you in place with the Force, preventing you from even twitching from the waist down. He hummed at the sight of you, flushed and heaving, thighs spread wide.

You were in the middle of the next pitiful appeal when you felt the needle pierce your most-sensitive skin.

You were too shocked to move, to shout, to implore him to spare you this torture. The thin suture line dragged through the perforation, and your eyes slammed so tightly shut you thought they might bleed.

It wasn’t until the second stab of his suture needle that you fully understood what was happening. You’d thought he simply meant to pierce the bulging, inflamed lips in order to decorate them; but when he tugged the line taut, pulling the swollen folds together, you sputtered and choked on your own spit. You pawed at his shoulder imploringly, foolishly hoping he would surrender this plan if you appeased him with your touch.

Kylo..please don’t do this...please don’t do this...

He crooned and cupped your face, the supple tone of his voice belying the very atrocity he was committing upon you. He straightened up to nudge your jaw with his nose, dragging the tip through your tears. Your fingers curled so tight into his sleeve that you popped stitches in the black fabric, but he offered you no more solace than this.

He wasn’t indifferent to your suffering; he reveled in it, enjoying seeing it up close.

“You need strings, puppet.”

You whimpered helplessly, thinking you’d likely launch yourself into a dying star if he told you to with that almost-adoring voice.

He released your face, and you dissolved into wretched sobs. There was no escaping his iron will, his demented punishment. Pressing the heels of your shaking hands into your eyes, you openly wept, not bothering to try to be strong for this, for him. Expecting you to endure this easily was too much.

Ren had treated you like property from the moment he saw you. He’d proven to you that you were little more than an object to be toyed with, and his words from that day in the shower resounded in your ears. But in this, he was taking away your humanity entirely. Any pretense that you might have been afforded some pleasure for your endurance bled away.

Stitch by stitch, Ren sewed your labia together, rendering you an androgynous receptacle, suitable for nothing more than receiving pain.

When he was finished, your clit was hidden snug behind a fleshy hem, but your vagina was open, accessible. That was the part he needed, you thought morbidly.

The Force pressure dissipated, your legs instinctively pressed together, and you curled into yourself. Digging ruddy fingertips into the mattress, you tried to flee, to crawl across the bed and away from him.

You’re a monster...

He captured you around the hips and hauled you onto your feet. He didn't care that you were awash in pain; it didn't factor into his plans and was, thus, negligible. He gathered you into his arms, and you wished, for the hundredth time, that he had just let you die.

The sutures were neat and tidy, but every movement tugged at them, reminding you of your place in Kylo Ren’s world. You erupted into a new bout of tears and pushed at his chest, angry and gutted.

“Walk,” he pressed his lips to your temple, murmuring the order into your hair, “or crawl.”

On an offended snort, you jerked your head away from his kiss. Battling yourself into some semblance of calm, you sniffled and nodded. He absolutely would make you crawl down the halls of this ship wearing nothing but those fucking sutures, and you’d rather not be so debased as that.

Suffering for Ren was one thing; suffering for an audience was too much.

He had stepped away to shake out clothes for you to wear when the epinephrine crested and dropped you over a black cliff. Thunder roared in your ears, and your eyes rolled into white. Chased by a wounded gasp, your legs lost all ability to hold you and buckled, but Ren was at your side in an instant, snatching you up before you hit the floor.

Righting you, he held your weight until your breathing regulated and you pushed back onto your feet. Not wanting to meet his eyes, you nodded against his shoulder, a silent report that you were here with him. He helped you dress in the gauzy black shirt and pants and tipped your face up.

You had no idea what he was looking for, and you were too tired to fake whatever it was.

Wrapping his great hand around your upper arm, he steered you from the room and down a dark corridor. He wouldn’t go through all the trouble to maim you if he was going to kill you, and you wondered what fresh hell you were being delivered to now. Your steps were slow, hesitant, but he didn’t rush you.

Probably enjoying watching you hobbled in a fantastic new way...

He stopped on a chuckle, turned you to face him, and looked down at you with sardonic amusement. You met his stare, fresh out of any damn to give over whether or not he heard you. You knew you were in no way threatening to this brute, but you leveled him with a searing gaze anyways.

“Supreme Leader Snoke is pleased with my progress.” Ren offered, pulling you flush against his body. “He thinks I have no further need for you…” He reached out to brush his thumb across your glowering mouth. “...but I find that I want more.”

Overwhelmed and nervous at the admission, your mouth dropped open and you stared, dumbfounded. While your mind tumbled over what else you could possibly offer him, he brushed past, leaving you to follow.

More? What else was there? Hadn’t you already given him everything? He’d broken through your safety wall. He’d all but bathed in your blood. He’d sewn your fucking cunt shut so you couldn’t even use it like a human being.

What the fuck else could you possibly want from me…

You were so angry that you stupidly followed him into a blindingly white room. You slammed to a stop and blinked, forcing the room into focus. In the center, there was a surgical table, a tray of neatly-arranged instruments, and a man, dressed in gray scrubs and donning a clear splash guard at his face. On the opposite side sat Ren’s black helmet, dented and busted apart.

Hand at your elbow, Ren led you further in and stroked your face with his wide palm, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the table. He nudged the shell of your ear with his nose, and you quivered to feel so near to him, almost like a lover. You clutched at his shirt, molding your body to his and trying to hide from the coming onslaught.

You shook your head, already disbelieving, not wanting to hear what he was going to say next.

“I want to hear you scream,” his voice was hushed, as though this was a romantic secret.

All the blood drained from your face, and your mouth went bone dry. You looked from Ren, who was gazing down at you in a way that seared your insides, to the man waiting to enact his orders. He stood there silently, waiting for his Commander’s direction, and you wondered if he’d been threatened into this room, too.

Ren turned you into the very middle of this insanity and hunched down to bury his face into the crook of your neck, crowding you back into the table. Dancing on your toes, you laid petrified and quaking fingertips at his neck, needing to impress upon him how crazy this was.

Kylo...you can hear me...I’ve already given you everything..please don’t do whatever this is...

Paying no attention to your pleas, Ren slid his hands into the roomy waistband of your pants and nudged them down your body, kicking the paltry fabric away before you could get them. He lifted you onto the table and situated you at its very end, legs dangling in an eerily familiar way.

He stepped into the space between your legs, scooting your hips out to meet his. You felt blistered every time you came into contact with his body, fingers, nose. He tipped your head back to lick at the scars crossing your larynx and rocked his body against yours. He was thick against you, his body hardening at the pitiable display you were putting on, and you whimpered in shameless response.

“Be good, puppet,” he hummed against your ear, enjoying the way your body reacted to his vicious dominance.

He stepped back, tugging out the table's stirrups, and you didn’t know who to be more afraid of. The doctor positioned his tray nearer to your head, stepping in so close you could smell the antiseptic soap.

You pushed at Ren’s hands when he guided your heels into the braces.

Kylo..please...You can’t… I can’t…

It was fluid now, automatic. Your mouth opened when his fingers drew near, and he yanked you forward by that wicked hook. He slid his thumb slowly against your tongue and looked directly up into your eyes. Your knees knocked together, and you cried out in pain, having forgotten in your terror that your pussy was sewn up tight.

“You will.”

He did something to you when he said those things, and you stopped squirming. You would never win this war. You would only tire yourself out with the fighting. Beyond that, some delirious part of you wanted to prove him right, to show him that yes, you could do this.

Clenching your hands into tight fists, you closed your eyes to quell anxious tears. He finished arranging your legs into the stirrups and scooted your ass down to the end of the table.

Shame flooded you, barely contained by the bruised membrane that was your skin, because anyone who walked into the room would be treated to a view of your mistreated cunt.

Over you, the two men discussed what was about to happen as though you weren’t even there, and you felt more infinitesimal than ever before. The doctor agreed that this was, indeed, a minorly invasive surgery, but it was what came next that launched you forward, panic-induced frenzy telling you to get the fuck out now regardless of whether you died in the process.

“There’s no need for a sedative. She will be fine. Topical if you need it, but nothing stronger.”

You were a rabid animal up against an unstoppable force, but you howled and thrashed anyways. You clawed at his arms and tried to kick him in the stomach and groin. You screamed and sobbed because even Santcha, who had done nothing but beat, stab, and take from you, had never been so cruel.

Each day you were here, Kylo Ren was disassembling you and rearranging your parts. He was building himself a better puppet, piece by bloody fucking piece.

You cannot do this! You cannot do this...Kylo..you fucking cannot...

The doctor hunched over, holding his groin and floundering. Ren smirked, punching you into place with his trunk of an arm at your stomach. Looking down at you, he stroked the inside of your knee with lazy circles, no doubt in a patronizing attempt to settle your fraying nerves.

“Calm down, puppet. You’re hurting the good doctor here.”

In your hysteria, you were pushing your feelings, your pain, out into the world around you. If you still hadn’t believed Ren about your Force-sensitivity, you’d just manifested all the proof he would ever need.

Exhausted from your outburst and ashamed for assaulting someone who hadn’t harmed you, you swallowed down air and fixed your stare upon the ceiling. You counted heartbeats until the muscle didn’t feel like it was about to explode from your chest.

Angrily, you pushed Ren’s hand away. You needn’t be pitied by the very man who was causing all of this.

With a chuckle, he pulled a rolling stool over to sit like it was just another fucking day of endless meetings. Lifting your head up to glare at him, your chest seized, breath hitching, because you could see his shoulders, neck, and face between your spread thighs.

Kylo please...

Maybe it's what he thought you were begging for because the Force slid over you like a weighted blanket, pinning you to the table, and you were never so grateful for being relieved of your autonomy.

The doctor turned your head into place and secured a metal brace on your throat, prohibiting any movement. He applied a foul-smelling ointment to your skin, and you shattered, horrified to your very marrow.

You no longer had eyes, only faucets spewing forth an endless stream of angry, mournful tears. You tried closing them to staunch the flow because the doctor said you were moving too much, but you couldn't stop your body now. You weren't in control of it anymore.

The stress response to this terror was unforgiving, and you thought it might never end. He was going to have to cut you open from ear to ear because stopping the chatter of your teeth and the rattling of your shoulders and chest was simply not within your power.

Your fingers uncurled, reaching for Ren even though you knew he would never offer you this comfort.

Instead, warmth pooled around your breasts, licking up your sternum, and you drew in a tremulous breath. The Force that held you in place lavished attention upon your torso, cupping, massaging, and squeezing your breasts together. Warm and wet nipped at the hard peaks, and your calves flexed in response.

“Quiet now.”

Ren's voice was even, demanding. He had indulged your fear long enough, and it was now time to obey. You concentrated on the invisible hand tugging your breasts into an aching throb and reminded yourself to wiggle your toes and fingers. Your lips quivered on every exhale, but you were trying so hard to keep yourself together.

You knew how to process pain, but this affliction could hardly be classified as pain.

As the doctor set to his task, you felt pressure at your neck but not the sting of the scalpel. Ren seemed to want that sensation only for himself, and you conjured the image of him painted with your blood, preferring the memory of beautiful torture to this reality of sanitized mistreatment.

The doctor, asking Ren something you didn't catch, stuck his fucking fingers into your throat, and your panic kicked back up. You jerked against the stirrups, and your lips curled into a snarl, readying to shout curses at this man, consequences be damned.

Shushing you, Ren dipped his face between your thighs, and you nearly vaulted off the table when you felt his lips connect with the supple, bruised skin. His kiss was soft, his lips smooth, and you bristled with ire that he would deny you the sight of him between your legs.

Alongside the doctor, you cursed him and tightened your hands into angry fists.

He chuckled against you, clearly entertained by your fit. The sensation at your breasts increased, the rippling heat licking, sucking, and biting at your nipples. The throb bubbled over and spread down your sides, slithering across your stomach. It was rousing and teasing and distracting, exactly as it was meant to be.

Ren’s mouth traveled from one thigh to the other, and your whole face pinched with the effort to be as silent as possible. It was clear that any noise you made, any vibration in your throat, would do more damage and prolong this bastardized treatment.

He didn’t want you to damage his property with your foolishness, you realized.

He murmured an agreement to the thought and kissed up the insides of both legs, sucked on his bruises, and nipped at the highest point of your thighs. Your insides pooled, and he dipped his thumb into the wetness building for him, tugging ever so gently upon the weeping slit.

The doctor reached across your body to the tray that held the destroyed helmet, but you were too wrapped up in Ren’s wicked scheme to notice him plundering the debris for a specific part. The tension in your legs and hips had lessened under his mouth, and your vulnerable thighs had dropped further apart.

Abruptly, the pressure of the Force increased upon your entire body, and you were unnerved all over again because what was coming next surely was worse than what you’d already endured if he needed to hold you down more.

You sniffled through your fear but poured every ounce of brute determination into remaining calm, to keep yourself still and under some measure of composure. You weren’t sure if he was speaking aloud or in your head, but you heard Ren praising you for how well you were doing, how beautiful and strong you were to endure this for him.

As though you had any choice in the matter.

When his lips connected with your cunt, you thought you would certainly swallow whatever the doctor was lodging into your neck. You could feel the pressure more insistently now as he crammed or screwed or stitched whatever the fuck it was he was doing.

Ren kissed and sucked upon your stretched labia; the sounds lewd and consuming. He plucked each stitch with his tongue, and you thought you were going to lose your mind. You could feel every tight tug followed by the warm flat of his tongue gliding up the length of the vicious seam.

You marveled at how easily this man could conjure new tortures, how simple it was for him to corrupt something so mundane and turn it into exquisite torment.

Master of the Knights of Ren, indeed...

You cursed him again for taking away any hint of pleasure you might eke out from this whole experience. It was barbarous and merciless to lay his mouth upon you like this and prevent you from actually feeling it, enjoying it. It was the pinnacle of painful foreplay, and you hated him for it.

You hated the doctor for being a party to this whole fucking thing. You hated everyone on this ship for bowing to the tantrums of a Child God, and you promised yourself you’d murder Supreme Fucking Leader Snoke himself for creating such a beast.

Ren bit into your thigh harshly at that last thought, directly into the center of the deep bruise, and your toes curled tight. That mark certainly went down to the bone and would likely scar, little indentations from his teeth puckering more each time he revictimized the area.

Kylo...

Sweat broke across your brow, and a feverish tremble began as your body tried to deal with the absurd number of sensations warring inside.

The doctor pushed his tray away and told you both that he would need to test the calibration before he could close the window. You blinked up at his masked face in confusion. Test the calibration of what? How were you meant to do that, exactly?

Ren stood and you jerked at the brush of his body. You could feel him rustling, but it was driving you mad that you couldn’t see what he was doing. He hooked his thumbs into the very tops of your thighs and tugged the opening of your vagina just slightly wider. The stitches strained, and you whimpered, unable to contain it any longer.

Your eyes flew wide open because the sound was strange, louder, reverberating.

The swollen head of Ren’s cock nudged at your entrance, and you knew your heart was going to explode from your chest. He’d been working you, tinkering with those fucking puppet strings, to flood your pussy and make it ready for him; and like a damn fool, you’d given him exactly what you wanted.

You burned with humiliation and ragged desire as he pushed in, breaking the seal and stretching your cunt into something pliable for his sizable dick. It was endless, the sting and scorch of each inch, and you wanted to beg that he please just let you reach for him. It was all becoming too much, and you were disjointed, disconnected from everything.

Ren pushed and leaned into you until he was fully seated, pulsing at the very center of your body. You could feel every throb, every carnal twitch. Ren was fucking you from both ends, his dick stuffed far into your pussy and his depraved will stuffed down deep into your neck. The very idea of it sent you into a spiral.

“Fuck, that’s tight,” he groaned, voice gravelly. “Relax, puppet. Open for me.”

Kylo, not like this...

You were truly his object, denied any relief from his harassment or any pleasure at his hand. Digging his fingers into your hips, he began a slow, thorough stroke, pulling nearly all the way out only to plunge back down to the hilt.

“Out loud, girl.”

Your head ticked, a screaming internal alarm preventing you from shaking it outright, because you couldn’t do it; you could not obey this order. You couldn’t even remember the sound of your own voice, and you didn’t want to mourn something you couldn’t recall. You also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Fuck you...

Ren’s hips thrust harder into you, though, and you yelped. The high-pitched fabricated sound shocked you, and you trailed it with a hiccup, breath catching on the implications of this new reality.

“Lower,” Ren nodded to the doctor, who adjusted the implant in your throat.

You seethed. He was tailoring the sound of your voice to his fucking preference, and you thought you surely would rip the damned thing out of your neck if you had your hands free.

Dissatisfied with your reaction to his steady pace, Ren rutted into you stubbornly, fucking you with more force. Your ire fizzled, the anger dribbling out of your cunt on a steady trickle of hot slick. He stretched you, and you moaned at the fullness of it. You desperately wanted to arch and rock your hips against him, but you were completely paralyzed, not even given room to wiggle.

“Kylo. Fuck. Please.”

He all but purred at the modulated sound of your voice, the one he’d given you, and rewarded you with a long series of strokes so deep you saw stars.

“Lower,” he ordered, and the doctor moved to his bidding.

“Now, puppet, what’s that mantra of yours?”

Ren’s cunning was staggering. He was demanding the only thing that had allowed you to survive him. Your throat burned, tingling around the foreign implant, and you swallowed, trying to moisten the metal. Sniffling, you cleared your throat, focusing on the task you’d been given and not the ruthless invasion of your pussy.

Taking as deep of a breath as you could, you concentrated on making the sound as even as possible.

“In...suffering...there...is...beauty.”

“That’s right,” he praised you and then nodded to the surgeon. “That’s it.”

Having gotten what he wanted, Ren bent over you and nipped at your stomach before tucking himself back into his pants. In moments, the doctor had your throat stitched up, a Bacta patch applied, and was giving instructions to Ren about no solid food for 24 hours, watch for infection, and apply Bacta as needed.

He also advised that you should be silent for the next 24 hours due to inflammation but that he understood if something happened to prevent that.

You narrowed your eyes at the ceiling when he said it because of fucking course something was going to prevent that. Curling your hands into fists again, you renewed your vow to slaughter every soul on this ship.

With the doctor gone, the Force hold you’d been kept under released, and you shot upwards to confront Ren. This wasn’t fear or flight; this was anger and malice.

You slammed both fists into his chest and shoved. Pressing your lips into a hard line, you jammed your knee in between your body and his, intent upon sprinting past him and away from here, from him.

Jerking your legs back apart, he stepped in and wrapped his massive hand around your throat, burning you with his gaze and squeezing you back into muted compliance. Satisfied you would be still, he wrapped you tight into his chest, fingers still stroking your throat.

Shock and absolute fury coiled into the pit of your stomach, and you just sat, boiling in your hatred that he could so easily disfigure you and, then, so easily divest you of your rage.

The severity of what he’d done registered, and panicked spikes drove into your heart. You quaked anew, tears spilling, and you dug your fingers into the shirt at the small of his back.

What did you do…

“Out loud,” he pressed, voice endearing as he brushed your tears away.

Licking your lips, you stared at him for a long moment, eyes glossy. Ren waited patiently as you gathered the fortitude to obey. Even he seemed to understand this was a lot to take in.

“What did you do?” You whispered it, the haunted voice faltering, betraying the depth of your despair.

He hummed hungry delight against your jaw. Using the leverage he always seemed to have at your neck, Ren turned your head for you to take in the broken bits of his helmet on the tray. In the vortex of fear and lust and terror, you’d completely forgotten it had been there at all.

“This voice,” he breathed the words out, stroking the bandage, “is mine.”

You gaped at him, eyes swiveling from the tray to his face and back. It broke over you like lightning. He had taken the modulator from his helmet and had it implanted in your throat.

Ren dropped his head into your neck again and sucked a mark into the skin. You were too frozen to respond, your back rigid but your arms and legs hanging limp and useless.

“This body,” he said into your neck, “is mine.”

Slithering his hands between your bodies, he pushed your thighs apart wide and ran his fingers up the plump seam. You shuddered, feeling the pulse of your sequestered clit battering against the wall that should not be there.

“This pussy,” he bit at your jaw, “is mine.”

He had succeeded in reducing you to a nameless doll, a puppet tailored exactly to his liking for his entertainment and use. You were dazed, thunderstruck, and empty. He had put you through absolute hell today, and you weren’t capable of filtering your thoughts, now words, anymore.

You were past the point where you could even care if he punished you for insolence.

“Why did you stay with me?”

The question startled you more than the alien sound of your new voice. You managed to look at him and concentrated on his alluring freckles. You searched his starry eyes for something to latch onto, something that would tie you here.

You had no childish thoughts of love or support. But right now, having borne the brunt of so much of his persecution, you needed something.

One question, though, led to more, and they began to spill from your lips on this new capability.

“Why didn’t you kill me? I was ready, and I would have gladly given you that. Why did you need to do this to me? You were already in my head, listening.”

Your ire and emotion were rising, the mechanical undertone in your voice lifting in pitch. You blinked, really truly trying to understand the whims of a mad man.

“What difference is there between me screaming in my head and screaming out loud? Why couldn’t you just leave me the way I was? I was surviving your punishment just fine without this unnatural, bastard tongue!”

You fisted both hands into his shirt and pounded against the chest beneath. Your lips wobbled, and you tipped your head back, furious at the tears that wouldn’t fucking stop.

You had learned to survive without a voice. The silence you offered the universe became your salvation, your solace. People expected nothing of you when they knew you couldn't speak, and you’d used it to strengthen yourself, to fortify your will to endure and withstand all manner of ego and abuse.

Frantic, you settled on the most important question, the one that you needed answered.

“Why did you do this to me?”

Ren captured your face in both hands and smothered your tirade with a kiss. His beautiful pink lips slanted over yours, and you melted against his mouth. He sucked at your lower lip, licked the roof of your mouth, and slid his tongue against yours until you were breathless and squirming.

He curled your limbs around his shoulders and waist and carried you around the side of the table. Setting you down, he plucked the scalpel from the tray, his hands disappearing between your legs. You whimpered and scooted backwards, but he hooked a hand beneath your knee and pulled you back into place.

“I did this,” he cut one of the sutures, “to focus your attention away from the procedure."

“Is that not…” he nipped at your pulse, “...merciful?”

He made quick work of the remaining sutures, slicing through them and pulling the remnants away. You whined, head lolling, as your freed labia parted, blood beginning to redistribute to the abused skin and shooting pins and needles into your cunt. He followed the sharp stings with his thumb, rubbing between the swollen folds until you gasped and tipped your pelvis into his touch.

Tugging you against his body, Ren ground his erection between your tender lips. You moaned low, the sound warbled, wanton, and needy, and he captured it with a deep kiss, swallowing on a growl.

He tore at his own clothes, freed his swollen cock, and pushed inside of you, not bothering to be gentle. Your eyebrows drew together tight at the invasion, the time between the first fucking and this one having been enough for your body to re-acclimate to his absence.

Sinking your teeth into your lip, you lifted your hips to his assault because the utter completion you felt was too good to resist.

“And I did..fuck…,” he faltered, bottoming out into your tight heat; “...I did this,” he dipped his face down and licked the bandage, the only truly new scar he’d ever given you; “...so that you would remember,” his breath was broken now, his voice ragged with lust; “...that every sound you make belongs to me.”

You held tightly to his back, hugging his sides with your legs, and trying your damnedest to stay here in this moment. The second adrenaline crash of the day threatened to consume you, but you fought against it because the man who’d teased you for a week had his dick so far inside you that you thought you could taste it.

You were desperate for this bliss, whining in raw need, and you shuddered when he rocked your body against his in the manner and tempo he liked, large fingers splayed across your ass and moving you to his pleasure. Your tortured cunt clenched and all but sucked his dick in deep.

You cried out, feeling the lines between you as a person and you as Ren’s personal fucktoy bleed together. Your whole body contracted, squeezing him hard and coming absolutely alive under his thumb. You clung to his back like he was your own personal savior.

Stretching long fingers around your neck, Ren lifted your face and forced you to look, always wanting to watch you agonize for him. The now-familiar warm sensation blossomed at your clit, and your eyes fluttered shut on a loud moan. He shook you until your eyes opened again, demanding your stare.

“You’re no victim," he sneered.

He punched himself so far into your cunt that you felt the nudge at your cervix and erupted into an echoing shriek. The Force engulfed your clit, every single one of the thousands of nerves swarmed by the hot vibration and spreading a delicious jolt up through your abdomen.

“You’re a depraved, filthy thing,” he dug his nails into your jaw, “and your body was made for me.”

You couldn’t look away, couldn’t shake your head or disagree. Accepting that hard truth on your behalf, your pussy flooded him with a new surge of molten slip, and he growled possessively. He licked at your mouth and squeezed your neck tighter. The pressure arched you into his chest and set your cunt to clutching feverishly.

“See? Not happy unless you’re being hurt.”

Pressing into the veins below your jaw, he stunted the flow of blood to your brain, sending you into floating oblivion. You convulsed against him, the jerk of your body trying to fight off unconsciousness drawing a hungry moan from your captor. The suction at your clit intensified, and you begged, lips working on impotent words, breath choppy, and fingers clamoring and raking against his biceps.

You were nothing but a vibrating mess, well-fucked and wholly obliterated by his embrace as he choked and ravaged your body. The stab of his dick was relentless, and you were very nearly gone, your eyes glazing over, eyelids heavy.

“Cum for me, puppet. Show me how much you like it."

He dipped his mouth to your ear, voice commanding, dripping with derision and desire. Shifting his fingers, he allowed blood to rush back into your dizzy head, and you gasped hard. Married with the hot pressure at your clit and the pistoning of his cock, you seized in deference to his order.

Your entire body shrunk into a tight ball against him, knees drawing up high, ankles hugging at his back. Your fingers and toes curled, your legs and arms shook, and your abdomen and ass clenched hard and tight.

The orgasm blew through you like a comet, and everything loosened on a series of soul-shattering quakes.

You shouted and wailed, the altered, digital howl sounding almost like it truly belonged to you. Your cunt spasmed, alternating between trying to push Ren’s invading cock out and trying to draw it further and further in.

You were drowning in euphoria, endorphins, and emotions, and you had no protection, no wall with which to keep everything at bay. Every single thing Ren had done, was doing, roiled through you and radiated off of your body dangerously, and he was caught in the blast zone.

“Fuck..fuck..FUCK!”

His hands dug caverns into the meat of your ass, fingernails leaving crescent trenches. He bit into the side of your neck, buried himself as far into you as he could, and emptied his cock into the flood you were offering him.

Three more thrusts pushed his seed in deep, and he moaned, low and liquid, into your skin while bucking through his orgasm. You were barely clinging to consciousness, weak and overwhelmed by the events of the afternoon, the day, the week.

For the third time today, Ren held you, stroking your back until your mind came back to your body. When you lifted your head, he leaned back, taking in your mottled cheeks, swollen mouth, and glassy eyes.

“Open.”

He lifted his hand to your mouth and purred when it opened for him naturally. He hooked his thumb into your teeth, just the way you liked, and you shifted against him, leaking all manner of bodily fluids onto the table.

You hadn't hesitated at all, too sated to bristle that it was beneath you or too eager for whatever demeaning paradise he was willing to offer.

He held your jaw right there, thumb playing with the inside of your teeth. He was looking at you as though he was ready to bathe in your blood again, and you weren’t sure that you wouldn’t let him. His eyes were dark and nefarious and hypnotic.

What he did next was so unexpectedly obscene that you choked. He tilted your head back and spat into your mouth, watching his saliva pool on your tongue.

Your body’s reaction was immediate, suffused with want and something you might later identify as pride. Your fingers tightened into his shirt, and your chest arched up into him. You let loose a low sound that even you didn’t even recognize, and your hips rocked beseechingly against him.

“You belong to me,” he said, watching the bubbles slide down your throat. “This is the last time I'll explain myself to you."

He allowed you to close your mouth, and you stared at him, awed and searching. Before you could second guess yourself, you curled his trembling fingers around your throat, swallowing beneath the grip.

If this was the closest you would ever get to an intimate gesture, you needed it now more than you needed oxygen.

Satisfied for the moment, Ren squeezed your neck and rubbed his nose against yours.

Too soon, the moment ended, and Ren grasped your hips and lifted you off of his dick with a low groan. You watched openly as he tucked himself away and righted his clothing. You flushed, pleased at the idea that he was going to spend the rest of today with your cunt lingering on his dick.

You blinked at the thought, troubled at the ease with which you joined him in such vulgarity.

Your reverie was interrupted by a slender man in all black walking into the room uninvited and unannounced. Ren’s head shot up on a snarl, and he reached out to wind that unfortunate soul into the Force and lift him off of his feet.

You tiredly glanced over at Ren’s newest victim, surprised by his bright red hair. Knowing better than to interfere, you simply looked from Ren to this intruder, wondering how long it would be before one of them spoke.

“The...Supreme...Leader...demands...your………………...presence!”

Ren released his hold, and the uniformed man hit the ground with a crash, scrambling back out into the hallway. Bending down, he scooped up your black pants and handed them to you.

Ren's gaze hardened considerably, and you were amazed at how dark became void in his eyes. Reaching back to the tray, he grabbed the scalpel, broke off the blade, and lifted it to your mouth.

“If he tries to hurt you or move you,” his voice was dangerously low, and your eyes flitted around his arm to the door, “get away. Find the Knights of Ren.”

The questions played across your face, and your brow knit. Were you in danger? Why were you in danger? You leaned forward, meaning to ask, but he shook his head, instructing you back to silence. You sat up straighter, concerned and more alert.

“That voice is for me, only.”

Understanding, you parted your lips and accepted the weapon, moving it with your tongue and tucking it into the roof of your mouth. Ren's battle face changed for just a second, his beautiful lips turning up into a smirk, knowing full well this wasn’t the first time you’d had to hide a blade.

You accepted that he would push you until you broke for him, over and over, but it satisfied you to no end that he wasn’t prepared to allow anyone else to harm you. That pleasure was afforded to him alone in the Galaxy.

“Hux!” He barked it out, and the man, who was still rubbing his tender throat, turned into the room to look.

“You will personally deliver her back to my chambers.”

Ren didn’t waste time asking if the man understood his instructions. He would be obeyed, or someone would die. In seconds, he had collected the remnants of his helmet and was gone from the room.

You sagged, feeling like the universe was somehow less bright without the scorch of his presence. Stuffing your aching, wobbly legs into the black linen, you cautiously descended from the surgical table and righted the material over your hips.

Turning, you faced your new escort, whose name was apparently Hux, and gestured for him to lead on.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #puer deus

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watarigarasu · 4 years

Text

May 21st – Angel/Demon AU

Lyn’s Writing Event

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word count: 1,791

Warnings: None

Author’s note: None

The cathedral was empty, not a single soul wandering through its halls since at least thousand of years. It was a corpse, a memorial of what it have been once, the mere shadow of whispered prayers still lingering on the high pillars which did not have to support anything—the whole wooden roof gone long ago, rotting with the benches on the ground. The most bizarre thing about this place, however, was how quiet it was, as if with the first step inside the ruins all the sounds from the surrounding forest were disappearing behind the glass wall, trapping everyone who dared to come closer.

And it was cold, much colder than the frozen earth, covered with the thin layer of snow.

When you first approached the abandoned building, you thought that it must have been a sign. A very obvious, flashing red sign saying that you should never get inside, under no circumstances. The stink of death was present in every corner and it was exactly that, which led you to this place, walking around the woods until you have finally found the source of the disturbing energy. Perhaps human’s eyes could not spot it, but you saw the cathedral very clearly and you could imagine how did it look like when it was still a house of God.

Crossing the threshold, you let your gaze wander over the pillars covered in wild ivy, over an open roof where you could see the gray sky, over the mossy walls and empty windows. It was a sad picture, bringing back the feeling of melancholy and reminding of a passing time. Slowly, you approached the presbytery, carefully dodging the pieces of wood and rocks laying on the muddy ground and when you were finally by the steps, your attention was focused on something below your feet rather than in front of you.

The stone plate was broken to pieces, opening an entrance to the catacombs level below.

It was so dark here, you could not recognize any shapes not see the bottom, but it did not startle you, not when you could sense that the source was closer than ever before. Turning around, you quickly noticed that although the whole ruin was covered in wild plants, the hole in the ground remained untouched, not a single weed growing on the black earth.

And so, you jumped inside.

The catacombs reminded you of an old basement, wet and full of rats which were nowhere to be seen, as if there truly was only you and the endless corridors ahead. Taking a torch from your bag, you lightened the hall, mentally taking a note that this part of the building must have been never seen, considering the complete lack of any trash nor names written with colourful sprays on the walls.

Whatever lived here must have been frightening enough to keep any intruders away.

You did not know how long you were wandering through the corridors, sometimes realizing that you were walking around, the other times reaching a dead ends and turning back. Losing a track of time was your habit during the stay on Earth, still not getting used to the daily rhythm the humans considered as healthy, but the longer you were looking for, the more you were sure that the resident knew about your presence already. It could have been night outside when you finally spotted a path you did not take before and so, you went along, wondering what kind of creature you would eventually find in a place like this.

Whatever you were hoping for, the reality proved wrong in the same second you went from around the corner and saw the enormous cave—all filled with shining gold. The coins, jewelry and cutlery, the weapons and gems, all of this was reflecting a dim light of the burning fire in the torches placed by the walls. Even you, not being tempted by such a mundane goods, had to admit that the collection was impressive, bigger than anything you have ever seen in your whole life.

Your eyes automatically spotted a dark figure sitting upon the throne by the highest step of the stairs ahead of you, its gaze looming over your frame and waiting for your move. When you peeked down, to the small coin laying right next to the tip of your shoe, you could almost hear the low growl coming from the depths of its throat.

So, you thought, Greed, that is.

“What are you looking for?” The demon asked you and his baritone echoed in the cave, disappearing around the corners and remaining in your mind for a while longer than it should have.

From your perspective you could not clearly see its features but you knew that it was a man, broad and powerful, the King of his Treasure.

“I am looking for you,” you told him and in an answer received only a quiet mutter.

“What for?”

“I have realized that you have been there for quite a long time now. Your presence reached my senses far away, in the city, and if I can do it, then anybody else can find you, too. You and your treasure.”

The demon did not speak further, waiting for your explanation—or considering whether to take your words as a treat and kill you in an instant.

“I came here to offer you my help.”

He chuckled darkly and you heard the fabrics moving when he stood up from his throne, taking few steps to your direction so the light from the torches could touch his face; long hair and beard with silver strands proving that he was not some impulsive, young demon, but rather the one who could possibly watch the fall of Lucifer himself. His bright blue eyes, however, did not seem cruel nor furious, but rather surprisingly calm and utterly tired.

“What kind of help you can offer?” he asked and spread his arms, vaguely gesturing to the wealth all around him. “I have everything.”

You did not say out loud the first thought which came to your mind after hearing those words. Instead of considering him a blind fool, you felt the overwhelming pity.

“It is not the matter of what you have but what you need.”

He frowned. “Do not assume that you have a greater knowledge, angel. I have seen the worlds collide and being torn apart long before you were ever created. And what for?”

“I have not figured it out just yet.”

“Then perhaps there is no purpose. No aim in your existence, just another godly spark which will soon fade into the dark sky. No more remembered than me.”

Admitting the truth would mean that you had lost your arguments and gave upon his will, and it was the very last thing you wanted to happen. You came prepared, knowing that demons tended to manipulate your own fears in a way which would only make you suffer and doubt—doubt your worth, your own value and everything you called dear to your soul.

“Perhaps you are right,” you thought for a while. “Perhaps you are not. What if my purpose is exactly to be right here, standing in front of you now and giving you my hand?”

In a blink of an eye, he was right in front of you, dressed in majestic furs, the crown on his head and the unpleasant expression on his face. But the eyes—the eyes were still as bright.

And curious.

“That would be quite a waste of your existence, won’t you agree?”

“Perhaps you are right,” you repeated, a small smile appearing on your lips. “Perhaps you are not.”

The demon muttered something under his breath.

“What is your name?” you continued and watched the tough expression change, from the surprise to the disappointment.

Then, he turned his back on you and before you could react, he was sitting on his throne again, face hidden in the shadows. That must have been a wrong choice of words, since you have clearly startled or annoyed him and now you could only hope that he won’t want to get rid of you for disturbing his peace. Just when you were thinking of an excuse, maybe giving him your name or using another argument on why should he at least listen to you, his voice echoed in the cave once again, low and reminding you of an animalistic growl.

“Thorin.”

You nodded, speechless. It was a tiny step forward but it was still better than none. You smiled at him politely, although you could not see his reaction.

“Well then, it is nice to meet you, Thorin.” You bowed your head and introduced yourself, too. “Did you know that it is currently winter outside? There is snow all above us, white and cold, and so beautiful.”

“Are all of your kind so stubborn?” he interrupted. “Or is it just you, not taking a ‘no’ for an answer.”

“You have never said ‘no’, Thorin,” you stated. “And if you will, then I will leave you alone. But the question is, if you really want me to.”

There was a silence between you two, all the treasure long forgotten, since something else seemed to catch the demon’s attention.

“You do not see me as a monster.” His voice was now barely a whisper. “You are different than the others.”

As if someone poked you on the shoulder, you turned your head back and spotted the various bones grotesquely piling up by the wall, some of them still freshly white but mostly rusty, dry brown—all shattered to pieces with deadly claws and jaw, torn apart when there was still life around them. You recognized them as belonging to angels, humans and even one or two different demons, the ones who dared to try to steal from the King now damned for the whole eternity.

“I do not believe this is my place to decide on who is and who is not worthy of receiving help,” you answered, turning back to him. “I was not created to judge but to bring hope.”

“And do you truly believing there is still any hope for an old fool?”

“What I believe in has nothing to do with it. It is all the matter of whether you will accept my hand or not and only then I could do my best in bringing you back.”

The demon was quiet, lost in thoughts for so long that you started to think that it has been whole centuries since you came down there. When he eventually spoke, his voice was calm, the slight tremble of anticipation causing the goosebumps to appear on your skin.

“Tell me more about the snow outside.”

#lyn's writing event #thorin oakenshield #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin #thorin x reader #the hobbit

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commander-orca · 3 years

Text

COTW FANFICTION

CHAPTER 8: MY ANGER LOVES YOU DEARLY

It was rare for Rochalizo to feel such uneasiness in the face of a mundane situation of this kind. He knew he was the type to resist others’ bad state of minds and could ignore without too much difficulty or sympathy those who gave in to tears or panic. A few months ago, he used to be insensitive to the suffering of others, even laughing at those who felt easily pressured or sad. Few things could move him in Amonlogia, where he struggled to find his place and crossed the city from day to day, withdrawn and shut in like an oyster. Here, it was different. He had the unpleasant feeling that his shell had split open to the limit. Suddenly he was attached to anyone and was moved by everything; recent events had upset him and broken through all his emotional defenses. His promise to help the residents still stood. But he was now sure he would not come back unscathed from this adventure. After the attack by the Gerakis forces, the smallest things worried him and this weapon which he usually carried casually around his belt, forgetting it most of the time, was now found a frightening number of times in his hands, clutching at the slightest suspicious noise. He had become far more protective than he ever thought he would be, keeping an eye on the locals, counting their numbers sometimes.

The light was barely reaching his legs, which were crossed on the chair in the corner of the room; the air smelled of ink and musty. With a weak breath, he cleared away from his sight the long wick which fell on his eyes. He was in the central tower of the island, in the room used by consultants as a meeting place to discuss and deliver certain laws and decisions of average, sometimes negligible importance. This place also served as an office for filling out papers, drafting decrees and speeches. More importantly, it was the antechamber opening onto the tower’s large balcony from which the captain spoke. For half an hour already, everyone had been busy in this too small room - which, let's be honest, had real claustrophobic effects - in order to finalize the imminent speech of the leader. Papers flew in all directions, pens fluttered, consultants made a few final recommendations, their insufferable voices taking on a high pitched tone with each turn of the clock hand which throbbed in the hubbub as uncomfortable as the heat. Backed up against the wall, Suoh put up with these recommendations, head bowed, his hand gripping the wall, barely standing on his legs. He looked pale, on the verge of fainting ... Rochalizo turned his head away, feeling that familiar retching resurface.

It was with Suoh that he had been most surprised. Staying by his side had taught him patience, when he had had to refrain from putting his stupid brain back in place ... But also had somehow, developed, he reluctantly admitted, his sense of empathy. , his kindness and selflessness. Being in the company of such a loving person must have rubbed off on him. What came next wouldn't surprise anyone; he had become attached to him, his usual gentleness sometimes relieving his moments of doubt or distress. It was something that had fascinated him from start to finish; the cries, the threats, any attempt to destroy him ... He responded to all of this with doubly more destructive outbursts of kindness.

That kindness had ended up grating, though, inevitably. So much so that Suoh once asked him to teach him how to shoot. So that he could end human lives. Rochalizo hated this turnaround. He had had fun at the start, making fun of him and his unconsciousness and like a child in whom one would take pleasure in distorting their innocence, he could not help but communicate his cynicism, his sense of the opportunism. But the dreadful realization that each day the young chief began to resemble himself and his brothers, aroused in him a nauseating disgust. Suddenly he felt guilty and if he had been able to turn back time so that Suoh would forever remain an ignorant lulled in sweet delusions, he would have done so without a regret. The worst had been when he had watched him with his own eyes wield a weapon, shoot innocent people, he who was repelled by all forms of violence ... It had seemed to him at the time that by shooting these bullets in the chest soldiers, Suoh had at the same time eradicated what he had been. The former Suoh was probably dead. And the new Suoh had almost been gone. A few hopes away from being changed into a flesh doll, a moving corpse forever. Recovered, -or almost-, he had only been entitled to a few ridiculous hours of convalescence before having to resume his role. Perhaps that was why this kindness dissolved like honey in tea, because people were exploiting the resources he had, without ever sparing him or treating him.

This is why, when he saw Suoh, with a pale face and folded hands, slump against the wall and pray for the speech to be postponed, Rochalizo felt his stomach turn violently. Near the young chief, the advisers in their long sober dresses, mingled in protests and in virulent encouragements. They formed a tight circle around him, some standing, loudly indignant, others leaning over him like idle parents over-brooding their offspring. Rochalizo uncrossed his legs, getting up to approach the stage. Suoh had crouched down with his back to the wall, the top of his head was covered with his hands in despondency and his eyes were closed and constricted. Even in the shadow of his elders, his waxy complexion was striking. His disheveled hair and his wrinkled tunic were proof that he had slept too little to think of taking care of his image.The elder counselor went into a fit of nervous anger, this Kuchiba who apparently served as a mentor figure to Suoh, but who Rochalizo thought to be useful only for unnecessary stress.

"Come on Suoh, get up, you have to go!" Everyone is counting on you! He insisted, trying to pull him by the shoulders.

"You have to go anyway, they're all together downstairs already," the black-haired counselor whispered to him, crouching down next to her boss.

Suoh lowered his head into his knees. His breathing was wheezing and his fingernails hollowed out his scalp, strands of light hair pulled painfully through his fingers. His knees against each other had started to shake.

“Please,” he begged once again, “I can't do it. I'm not going to make it... "There was a short silence during which the advisers looked at each other in dismay. Kuchiba reordered his neatly stacked papers and grumbled under his breath, stunned.

"I don't understand what puts him in such an awful state...

-It can't be the stage fright, he was never really impressed by all this ... "

At the back of the room, their only view of the outside, this panorama of a grandiose blue sky offered by the opening in the clay had become dizzying. The heat waves just came in and out, wrapped around their clothes. From the lodge there was an impatient, ragged hum. There was something oppressive about the roar of the sea, coming and going.

Shinono, the youngest counselor, took a soothing voice and matched it with a hand on her shoulder.

"Suoh, answer ... Tell us what's wrong ..."

Rochalizo couldn't take it anymore. If a single stupid phrase came out of their mouths again, he was going to implode. Did they not see? In this state, nothing could be earned from him. The poor monkey was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And a bunch of loud morons was sure to increase his agitation.

“Suoh, hey! What will people say if you-

-They won’t say shit, folks. Get away ! Rochalizo retorted, working his way through the advisers to Suoh.

His face had taken on two shades of red in anger and his irregular breathing showed that he was barely controlling himself not to give in to aggressive behaviour. With a few rustles of fabric, he joined the chef and grabbed him firmly by the arm. His annoyance worked on his strength as he managed to lift Suoh with just one effort. Suoh was so surprised he didn't say a word. The advisers now gathered around Rochalizo, watching him with a sort of admiration on his face. Poor, they were going to be disappointed.

"Can't you see he can't do it ?! Leave him alone! He snapped to their attention as he crossed the room, holding a still dazed Suoh around the waist.

Finally, the advisers seemed to understand that things were not going to turn in their favor. Their protests grew heavier. Several followed them to the door.

" Hey ! Come back! Kuchiba exclaimed, brandishing his fist in the air, "The speech should have started at least a good three minutes ago!" "

But Rochalizo was determined not to stop. He could feel it, he had to get it out of here. He crossed the threshold of the door not looking back, furious.

"Improvise your bloody speech yourself!" The only thing he's going to do is go rest! "

Rochalizo then took the direction of the hut in which Suoh dwelled, walking in determined strides. The heels of his boots clattered against the dry clay, and his sword, tied to his belt, clanged faintly in the long hanging gallery. Suoh still hadn't said a word to him; maybe he thought it was pointless. Either way, the silence sounded like elusive, crestfallen approval. He quickened his pace, convinced, and went out into the pleasantly deserted streets, since everyone had gone to the tower to hear the speech which would not be spoken.

Arrived at Suoh's, the young man heard himself sigh with relief; to be honest, he didn't really know what he had expected. Perhaps a neglected bedroom that would have allowed him to find with compelling evidence that something was wrong with him. He could not say, however, if he was more relieved than annoyed. If he listened to that little voice in his head and the way his fists clenched against his leg, he was sure he wanted to find something. Indeed, the current situation left him nothing concrete to be able to confront Suoh without appearing to be a nosy or a sentimental idiot. Rochalizo coughed to dispel his discomfort and grabbed Suoh by the shoulders, seating him on the bed, but this discomfort instead of disappearing, filled him up him like water in a bathtub. Suoh gave him a grateful look.

"Rochalizo ... Thank you".

The young man met his eyes, embarrassed. His hands tightened around the stakes on the footboards. What was to answer that? He was probably worse than those stupid advisers. Suoh was old enough to fend for himself, to support his own choices on his own, and Rochalizo had only acted like a mother hen, as if Suoh was a little child in need of a chaperone. He felt ashamed that he had behaved so impulsively and thought he understood exactly what his friend in the tower was feeling.

"Uh ... well ..." he began, rubbing the tip of his boot against the edge of the pink carpet.

But in the end, wasn't it all Suoh's fault? His index and middle finger, both set with thick golden rings, came to rest on the top of his mouth. He could not be blamed for wishing to check his condition. If Suoh had shown himself to be truly responsible, he would have made the decision to return home on his own and would have asserted himself. His tearful demeanor was causing concern to everyone around him, so it was his fault. The fool, why didn't he say anything if he felt low ?! Was he going to let everyone walk all over him until there was nothing left of him ?! Rochalizo fixed his eyes on those of the young chief, invigorated with a new irascibility. Furious, he leaned over Suoh and grabbed him by the collar violently, bringing his silly face close to his.

"WHAT WAS THAT, EH ?! CARE TO EXPLAIN WHAT HAPPENED IN YOUR HEAD ?! DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO START YOUR LITTLE BREAKDOWN ON A WHIM?! STUPID MONKEY!”

Suoh froze, scared. His eyes, wide open in dismay, did not let go of Rochalizo's. For the first time of the day, to the immense satisfaction of the marquis, these green pupils had stopped looking at him without seeing him and gave him all their attention. Suoh had stopped seeing him as the ghost of someone he could push away and lie to as he pleased. Oh because Suoh hadn't said much yet but Rochalizo knew he would try to lie to him. The smile he had given him with his thanks had already been.

"Rochalizo ...

-DONT TALK! I’M FED UP WITH YOU! "

Suoh blinked several times, stunned to be scolded like this. Rochalizo released his garment and thrust his varnished index finger into his chest. His tone of voice had dropped, but he was still speaking loudly and the nervousness in his words was palpable. He was fuming.

"Now, instead of worrying everyone, you're going to rest! I’m leaving you no choice! ”

Immediately giving shape to his words, the marquis walked around the bed and pushed aside the covers of the box spring, shook the pillow to air it out and also straightened the headboard. Suoh watched him do it, speechless. When he was done, he dragged Suoh by the shoulders to the other end of his bed and pulled the covers back over his knees.

" Lay over. Or do you want me to do that for you too?”, He mumbled, staring at a still frozen Suoh.

Suoh swallowed his lips lightly, probably in the throes of an inner dilemma. He chose still to be docile and to submit to Rochalizo's requests, if it could not be said that they were rather radical orders. His face crumpled up a bit and he proceeded to push the corners of the duvet and bedspreads between the mattress and the frame once Suoh was lying between the sheets. The action made him blush, it was strange to find himself there tucking Suoh in and especially expressing his concern to him so openly. His pride had just taken a hell of a beating ... It was also just as unsettling to be leaning over him like a protector and showing this facet of himself being... Soft? How awful... Rochalizo suddenly stepped back, his cheeks flushed.

" Is everything alright ? Suoh asked, who had just jumped from his sudden withdrawal.

"Uh ... Yeah, yeah, it's fine, it's fine ..."

Rochalizo had replied automatically. His brain took a few seconds to process their short exchange. Once again, he felt anger radiate through him.

“A minute. You’re the one asking me that ?! "Suoh hunched over like a shriveled flower, fearing another fit of anger. But the insufferable habit he had of always taking care of others to his disadvantage took over this time.

“Accept my apologies if I’ve offended you, Rochalizo. You look anxious to me, that's why I'm asking "

Rochalizo would have liked to give him scold him again, it was not the urge that he lacked and the blood still boiled in his veins to this effect. However, he could only stare at him in the whites of his eyes and crush his face into his hand. Sighing, he sat down on the side of the bed, giving Suoh barely a second to shift his legs.

"You really don't get it, you hopeless case."

Suoh straightened up on his elbows, attentive to his movements. Rochalizo imagined, knowing him, that he was already looking for a way to be forgiven. This simple thought was enough to upset him. Why was he like this? Why was Suoh just a bunch of second thoughts whose contents he’d never reveal to others? It didn't make things any easier ...

"I don't quite understand, but if it's because of the speech ...

"Obviously it's because of the speech," muttered the marquis, his head bowed, through his teeth.

"My intention was not to be a burden to you," Suoh whispered to him, after he had straightened up and he put a pale hand on his forearm, "Nor to cause you to worry. Forgive me ".

-Suoh, is that hard for you not to speak in apologies? Rochalizo cursed at him, his eyes dark.

Suoh gave him a rueful smile.

"I guess I'll drop the apologies for today."

They both let the calm of the small room overwhelm them. It was lukewarm and the down was as comfortable on the top as it was when standing inside. Rochalizo's eye was drawn to the pots of cacti that bloomed at their own pace on the shelf and the many tubs of blue flowers that were becoming more beautiful every day. Bathing in the only ray of sunlight, a miniature tomato plant gleamed quietly and grew, more fertile than ever, given a perfectly adequate amount of water. An ear of lavender, too long to be arranged, escaped from one of the open drawers of the dresser, kept in a patch of damp earth. Everything here breathed life and thrived through the care and love that was given to them. Everything ... Except one thing.

Suoh rested his head gently against Rochalizo's shoulder. It was done gradually, first because his position stiffened the back of his neck and tilting his head seemed like a good compromise. Then because he realized that words might be too much in this heated dispute caused by clumsy misunderstandings. Rochalizo surely would never admit it, but those little gestures were at fault if he didn't manage to hold it against Suoh for too long. When his cheek was pressed against his shoulder, he felt caught in the whirlwind of something bigger than himself, of a universal and unconditional tenderness that did not belong to humans.

Rochalizo did not look at him, but as he got lost in the pots of the blue flowers, had the impression that their eyes had met. His azure fingernails scraped his own thigh despite being able to do anything.

"I don't like it when you’re not looking after yourself ..."

Too fast, too recklessly, Suoh's fingers had speared his face and forced him to watch him from up close. His face surrounded by his hair was like the tall trees of a forest which covered the sky and made you lose your way. Not this scary perdition, rather this unstoppable urge to run through the woods and never come back. A powerful instinct to obey that insistent question that came to mind who whispered "What would happen if I ran away from all civilization and got lost in these woods?" Rochalizo exhaled painfully.

"Your concern is precious to me".

A smile. A simple and yet too evocative smile. In a flash, Rochalizo recognized in those cursed features the memory of an expression that had paralyzed him, that had haunted his nights these days, had even given him nightmares. For a moment, he saw the gunshots again, the murderous rifle in those white hands, the rows of helmets and iron boots, the cries and those words he heard echo every time his feet brought him back unconsciously at this location.

"No ... No, shut up, it's not concern," he gasped, breathlessly, holding back his despair, "You ... you really don't understand."

Not giving in to tears, all that remained was anger. It was the best he could do after all.

"There is no one more inconsiderate than you! Can't you see you're screwing yourself up ?! And for whom? For a herd of ungrateful people who don't even see how much you sacrifice yourself for them! "

His face slipped out of Suoh's reach but Rochalizo didn't back down. He confronted him with fierce aplomb. Suoh was the one who looked down at this accusation he couldn't afford to deny.

"It is the role of the leader of the Whale, I cannot oppose it-

-Who is preventing you ?!

- ... But I'm happy. I am happy to offer myself to its inhabitants ... "Suoh continued, ignoring his interruption," I don't think this is a sacrifice.

-So you are completely blind!”, Rochalizo exploded, his eyes so dilated they looked like they were going to disappear.

His breathing heavy, he resumed, swallowing behind clenched teeth:

“You are just a puppet that they use to ensure the obedience of the people. They steal your life away with all their prohibitions. And in the meantime, they let you destroy yourself. But by carrying on like this, you will soon be incapacitated. And all those people you care about so much, they're all going to DIE ”.

Suoh flinched and jumped back suddenly, as if the Marquis had just burned his face with a tinplate. He clenched his fists, his fingernails sunk so deeply into his palms that he was quickly seized with a sharp pain. He couldn't understand. Rochalizo was just a foreigner. He hadn't grown up here. He knew nothing of the ties that bound the inhabitants to each other or to this island, nor of this ineffably sacred responsibility which had become his.

“No one else is going to die,” Suoh bellowed, “You don't know what you're talking about!

-Of course I know!

-No, you who fleed your country like an egoist, you know nothing of what I feel! I could die for them! Suoh yelled at him, his face twisted in frustration, trembling with fury, his mouth twisted.

He was about to hear Rochalizo and counter whatever he said, to say something else, maybe something that could be hurtful. Something that could have convinced him that what he was claiming. But Rochalizo stopped screaming. He lowered his head and grabbed his hands, crushed them in his.

"You fool ... Can't you see? I don't want you to die ”.

Suoh fell silent. Then the origin of the problem suddenly became clear to him. Slowly approaching Rochalizo, he pressed his forehead to the top of his head. The young man bore the same smell as him, the smell of milk. Why had Suoh said all those mean things? He belonged here, with them.

"It won't happen, Rochalizo".

Rochalizo gripped Suoh's face aggressively once again. This time his voice was sharp, threatening.

"Don't even dare to promise me such things!" It was only a few days ago when you ran towards the soldiers and ... I ... ", he shook his head to keep from thinking back to those terrifying events," I forbid you to speak of death as lightly as you do! "- he tightened his fist next to his face -" Suoh, in truth I do not care about your story of sacrifice. All I'm trying to tell you is ... Take care of yourself better than that! You have no idea what you're doing to yourself! Do you think you can live on sleepless nights, non-stop services to others and the punishments that you inflict on yourself ?! By neglecting your health ?! "

Suoh blinked, shocked, breathless. Even if he had wanted to speak, the words would not have come out.

" Lay over. I will not repeat it. "

Rochalizo got up from the bed, pretending that this exchange of screams hadn't happened. Staring down at him, he stared at him sternly, arms crossed, waiting for Suoh to do as he ordered. Suoh couldn't move for a few seconds. It seemed to him that Rochalizo's gaze pierced his skin like a million flamethrowers. The young chef quickly lay down and pulled the covers to his neck. Then Rochalizo came back to him and knelt at his bedside. He took Suoh's hands back in his and buried his face onto the mattress.

“You, forgive me. I didn't mean to scare you. You know very well that it is not against you that I am screaming ”.

Suoh slowly nodded. A slight piteous smile split his cheeks. His hand trailed tenderly through Rochalizo's hair.

"I didn't want to admit it but I'm afraid you're right ..."

Rochalizo looked up hopefully in his direction.

"Maybe thinking about myself once in a while would help, but ... I've always put others before me. I don't know how to take care of myself and ... I don't know if I would get any satisfaction from it ... "

Rochalizo smiled back and his eyes closed on his lids. His mocking sneer echoed through the room, but his face was marked with an unusual solar glee.

"Lucky you that I’m a selfish person then. Because I happen to know a ton of ways ”.

Suoh stared at his face, dazzled by Rochalizo's smile and he felt a familiar form of peace wash over him. For the first time, he was letting someone lift up the hearts and lighten up the mood for him. And he felt good. It was a small start, but it was a start.

#cotw #cotw fanfiction #fanfiction #rochalizo #suoh #suou #rohalito #knk #Kujira no Kora #Kujira no Kora wa Sajou ni Utau #children of the whale #children of the Whales #les enfants de la baleine

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