#friend suggested I just draw him smaller. she is a fool and i will draw him fatter from here on out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

siribear · 2 years

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Amell has never actually seen her cousin, and Varric had always been entirely unhelpful in his descriptions. "If you two stood together long enough, you might look related." Amell crossed her arms with a huff, and he snapped his fingers and said, "There. That look must run in the family."

Now her cousin stands before them, black hair cut short, the hint of her Hawke family crest tattoo on an arm with more muscle than the average mage would normally have. Mercenary work and life on the run have shaped her. Even the awkward pat Amell receives on her shoulder is heavy, if formal.

"Cousin." A smirk. "Or is it Inquisitor now?"

Amell grimaces before she can stop herself. She really should get used to wearing the title, if only so she doesn't make a fool of herself in front of an important ally. But it won't start with her friends or family. "You've heard, huh? Varric told you?"

They haven't been in Skyhold long, but even still it seems like more people know about her being Inquisitor than she thought. People actually putting a face to the name instead of a featureless title. "Varric told me you dropped a mountain on Corypheus. We saw the remains of Haven." We? "I don't know how I can be of any help, except..." Her cousin's attention goes to Elissa. "I have two friends who very much would like to see you."

Hunted. Elissa and Amell put it together at the same time, and while Amell wonders how the three could have possibly found each other, Elissa demands, "Take us. Now."

This, she learns, is Crestwood: cold rain over a land ravaged by the Blight but recovering; the walking dead shambling from a lake, surface glowing green from a rift opened beneath, to harry a nearby village; and bandits at Caer Bronach assaulting the rest. Almost mercifully, the fragments of Corypheus's army in the area aren't as big of a threat in comparison.

The roar of a dragon, uncorrupted, sounds in the air. A large silhouette dips low into a field before capturing another, smaller, shape, and flying off behind a mountain. Beside her, Bull vibrates with excitement.

"A dragon," he breathes. "Boss?" He looks to her hopefully.

"It isn't why we're here," Amell reminds him. To save him some grief, "But if it's bothering the village, we might have to drive it off, at some point."

Dorian says it's Bull’s answering cheer that attracts the demons that attack them. Solas suggests it's the Anchor that draws stragglers. Cole, deadpan, says, "They would have attacked anyway. They lie, waiting, watching, weeding out the weak."

Vivienne makes a noise of disgust. "You could have warned us they were coming, Cole." The boy's name drips with distaste. "Inquisitor?"

Amell brushes a rogue strand of hair out of her face. "If there was a real threat, Cole would have told us."

The boy-spirit in question lifts his hand to indicate a direction in the curious way he usually does: fingers straight, palm up. "They need help." An offering, a choice. Two points buzzing in the back of her mind. With one look from Elissa, they go.

More demons, stronger near the rift but no match for the entire party, are slain just outside the nearby village. The two Amell had sensed turn out to be two Wardens, Orlesian by their accents, hunting another from the order they claim has gone rogue.

Amell steps ahead to draw attention to herself and away from Elissa as she falls back. Though the cobalt blue of Warden colors lines the underside of her collar, it's the crest of the Inquisition that is emblazoned upon her breastplate. They don't sense or recognize Amell as a Warden, and she wonders how their senses have gotten so clouded. The hum brought on by Corypheus sings quieter in her head in the Magister’s absence, but even with the distraction she can still pick out her own.

"I hope Ser Alistair comes quietly," one of the other Wardens says, clearly uneasy with his orders.

"Do you have any idea where he is? The Inquisition might keep an eye out." If these two know where Alistair is, there might be others close behind.

"No, ma'am. We know he's in the area, though."

"I see. Who gave these orders?" No one in Ferelden would make that call. No one that she knows, anyway.

"Warden-Commander Clarel, leader of the Grey Wardens in Orlais." The ones that have gone quiet, themselves.

"Hunting a Ferelden Warden in Ferelden? We can handle our own." They look taken aback at that. "I assure you, Warden Alistair hasn't gone rogue. It’s your sect that hasn't been responding to our letters."

"We don't answer to you."

Amell steps aside for Elissa to join her. The Orlesian Wardens go for their weapons, recognizing her with sudden shouts of her name. "That's Warden-Commander Elissa. Clarel doesn't give the orders here, I do. You will stand down."

They only grip their weapons tighter. The apprehensive one looks back and forth between his comrade and Elissa, debating which to fall behind. "We've been ordered to take you in as well," the other says, leveling his sword in Elissa's direction. "Come with us."

"I don't think so."

It feels wrong to fight other Wardens. Outnumbered as they were, the two held their own before being subdued. One Warden down should a Blight come. While their numbers are greater than they were during the Fifth Blight, and the borders open for other nations, she, Elissa, and Alistair proved a small number can make a difference.

Broken Silverite armor covered in blood and mud. A waste.

"The song they hear isn't their own," Cole says. "They're scared."

Vivienne scoffs, brushing the frost from her hands. "Scared? They seem like fools, my dear. No offense."

"For once, I must agree with the First Enchanter."

"You wouldn’t understand. Corypheus has to have done something to cause all of this." The Calling. It's enough to send the Wardens in a panic. If all of them are hearing it at once and no one knows it isn't real...

"Someone's manipulating them, at least," Blackwall agrees. "The Wardens wouldn't be so rash otherwise."

Amell holds in a bitter laugh. The problem is, she isn't surprised at all by the Warden's actions. Anything it takes to stop a Blight.

Bull and Dorian break off to bring the surviving Warden back to Skyhold. Amell wants to wait for Elissa to finish her conversation with the elven woman they saved from the rift, but Hawke pulls her along.

"Those Wardens got close. Your friends deserve to know they're safe, right?"

Alistair can wait five minutes if it's for Elissa, she knows. Loghain on the other hand... "Right."

Varric and Solas follow her with Vivienne, Blackwall, and Cole trailing behind. Hawke leads them into an abandoned smuggler's cove. Skulls fade from the wood supporting the cave, painted long ago.

Amell holds up a hand, signaling for the others to wait. Should Alistair and Loghain sense a Warden coming, they might think they've been caught. She opens the door slowly to see an empty room and a single table with papers scattered on its surface.

There is the sheathing of a blade, a dull sigh, and, "Well, it's about time." Amell whirls on her heel to see Alistair and Loghain flanking the door, putting away their weapons. The former wears a wide smile, and the latter looks as if he'd rather be anywhere else.

In a breath, Alistair has her in a bruising hug. "Maker, am I glad to see you," he says into her shoulder. "We saw what became of Haven, but I knew you weren't dead and - "

"Ali. My ribs." The tears dotting the corners of her eyes aren't just from the joy of seeing him.

"Sorry, sorry." His hands on her shoulders, he looks her over. "You're smaller than I remember. Thinner, too. Do they not feed you in the Inquisition?" He pokes her. "Careful if a strong breeze catches you, you’ll just fly away."

"You're just bigger. And what's this?" She musses his hair, longer than it was during the Blight, and she knows it was never this curly. "Did a rat make a nest up there and leave?"

Alistair juts his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout as he smooths his hair back down. "Ellie likes it. Speaking of, where...?" He looks out over her shoulder and must see Elissa because his entire expression changes. Confusion, disbelief, relief. Then pure, unfiltered adoration.

Amell steps aside just in time for Alistair to launch himself at Elissa.

"We are never separating again," Alistair whines like a mabari left out of a good fight. "Look who you left me with."

Beside her, Loghain sighs again. "It seems I'm to be babysitting you three once more."

"We're older now, Loghain. We don't need watching over like we're children." It couldn't have been easy for him after he was recruited, having to put his confidence in three Wardens shy of their twentieth year.

"Yet your cousin and I had to save Alistair. And now that these two together..." He gestures at her friends, enthusiastic in their reunion and ignoring everyone else. "But it's you I don't know what to do with."

Amell frowns and looks to him. He has more grey in his hair than he did ten years ago, and whether age or stress has added more, only he will know. Though, he's softened around the edges, jaw not to tightly set even at their fellow Warden's borderline ridiculous display of affection. He still wears his own pride on his face. Perhaps a trace of nostalgia in his eyes.

"Me?"

"You advocated for my recruitment. I doubt the young Theirin would have laid his blade aside otherwise and, given how the late Arl Howe was my advisor, the young Cousland wouldn't have suggested it. Then after Amaranthine, you just left.

It was surprisingly irresponsible of you."

Amell opens her mouth to argue, then shuts it. It's exactly what she did. Brought him into the Order, then abandoned him. "I - it was for something I'm working on." It sounds pathetic and petulant even to her ears.

"Have you made any progress?"

"I have!" Once their communications were set back up after relocating, she finally heard from Avernus and Felix. Alexius's son agreed to be Avernus's test subject, and he insisted it was only through ethical experiments. "I'm closer than I was, anyway."

Loghain grunts and crosses his arms. "Good. It better have been worth leaving me with him."

Alistair and Elissa finally part for air. Foreheads pressed together, they're lost to the world until Loghain impatiently clears his throat.

"Good to see you alive, old man."

Amell can see him physically bite back the retort on his tongue. Their following conservation is brief, catching each other up on the details of how they've all come to be here and what everyone knows. Malcolm Hawke's blood was used to seal Corypheus away once, and her cousin's was used to reseal him when the wards began to fail.

It wasn't enough.

Amell keeps quiet when Hawke expresses disbelief that her father would use blood magic. Would brand himself a maleficar, even if it was used to seal away the Magister. Amell thinks she would have liked her uncle.

She looks over to see Varric comforting Cole, the boy with his head in his hands. "Their song is too loud. There's only the song and I can't - "

"I'm gonna get the kid out of here. The way's clear. We'll meet you all back at Skyhold."

Varric and the others, Hawke included, file out of the cove, but Amell stops Blackwall at the door. Better to rip this bandage off now. "Alistair, Loghain, this is Warden Blackwall."

"Blackwall?" A look passes between Elissa and Alistair, the same that she and Elissa shared after they first met him in the Hinterlands. "Then you knew Duncan."

"Duncan!" Blackwall says heartily. Almost convincingly. "He was a good man."

Alistair's eyes still go soft at the mention of him. "He was."

Loghain looks the man over. Blackwall stands with his back ramrod straight like a soldier standing at attention. "He isn't a Warden."

Alistair sighs dramatically. "Well, good to know Warden senses aren't dulled by age, right?"

"Of course I'm a Warden," Blackwall insists. "I was conscripted."

"So," Elissa says, drawing the word out. "You aren't Blackwall. Who are you then?"

There's a subtle shift in the air as Blackwall slowly changes his stance. "It's fine," Amell cuts in, startling him. "We knew." She gestures between her and Elissa. "But I thought it best to bring it up now with the others rather than later."

"He could be a murderer," Alistair argues, albeit weakly, with a glance at Loghain.

And she could be a blood mage. Amell rolls her eyes. "We could do worse than someone who believes the Wardens are honorable, who joined us because he wants to help people."

Alistair puts up his hands defensively. "She recruited an Antivan crow," he points to Elissa, then Loghain, "that he sent. Then you recruited him. I've learned to be a little lenient."

"How princely of you."

"Shut up."

Loghain grumbles. "As long as you all know. I'm in no position to tell you what to do."

"We appreciate your input anyway." To Blackwall, "Wardens have their own secrets, and we can keep yours. Whatever it is. Just don't make a fool of us." Any more than the other Wardens already have.

"Uh," Blackwall says, mouth agape. "Sure."

"Good. We can plan further at Skyhold. Leliana's scouts can find out more about Clarel and her magister." Amell waves Blackwall forward to walk ahead of them.

"By your lead, Inquisitor."

A muscle in her jaw twitches. "Don't you start, Alistair."

"Anything you say, Inquisitor."

Behind them, Loghain doesn't even try to disguise his sigh. Ahead, she swears she hears Blackwall laugh.

Skyhold is even busier when they return. More pilgrims come to behold the sight, and with the help of Fergus and Nathaniel's men, more buildings have been repaired to house them all. Loghain points out a horse bearing the colors of the Empress of Orlais.

A stable hand comes to take their horses, and they're swarmed almost immediately upon dismounting. First is Cassandra to approach them like a rolling storm.

"You," she growls, Varric in her sights. "You said you didn't know where Hawke was."

"Funny how things work out, isn't it, Seeker?"

"She could have been there. She could have saved the Divine!"

"Or she could have died."

"You don't know that - "

Hawke, thankfully, steps forward, and begins to steer the Seeker away. "Cassandra, I'm flattered. But since you know so much about me, it's only fair I get to know you..." It's the only time Amell has seen Cassandra be led away willingly.

Varric gives them and exaggerated shrug before heading toward the main hall of the castle. He gives Josephine a cheery wave as she exits the castle herself and makes a beeline toward them.

"Inquisitor, I'm glad to see you made it back safely. There are a few things I'd like to discuss with you," Josephine looks behind Amell with a small but growing smile. "Unless the Commander wishes to speak with you first."

Cullen looks at her like a spooked halla. "Uh, no, I just - I mean." He takes a breath. "If we could talk later...?"

Amell ignores Elissa and Alistair as they begin to whisper together almost immediately. "Of course, Cullen." She watches him turn with a nod and head back toward the battlements, almost at a run.

Josephine, still smiling, continues, "Well. My office then, whenever you're ready, Inquisitor."

Amell sighs heavily once Josephine is out of earshot. Too many places to be at once, too many things to deal with. Maybe she should talk to Dorian about harnessing that time magic just so she can handle it all. When she turns to face her fellow Wardens, it's to Elissa and Alistair wearing matching apologetic smiles and Loghain simply sizing up the fortress.

"Interesting Inquisition you've made for yourself, Annwn," says the former teyrn.

"Times are never dull," she replies, almost fondly, before bidding them farewell and making her way to Josephine's office.

An invitation to a ball at the Winter Palace. A great place to stop Corypheus's assassination plot against Empress Celene, for sure, but, "Josephine, I'm going to get eaten alive."

Josephine offers her a reassuring smile. It isn't. "You will do fine, Inquisitor."

"Josie, I grew up in a Circle in Ferelden. I've read about the Game, but I don't know how to play it. And I can’t even dance." Amell buries her face in her hands. "I'm just as likely to get assassinated. Or worse, ruin the Inquisition's reputation."

Josephine sets down her quill to join Amell on the other side of her desk. "First, I believe we must work on your priorities." She places a hand on Amell's shoulder. "Second, you will have the rest of us with you. There is still time before the ball, and Leliana, Vivienne, and myself can coach you on etiquette before we leave."

Amell takes a deep breath. "Okay." She isn't alone. "Okay. And what's the other news?"

It isn't much better. As Inquisitor, she has to decide what to do with their prisoners. Of course, instead of making it easy, she has to sit in judgment in their newly rebuilt main hall. "Why do we have to make a spectacle of it?"

"It is a spectacle for some. Others wish to see judgment passed on those that wronged them. Unfortunately, we must satisfy them both."

"And if we don't?"

This smile is wicked, and strangely most reassuring of all. "Then we satisfy ourselves and convince the others it is enough."

That afternoon Amell sits on the throne in the main hall, nobles and mages and her companions lining the walls as Alexius is dragged forward to kneel. She's glad someone at least thought to release him when the Inquisition fled Haven, though his cheeks are sunken, his eyes defeated. He doesn't meet her eyes as Josephine reads off his crimes to the room.

"Do what you must, Inquisitor," he says when it's his turn to defend himself.

"Felix is still alive, Alexius." She leans forward. "Doing well, from what I've heard."

Life returns to the man's eyes. He looks up to her, sunlight from the stained glass window behind her reflecting in the tears in his eyes. "Do you tell me this as a comfort before you kill me?"

Dorian's short huff of breath doesn't go unnoticed. "What do you think, Dorian? You saw that bleak future with me."

"Alexius is a brilliant man, when he isn't trying to help break the world."

Amell nods. "Stand, Alexius." His accompanying guard pulls him to his feet without a struggle. "Put that brilliance to work for the Inquisition."

Surprised gasps and murmurs fill the hall. Alexius stares at her in shock. "I could've... I almost..."

"I was there. I saw it." The world torn asunder for one man's love for his son. "Be someone your son would be proud of, Alexius, and I'll make sure he lives long enough to see it."

Days later, the same, only this prisoner she didn’t meet before he was captured by Fergus’s men and turned in to the Inquisition.

"... I was only following orders. What else was I supposed to do?"

Former Knight-Captain Denam kneels before her, an Inquisition soldier with a hand on his shoulder forcing him down. Charged with allowing the templars to be corrupted with red lyrium and the murder of his Knight-Vigilant, the man before her begs for forgiveness and leniency. All while being free of red lyrium himself.

"Commander Cullen was a Knight-Captain, like you." Cullen steps forward at his mention, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "And when he disagreed with Knight-Commander Meredith, he stood against her."

Denam's scowl turns to Cullen. "Not all of us can be so noble," he sneers.

"No. I suppose not."

"I say give him to his men. Let them decide what to do with him," Cullen suggests.

Amell almost considers adding Denam to the Inquisition's ranks under heavy watch, until, "I was to serve a higher purpose. The others were cowards too weak to accept it."

Amell stands. "Have Leliana get out of him what she can. Then turn him over to Ser Barris and the others. What they do with him after that is out of my hands."

He puts up a fight when he's led away, thrashing against his bindings and attempting to shove his guards. "They'll kill me. You can't do this!"

Denam elbows a guard and makes a lunge for the throne. Amell readies a barrier, a translucent layering over her skin should he get close enough to her or anyone in the crowd.

Drawing his sword, Cullen rushes forward to intercept and slams the pommel into Denam’s face. Blood spurts from a broken nose. The gathered audience moves in a wave toward the door.

A sucking feeling. Emptiness. A bead of cold in her chest. The spell, shattered. Amell falls to her knees and throws her arms forward to keep herself from collapsing entirely. Cullen spins in alarm, no doubt feeling the sudden absence of her mana.

"Don't kill him." She struggles to her feet, staggers down the steps from the throne. "Just get him out of here."

"My office," Cullen says, low, eying the others beginning to appear from the wings. "You can recover there. No one will bother you."

Amell nods, weakly. Already Josephine begins to calm the crowd, diverting their attention, and with a quick look of understanding between the two, Amell slips away.

Cullen's office holds a sizeable collection of books on history and military strategy. What walls don't hold bookshelves display swords of different styles or maps of different areas of Thedas. Amell pulls out a book at random and holds it just to keep her hands from shaking. A Study of the Fifth Blight, Vol. 2 stares up at her. She thumbs through it, glancing through an outside view of their journey.

Of course, the only one mentioned by name is Elissa, the rest of them grouped under The Wardens, at least until Alistair's name appears. Part of her wishes she could go back to the days when she wasn't even worth a footnote in history. She replaces the book and pokes a wooden carving of a mabari sitting on the edge of the shelf.

The knob of the door leading to Solas's rotunda rattles, then opens, and Cullen steps through with a heavy sigh and a bruise forming on his cheek. "Are you alright?" he asks, fully coming into the office. He hangs his coat up despite the fact that it's absolutely freezing.

"Yes, thank you. The worst part is always the fall." Nothing answers when she tries to pull at the Veil for a small healing spell. It feels like running into a solid wall. "Is Denam detained?"

Cullen walks around to the other side of his desk, cluttered with papers and books. From a bottom drawer, he pulls out a vial of lyrium and a small box. "He is. Leliana is aware of what he did, as well." Amell can't quite find the energy to feel sorry for the man. A wonder why. To her, he offers the potion.

Amell swirls the liquid before drinking it. A habit she picked up from Wynne. Helps with the taste, she said. "You just keep lyrium potions in your desk?" Magic stirs within her, little by little. Like a limb waking, except it's within her. "Thank you."

"A carryover from being in the Order, I suppose. You're... welcome to stay. As long as you need."

She considers him through the empty vial. Memories of a conversation held many years ago. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"

"Ah. Yes." He flips open the lid of the box he removed from his desk. Within, the tools one would need to allot a dose of lyrium. "When we are sworn into the templars, we're given our first dose. It's what grants us our abilities. A gift, but also..." He stares down at the offending box.

"A chain," she finishes for him. He wasn't expecting that, it seems. "Alistair told us, after we... " A steadying breath. "After we left the Tower with the mages. Cullen, he said you were lucky to be alive."

He considers it. "It's true. I don't know how long I went without it, but by the time you found me, I - it wasn't just the demons causing me to see things." He closes the lid and returns the box to the drawer. Hands gripping the edge of his desk, gaze straight ahead, he says, "I've stopped taking it."

Stopped - "Is that safe?" He could die. Be driven mad. "For you?"

His laugh is a brittle thing. "It's only been a few months. Cassandra has been watching over me. When I told her I wanted to quit, we started slow. But I... I haven't had any in a while, now."

She wants to reach out to him, and so she does. One hand on his, fingers curling under to break his hold on the desk. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she whispers.

He finally looks at her and pushes away from the desk. He doesn't let go of her hand. "It wasn't - it didn't seem important, with everything else going on." He squeezes her hand, whether intentionally or subconsciously she doesn't know. "But I wanted you to know, now. And if my ability to lead is compromised, I will be... relieved from duty."

"To, what, retire on a farm?"

This time she knows he squeezes her hand on purpose. "Would that it could be that easy."

"Okay." She nods, mostly for herself. "I trust you, and I trust Cassandra. But if there's anything else you need, you tell me."

For the first time since he got back, Cullen smiles. "Of course, Inquisitor."

"Don't do that. I'm not saying this as your Inquisitor. I say this as your friend. And - "

Oh. She could lose him. Cullen, who has come so far and seen so much, and yet he still looks at her like that? And who is she to deserve it? With what she is... can she? She swallows.

Then, she realizes with a sudden clarity: she wants to.

" - as someone who cares about... what happens to you."

"You...?"

Someone knocks on the door.

This time, instead of jumping apart, Amell slowly releases Cullen's hand and goes to open it. Leliana stands on the other side, poised to knock again. Josephine has calmed the nobles, but Elissa and the others want to see her. Between their search for Clarel and the plot at Halamshiral, there is much to discuss.

Leliana's face lights up when she begins to speak of their formal attire. And as her spymaster and old friend leads her away from Cullen's office, all Amell can think is this: he can't know.

If she has to hide the blood magic forever, she will, but he can't know.

You didn't have to send all of your people, you know. But Ellie looked happy to see Cousland and Howe banners flying together again.

We found Alistair and Loghain. I haven't seen them in so long, but it seems some things never change. It's good to see Ellie and Alistair together again; she smiles a lot more. It doesn't make him any less of a pain, but I've missed him. Even Loghain is already getting along with the rest here. It's so strange!

Please, stay in Amaranthine. It wouldn't do well for all of us to be affected by whatever Corypheus has done.

Stay safe. Give the others my best.

Your friend,

Annie

An unmarked letter at the corner of her desk catches her attention. She sets aside her letter to Nathaniel and picks up the other. Holding it up against her lantern, she can't make out anything damning in the writing. Varric did say it came straight from Leliana, and she wouldn't give her anything she thought was dangerous...

She tears it open.

Almost immediately, tears cloud her vision, blurring the blocky handwriting she hasn't seen in over a decade.

Imagine my surprise when the Inquisition came knocking on my door. I thought they had worse things to deal with than a runaway apostate.

When we ran into each other in that clearing, surrounded by darkspawn, I thought that was the last time I'd ever hear from you. I asked merchants and other refugees after the Blight, but no one heard about you, so I thought...

Here, the ink is smudged and smeared, like he tried to wipe away a blot of moisture.

Annie, I'm so glad you're alive.

I wish I could see you again, but I'm far outside of Ferelden now. And I have a family. A wife and a little girl. We named her Anne, after you, so even if no one else remembered you, I would.

I miss you. Keep in touch if you're not too busy being Inquisitor, now. Stay safe. I hope to see you again.

Your dearest friend,

L Jowan.

Amell wipes away the streaks of tears on her face and runs toward the rookery. She tries to thank Leliana, but the spy master doesn't know what she's talking about.

"You-you found my friend. From the Circle. Jowan?"

Confusion shifts to understanding. "I remember. The boy at Redcliffe." She grins. "Your Commander asked me to track him down."

"Come in," Cullen says when she knocks on the door. She steps in hesitantly, and he looks up from his desk when she shuts the door. "Oh, In - Amell, I wasn't expecting - " He squints as she moves further into the room, and nearly trips over his chair in his haste to round the desk. "You've been crying. Are you - is everything all right? What happened?"

It almost makes the tears begin again, but she takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Leliana said you asked her to look for Jowan."

He reaches out for her but stops short. "Did something happen to him?"

"No, no. He... He has a wife and a child that they named after me." Her heart feels so full, face hot against the cold of his office. "Why did you... do - that? Ask after him."

"I still remember what he did... " Her and Lily covered in blood. The walls, the floor, the templars, all awash in it. "But he's important to you. I thought - I... " Cullen eyes the main door. "Can we talk outside?" He gestures to one of the side doors, leading out onto the battlements.

Outside, they walk in a tense silence, the dull clack of boots against stone and the wind whistling through collapsed watchtowers the only noise around them. Amell rubs her forearms for warmth in lieu of casting a spell, and Cullen drapes his cloak over her once more.

Huddled into the fur, she laughs nervously. "Why did we come out here?"

Cullen stops. "I didn't want to be interrupted," he says. He takes her hands in his and runs his thumbs over her knuckles, the warmth seeping in even through her gloves. "I thought finding Jowan would make you happy."

"Cullen, it's probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. But why?"

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Exhales a cloud of air. "I care for you, Annwn. Probably more than I should, since you're the Inquisitor, but I..."

She withdraws her hands. He looks stricken, ready to step away, until she asks, "Are you sure? You were tortured with images of me. Is that - I don't want to - "

Cullen sighs and brings up a hand to cup her cheek. "I know. I'm sure." His gaze drops to her lips as he leans in. She follows suit, like a flower to the sun.

Neither of them hear the door open. "Commander. I have that report from Sister Leliana."

Amell stares into the cold, uncaring sky and wonders if the Maker hates her, in particular. "Cullen," she says when she hears the office door slam shut, "if you need to - "

One hand tangled in her hair, the other on the small of her back, he kisses her with over ten years of pent up longing and months long yearning, and Maker help her she kisses him back.

He pulls away looking only slightly sheepish and not at all apologetic. "Sorry," he says, besides. "I should have asked, but - "

Knowing her luck, if he had waited any longer someone else would have come looking for her. "Cullen." She pulls him closer by the straps of his breastplate. "Kiss me again?"

He smiles, and does.

#siri drabbles #series: homeward bound #otp: the one thing i always wanted #diredwolves #i think i caught all my muss ups. if not oh well #THEY DID THE THING!! i'm so proud

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farfromharry · 3 years

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Who would’ve thought | Frat!Tom

Summary: Who would’ve thought that the frat boy with the concerning reputation would actually be a big softie with a thing for romance? All it took was the right girl.

Word count - 3,705

Warnings - drinking, mentions of throwing up, language

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Tom Holland, the ultimate frat boy of the campus.

You first heard about him through people in your classes, the classes you were meant to share with him if he were to ever show up. He was considered cocky, a little bit of a whore, and didn’t have a care for anyone who he wasn’t A, trying to sleep with or B, wasn’t a part of his frat.

You didn’t expect good things at all when meeting him for the first time, so that dreaded day when you got your new seating arrangements for the rest of the term and you just so happened to be sitting next to the frat boy himself, was unfortunately also the first day he showed up to your criminology class.

He showed up in a rather casual outfit, nothing too out of the ordinary. A dark blue hoodie with a matching cap sitting backwards on his head. When he turned his head to the side you could see the accent of small brunette curls sticking out of the back of his hat, accentuated by his sharp jawline.

He took one look at the seating chart and you saw, even from your spot near the back, the way his eyebrows drew together in confusion. He had no idea who you are.

You left him to work it out on his own, not wanting to be that girl who made a fool of herself in front of the infamous frat boy.

It didn’t take long until you felt his presence beside you, forcing yourself not to look. He cleared his throat, drawing your attention to him and missing the way you cursed yourself for giving in so easily.

“Are you Y/N?” You nodded your head and you could almost see the breath of relief he let out.

Tom took a seat next to you with a small smile. You assumed he was just trying to get on your good side to ask you for answers or borrow your notes, something he’d need for missing so much of the class work. “I’m Tom,” he said, deep voice unwillingly making your stomach fill with butterflies.

He held out his hand for you to shake, a crooked smile on his lips as he waited for you to respond. “Y/N.” The second your hand touched his, the boy was convinced he had to get to know you better, something about your shy persona intriguing him. “But, you already knew that,” you laughed nervously.

He thought your nerves were cute, the corners of his eyes creasing from how hard he was smiling. He slid into the seat next to you, the boy mentally debating how he was going to go about this. Tom wasn’t going to lie and say he didn’t think you were gorgeous because he was definitely slightly taken aback by you when you first looked at him with those doe eyes, so he didn’t want to ruin things before they’d even started.

“So, you probably know I haven’t been to a single one of these classes,” he said. You laughed, nodding your head. He felt his own lips twitching into a smile when he heard the angelic sound. “Are they really as bad as everyone says?”

You hummed as you thought about it, taking a few seconds. In that time Tom was fully taking advantage, his eyes raking over your face admirably, taking a mental note of all your different features. You tried not to let your nerves get to you when you noticed. “They’re definitely as bad as people say.”

He groaned, catching the eyes of a few different people around you both that made you sink into your seat awkwardly. He laughed it off, finding it amusing how easy it was to get you all flustered, deciding he would be using that with his flirting tactics from then on.

“Let’s hope you make them better then,” he mumbled, biting his lip to contain the smirk threatening to overtake his face. You didn’t respond but he could see from his peripheral vision that you shifted nervously in your seat.

Tom wasn’t sure if he was also getting flustered while talking to you or if he was subconsciously thinking showing off his physique would somehow catch your interest like it had done countless times before with the other girls on campus. But either way, he pulled the cap off of his head, lazily running his fingers through his curls for a second.

You glanced over when you saw his hands go to the hem of his hoodie, watching with the tip of your pen between your teeth as he began to peel the material off of his body.

You almost choked when you saw the grey, cotton shirt slip up and expose the bottom of his abdomen, hard muscles and a sliver of his underwear peeking through.

He placed the hoodie on the back off his chair once it was completely off, exposing the tight, plain grey shirt that clung to every ridge and muscle.

He heard your shaky inhale and couldn’t stop the smirk that crept onto his face, shooting you a single glance before he turned his head back to the front of the class.

You’d expected Tom to be a lot more distracting, seeing as he was quick to start up conversation with you earlier, but to your surprise he actually seemed to be paying attention.

This class flew by much quicker than the all the other ones, and you weren’t sure whether that was due to your thoughts being cloudy by the pretty boy next to you.

“Do you maybe want to come to a party next week?” he asked. You were taken off guard, your eyebrows raising as you packed away your stuff.

“I, um-“ He could see your internal conflict, interrupting before you had the chance to reject his offer.

“You don’t have to, of course, but if you do-“ He tore the corner off of a sheet of paper in his notebook, scribbling down the address of the frat house that you were sure you’d be able to find without his help. “Here’s the address, and there’s my number.”

His lips curved into a smirk as he handed you the scrap of paper, your fingertips brushing and creating another wave of butterflies for you.

“Uh, thank you. I’ll be sure to consider it.” You didn’t want to give him a final answer right now because you weren’t much of a party girl. You’d much rather stay in but as soon as your roommate got word she’d definitely be making it her mission to get you to that party.

“I look forward to maybe seeing you there.” He gave you a fake salute and turned to walk away, one hand holding the strap of his bag and the other carrying his discarded hoodie. When he reached the door of the classroom he gave you one last look over his shoulder, throwing you a wink before he was gone.

»»——⍟——««

The week had passed and you still hadn’t used Tom’s number at all, and he didn’t have yours to text you first, so he just has to wait. The man had no idea if you really were coming or not. It was unusual for him but he was nervous and his friends were starting to notice. Harrison had seen how Tom took a little extra time to get ready for tonight, pointing it out to Tom’s younger brother who brushed it off as him trying to pull another girl, and he wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Who are you waiting for, mate?” the blonde asked, placing his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. Tom sighed, checking the watch on his wrist one more time, assuming that you weren’t showing up.

“A girl from my criminology class, but doesn’t look like she’s gonna show.” The younger of the two just shrugged his shoulder, encouraging his friend to finish his drink and go get another one with him. “Just enjoy your night mate, with or without her,” he said, lightly punching his shoulder in a friendly way before disappearing into the crowd. Tom nodded even as he walked away, quietly mumbling to himself, with or without her.

That mindset was gone as soon as he saw you. His entire face practically lit up as he spotted you coming through the front door of the house, politely pushing your way through a group of people who were blocking the entrance.

He was by your side in seconds, people moving out of his way as if he was a God, and you had to admit you were a little grateful because it definitely made it easier to move.

“You came,” he cheered, boldly linking his fingers with yours and dragging you straight to the kitchen. He could tell just from the way your hand subconsciously tightened around his every time someone so much as cast their eyes your way that you were nervous, if you were being honest you didn’t really want to be here.

“Yeah, um, my roommate,” you poorly explained, pursing your lips together. He nodded in understanding, giving you a quick run down on the drinks the frat house had on offer.

He was only slightly surprised when you turned them all down, shyly asking if you could have water instead.

“Thank you,” you muttered, your eyes roaming around the kitchen. This was one of the more less crowded areas of the house, and even then you could barely breathe from the wave of people filtering in and out every few minutes to get more drinks.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out you weren’t enjoying the party. Even with his efforts of getting you to loosen up, Tom could still see the traces of a frown on your lips and your stiff posture. He took a step closer to you, placing his hand lightly on your lower back, your eyes flickering to him to see what he was up to. He leaned down to your ear so you could hear him better, more or less having to shout for you to hear his words over the booming music.

“D’you want to get out of here?” he asked, gulping down the remainder of his beverage from the solo cup. Your eyes widened at the suggestive comment and you would’ve been disgusted if he hadn’t jumped in so quickly after the words left his mouth to correct his meaning. “Not like that, no, I meant um-“

This was the first time you’d seen him nervous, and you found it quite adorable the way his cheeks turned a light shade of pink; although that could’ve easily just been from the alcohol or the heat of the room.

“I meant, you don’t look like you’re having fun, and as my guest it’s my job to make sure you are.” His words didn’t sound any better in your head, but he clearly thought they did in his drunk one.

“What are you saying, Tom?”

“Do you want to go on a walk with me or something?” You smiled softly, thinking over your options quickly. Either stay in this dreadful party with the couples making out and drunk idiots running about the place, or go get some fresh air with a very cute and surprisingly polite frat boy.

It was safe to say your mind was quickly made up. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He linked your fingers together so it’d be easier to lead you through the crowd, throwing out his cup on the way.

Stepping outside the front door of the house you were hit with a wave of very cooling fresh air. You felt your body heat immediately cool down, a nice and very different sensation from the heat inside the party.

You still didn’t seem to be away from drunken idiots, Tom letting out a groan when he noticed some kids throwing up on the grass outside the house. Your face screamed disgust but you couldn’t help but laugh at him anyway.

He led you away from the house, muttering something about how he was going to leave that to someone else to clean up.

You didn’t even realise that you were still holding hands until Tom subconsciously squeezed yours when he felt you shiver from the sudden breeze.

You cleared your throat, nervously pulling your hand away and shooting him a tight lipped smile. You could see him frown slightly and with a small accepting nod he slipped his hand back in his pocket.

“So, why did you suddenly decide to show up to class?” you asked, a little out of the blue as you strolled side by side down the path in the empty park. Tom didn’t really have a good answer, it was either show up or completely fail the class and he wasn’t prepared to get yelled at by his mother for failing yet another class; but that didn’t sound like a cool thing to tell the girl he was trying to impress.

“Maybe I heard there was a really pretty girl in there who could use my attention,” he flirted, bumping his shoulder against yours. You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath for him to stop being so cheesy.

You didn’t understand why he’d taken such a sudden interest in you. It’d only been a week since you’d met but even in such a short time Tom had found himself infatuated with you, but not in a creepy way.

“Why did you invite me, Tom?” The question had been lingering in the front of your mind for days, and unfortunately you just had to ask now.

You both came to a stop, turning to face each other as you peered at him curiously. You saw Tom’s cheeks flush, the close proximity of your faces allowing you to see every small detail of the way his blush overtook his cheeks and nose.

“Just full of questions aren’t you?” he nervously laughed. The question was rhetorical of course, buying him time to come up with an answer. He took a deep breath, pursing his lips together awkwardly. “I like you. I know we only met last week but I-“

You could feel your heart stop for a moment, needing time to comprehend what he’d just said to you. “There’s something about you Y/N, and I’d really like to get to know you better.”

Your silence didn’t seem like good news to Tom. He let himself get ahead of the situation completely, his heart sank into his stomach and he was bracing himself for your rejection.

“Tom, is this some kind of joke?” you asked, convinced this couldn’t have been real. The big frat boy with the bad reputation wanting to go out with you?

“No, no of course not. Y/N, just give me a chance,” he begged, taking your hands in his gently. His thumbs stroked circles over the skin on the back of each of your hands, his eyes watching you full of hope.

“Come on, one date. If you hate it you don’t even have to talk to me ever again,” he offered. You cocked your head, your eyebrows drawing together in a way Tom thought was cute.

“Really?”

He tried to backtrack. “Well, no. That’d suck for me if you did. But you get the point.”

You let out a small laugh, looking up at the pair of soft brown eyes that were waiting for hopefully a good answer.

“Fine. One date can’t hurt.” He cheered silently, leaning down to place a cheeky kiss on your cheek that left you stuttering nervously.

“You won’t regret it.”

»»——⍟——««

It was many weeks before you actually gave into Tom for a second date. At first it was just dates, which from what you’d heard were out of the ordinary for him in general, but then somehow it progressed into a beautifully blossoming relationship, if you do say so yourself.

You were scared at first that he was going to fall back into that fuckboy role, or like in the movies he was going to be embarrassed about being seen with you, but it was the complete opposite.

He couldn’t tell enough people that you were dating. When dragging you along to parties it was always, have you met my girlfriend Y/N?, or an arm thrown around your shoulder with lots of kisses placed all over your face and neck to let people know you were taken.

Cute little picnic dates became surprisingly very common when you and Tom finally made things official. All your friends told you that they’d never known Tom to be this involved with a girl, because he didn’t normally waste his time taking his pursuits on dates.

The first time showed up at your door with a picnic basket and flowers in hand you were honestly shocked. He’d told you he was taking you somewhere because of the nice weather but it didn’t even cross your mind.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said, watching you set the flowers down on your counter. You turned around with a playful eye roll at the way he was rushing you.

“Go where?” you giggled, slipping your hand in his outstretched one. He placed his lips on yours softly, drawing an unintentional grin from you. “‘m taking you on a picnic, want to enjoy the weather with my girl.”

From that day on it was almost a weekly thing, but it was also the thing that let you know Tom was serious about your relationship and wasn’t just planning on breaking your heart.

You and Tom had been in a comfortable silence for a while now. He believed you were reading the book you brought with you, so he didn’t want to interrupt. He chose instead to just look around at your surroundings, watching other people laugh and have fun in the field that sat in front of the university.

Little did he know you’d actually been admiring him for the last ten or so minutes. You stared at the way his jaw clenched every few seconds, making his jawline look even more prominent than it was. The way his curls so effortlessly fell into a perfect position on his head, and the way his biceps would bulge in the tight black shirt every time he would fix his hair after a slight gust of wind blew it into his face.

You snapped out of your daze when you noticed he was talking to someone, wondering if it was you. That was when you noticed a group of lads that were in the same frat as Tom, teasing him about how whipped he was for you.

“Fuck off,” Tom groaned, flipping them all off as they chuckled. They eventually gave up, running away snickering at the rise they’d managed to get from their clearly irritated friend.

“‘M sorry about them,” he said, gently running the back of his hand over your cheek. You nuzzled closer to it for a moment, providing him with a split second of affection before you were back to your book.

All the teasing left you thinking, Tom noticing the way you were chewing on your bottom lip, something he’d noticed you did often when you were deep in your head.

“‘s going on in that pretty head of yours?” he asked, brushing some hair out of your face. You sighed softly, locking eyes with your boyfriend.

“Who would’ve thought?” you mumbled, barely catching his ears from how quiet it was. He hummed in confusion, having no idea what you were referring to until you’d decide to finish your sentence.

You rolled over onto your stomach, inevitably rolling off of Tom’s lap. You pushed yourself up to your knees, hands on either side of Tom’s legs as you got close to his face with your own.

His hand shifted from his lap to cup your cheek, a small grin forming on his face as the man admired how beautiful you were up close. He was almost too distracted by your features, and those sparkling eyes looking at him to even comprehend the words coming out of your mouth, but luckily he caught them anyway.

“Who would’ve thought that the king of the frat, the biggest playboy on campus, whore if you will,” you exaggerated, lips curling into a grin. “Was secretly a big softie.”

His heart fluttered slightly but he scoffed at your beginning words, feigning offence at the names you’d labelled him with. “I can be romantic,” he whined, trying his best to defend himself.

You hummed, pretending to think about it to tease him even further. He huffed, happily forgetting his pouty mood with a few soft, short kisses from you.

“I’m kidding,” you whispered, slotting your lips together again in a sweet kiss. “Better be,” he grumbled, rubbing his thumb across your temple lovingly.

“Even if you are a whore, you’re still my favourite whore,” you teased, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip to hold back your giggle. You saw him roll his eyes, his hand playfully pushing your head away from him until you were once again laying back in his lap.

“You’re so mean to me,” he complained, nudging you with the knee that you were laying on. You chuckled quietly, nuzzling your head against his stomach, your arms snaking around his waist.

“I love you though,” you whispered, feeling as though a massive weight had been lifted off of you. That was the first time either of you had said those words. You hadn’t been dating long, and part of you was still scared he wasn’t serious about this, but god did it feel good to say out loud.

Tom was shocked, staring down at you with his mouth agape. He felt butterflies exploding in his stomach and he realised he should probably say something before you start to overthink, something you were very good at.

“Yeah?” he asked, just making sure. You nodded your head, tightening your grip around your boyfriend’s torso, almost like you were afraid he’d run away.

“I-I love you too,” he announced, feeling your entire body relax against his. “Even if you do think I’m a whore.”

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tom holland taglist → @seutarose @lmaotshollandd @photoshopart15 @hopelessly-harry @call-me-baby-gir1 @icyhollands @sinisterspidey @siriuslyslyslytherin @musicalkeys-blog @itstaskeen @tpwk-grande @zspideyy @spideyssunshine @givebuckyhisplumsnow @lowkey-holland @hollandcrush @wizkiddx @sannie-san-shine @sonnydoesrandomshit @hopeless-romantic-baby @thehumanistsdiary @dummiesshort @itsbieberxholland @lillucyandthejets @piscesparker @bvttercupbby @mymilliefrommarketing @spideyspeaches @kujokura @l0velyevans @jess-holland23 @felicityparkers @quxxnxfhxll @captainamirica @tomsirishgirlx @lou-la-lou @slutforsr @tayyx @bora-world @annathesillyfriend @lovableparker @whoeveniskendall @hollandswife @sunwardsss @dhtomholland @messedupmyfuckinglife @bi-lmg @londonspidey @multixfandomwriter @mrsholland96 @tomhollandismyhusband1996 @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @magicalxdaydream @hallecarey1 @aayaissaa

#tom holland #tom holland oneshot #tom holland fluff #tom holland imagine #tom holland imagines #frat!tom

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seasonsofeverlark · 2 years

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Just Friends

Author: @taylerwrites

Prompt: My prompt submission. The One Bed trope. So I would like to request a story where everlark are casual friends and they have to share a bed, and they know its tropey or they know their friends/family set them up. They laugh it off as a joke but when they actually share the bed....they catch feels, ya feel me?

Doesn't have to be smutty (although I won't say no to smut lol) but it could be anywhere from T-E and I'd be happy as long as its romantic.

Bonus points for them cuddling and being cute.

The One Bed trope [Submitted by @lemonluvgirl87 ]

Rating: M (Suggestive)

Author's Note: I tweaked this a bit and added the FWB trope as well [unless that’s what you meant by “casual friends”]. Also, I apologize I couldn’t delve into this prompt deeper; I had a family emergency, so I was limited on time. I’d be happy to expand the idea if you’re interested. [1.4k+ words] _____________

Katniss always thought that college was made for people like Peeta. Captain of the hockey team, popular, a top student, and he’s the hottest guy she’s ever met. Sometimes she wonders why he even bothers to hang around someone as plain as herself, and every time she asks, he gently flicks her forehead.

“Because we’re best friends, dummy.”

Although, if Katniss thinks about it, there are many things that some might find a little unusual about their friendship. Like the fact that they have a habit of crawling into each other’s bed late at night, talking about everything and anything until they fall asleep—also cuddling on the couch after Peeta turns the dial on the air conditioner too low.

Except, it doesn’t end there.

Whenever they’re out doing anything, they somehow always end up touching. Whether it be holding hands on a crowded street, snuggling on couches at parties, or Peeta resting his head on top of hers as he waits for Katniss to decide on a brand of cereal—it’s so natural by now that she doesn’t even think twice about it when it happens.

But none of this compares to the most questionable part of their friendship: that they fool around at least two times a week—more now that the season started up again. It helps relieve stress from school and practice, he told her once.

She’s not even sure how the arrangement even happened; she just remembers a long weekend at the lake with their group of friends. Katniss was forced to bunk with Peeta after Jo kicked her out to have a room all to herself with Cashmere.

The night had started as harmless; two friends joking around with hushed giggles—their spirits high and thoughts a little lucid from the alcohol settling in their stomachs.

But the gap between them grew smaller when laughter turned into shy smiles until he was pulling her atop his chest. An involuntary shiver had traveled up her spine at the feel of his cold rings touching her warm thigh where her skirt had slid up.

“You cold?” he'd asked, not even letting her answer before he was drawing her closer into his arms—the rough denim of his jeans now rubbing against her legs. “Better?”

Katniss nodded slowly, disregarding that she was actually feeling pretty warm, and it wasn’t only due to the alcohol.

It wasn't long before clothes started coming off, and Peeta stared at her like he was taking his fill. Then he was drunkenly admitting, “I’ve always thought you were gorgeous. Especially in those cute ‘lil skirts.”

Katniss drunkenly pawed at his bare chest, muttering out a quiet, “really?”

The siren ringing in her head telling her this was a bad idea had gone ignored as soon as he found himself between her thighs.

“Better not go catching feelings if we fuck a few times,” he’d told her with a crooked grin.

Which is easier said than done because any girl with a pulse would fall for him; this is Peeta, after all—sometimes it was hard to be in the same room as him without her heart fluttering in her chest.

In the end, though, she tries not to make a big deal out of it. As long as they are still friends, right?

~~~~~

His hands are warm where they run along her thigh, tracing random patterns on her skin that has her sighing into his neck.

It makes it hard to keep a conversation going, subtly rubbing her thighs together to relieve the new ache there. Peeta is too busy playing Mario Kart on the Switch with Finnick and Gale to notice that she hasn't said anything for a while—but the latter does.

“What’s wrong, Catnip?” Gale nudges her, passing the rolled cigarette between his lips to Peeta. “You’re pretty quiet. You sick or something?”

“Yeah, of you,” she smirks.

“Shut up,” he laughs. “I bet it’s because that guy from your study group hasn’t shown up yet. What was his name? Allen? Adam?”

She instantly regrets telling him about Eren asking her if she wanted to get dinner sometime, and why she would tell Gale anything when he doesn’t know how to keep a secret is beyond her.

Peeta turns his head to blow out a hazy cloud of smoke, side-eyeing Katniss and no longer paying attention to the game on the TV.

“He’s in the same study group as you, too. How do you not know his name?” she jokes lightly.

“Oh! Look, there he is!” She follows his line of sight to Eren standing at the makeshift beer pong table in the dining room. “Go say hi!”

Peeta stiffens beneath her. “I-I don’t know, Gale. He looks busy.”

“Here, I’ll call him over.”

Katniss swallows the lump in her throat at the unreadable look Peeta gives her, and she's thankful that Finnick draws the attention away from her when he complains about the fact that he's been playing by himself.

"Dude, your shitty car has been driving into the fucking wall for five minutes," he tells Gale.

"Tch, you won't be saying that when Princess Peach knocks your ass off rainbow road."

They go back to playing their game, Eren forgotten, but she notices Peeta doesn’t seem to be into it as much as before.

~~~~~

It's not long before Katniss is getting sleepy, only a few people sticking around to help Jo clean up the empty cups and beer cans. Finnick and Gale are sleeping against each other on the couch, and Peeta is in the kitchen tying up the trash.

Katniss sneaks off to the guest bedroom upstairs, blindly stumbling into the room in search of the light. She’s in the middle of messily shoving her spare clothes into her bag when she hears a light knock on the door.

She glances over her shoulder to find Peeta standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. "Looks like Jo's too drunk to give us a ride home. We might have to crash here for the night, but there's no more room on the couch. Mind if I sleep in here with you?"

Sleeping is never just sleeping with him.

“To have sex, you mean,” she says light-heartedly, but he’s shaking his head.

“No, just to sleep.”

The silence between them feels thick as they lay under the covers—both of them uncharacteristically laying on their backs when they’re normally cuddling whenever they’re in the same bed.

She wonders what he’s thinking—

“So…” he starts, making Katniss turn her head to look at him. “We’re friends, and you know you can tell me anything, right?”

Her brows draw down into a frown. “Yes,” she says hesitantly.

Peeta doesn’t take his eyes off of the ceiling when he asks, “do you want to stop this?”

Katniss feels her heart lurch in her chest. Questions are flying through her head, but he’s talking again before she can list one off.

“You know, I’ve never done this before.” He huffs out a strained laugh. “I don’t even remember the last time I thought of someone else, and I got so upset hearing about the thought of some random guy trying to take you away from me.”

“Peeta,” she says softly, “what’re you saying?”

His blue eyes meet hers. “I still want to be friends.”

“Oh, well, that’s—”

“But I also want to wake up every morning to the woman I love in my bed. I want to take you on dates and tell all of our friends that you’re mine, and not worry about you falling for a guy named Eren.”

Oh.

“Really? You love me?” she whispers, like the words uttered between them are some secret she doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

Peeta reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, his lips quirking up lazily. “Yeah, I love you.”

Katniss leans into the palm cupping her cheek, unable to contain the smile spreading across her lips. “What happened to not catching feelings?”

“Well, I was an idiot,” his face flushes pink. “Because I already fell for you.”

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #winter #winter 2022 #valentine's day #taylerwrites #submission #prompt

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preemshots · 3 years

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the definitive post of WHERE IN THE WORLD IS JOHNNY SILVERHAND’S BODY?

AKA the post of HERE’S WHY I WANT TO BELIEVE WE ARE GONNA GET JOHNNY’S BODY BACK IN DLC.

buckle up, gamers. it's time for some lore. this is a very long post.

warning: this will contain a million spoilers. both for details of multiple game endings, a wee bit of the “where’s johnny” comic, and the cyberpunk RED book. if you want a sparknotes version this is the post for you. my main source here is the cyberpunk RED book as well as as some references to the cyberpunk 2077 world book to cross examine the lore.

i have no idea if someone has made this post before or what anybody else has been finding in their own lore diving. this is just me documenting my own findings from the sources i’ve been using.

it would be disingenuous not to preface this with the ways in which cyberpunk 2077's telling of the arasaka assault differ from the version told in the TTRPG books. the books =/= the game. pondsmith acknowledges in the intro of RED that this is a bridge between the old cyberpunk world and the new world of cyberpunk 2077.

we also know that johnny's an unreliable narrator and his memories presented to V are often different than real events. but on top of that we don't know if the reason why many elements are changed is simply CDPR editing/adjusting/condensing the storyline for their own canon, or if it's due to johnny's construct being manipulated by outside influences such as arasaka.

some of the main differences you need to know from cyberpunk RED canon:

in 2023 johnny doesn't bring the nukes to arasaka tower. he's solely there to free alt.

johnny and rogue and their team from the atlantis/the aldecaldos are actually hired by morgan blackhand.

morgan blackhand is the one who plants the nuke, unbeknownst to many members of the team.

morgan blackhand promptly disappears after this event and no one knows if he's alive or dead. (claire confirms this fact to jackie and v before the heist in 2077 canon)

johnny's silver cybernetic arm is its own character, separate from himself. it seems to have a mind of its own and johnny interacts with it and/or is influenced by it.

when he, spider murphy, rogue, thompson, shaitan, and a team of los lobos from the aldecaldos (who are there in place of santiago, as he’s busy as the leader of the aldecaldos at this point) are attacked by adam smasher, johnny and his arm actively choose to draw smasher's fire in a deliberately suicidal move. smasher downs him instantly, but the distraction is enough to also save his friends.

spider murphy shoves a mysterious chip in johnny's dying head as they escape that alt had downloaded to her a long time ago.

johnny's body is later "rumoured" to have been retrieved from the rubble by a full-body borg groupie that was a first responder to the ground zero of AHQ and then hidden away in a nearby garage.

here comes the political lore that makes my eyes cross, so hopefully this accurately summarizes it: the 4th corporate war begins to end. arasaka is ultimately blamed by the NUSA government to have nuked themselves in a political move to protect their secrets and promptly banished from the USA. arasaka denies this all the way back to japan, then eventually returns to “liberate” night city in the unification wars.

but what the public doesn't know is that kei, saburo's oldest son, had actually hidden an EVEN BIGGER MORE DEVASTATING NUKE at the bottom of the tower to, well, do exactly what they were being accused of doing, even though blackhand was the one who actually dropped the smaller nuke on them. and luckily the bigger one didn’t go off.

arasaka tries to find their nuke in the rubble so they don't get in even bigger trouble, only to discover that it was moved and hidden away to... surprise! a nearby garage.

to compare with 2077:

in RED: we have no johnny loading the nukes into the elevator. no johnny being carried off the premises. no meeting saburo. no johnny getting soulkilled.

in 2077: there's a parallel moment to RED's version of events right after johnny uploads "liberator" from alt's old cyberdeck with spider's help into the arasaka mainframe in saburo's office. adam smasher comes for him as he's trying to escape, knocking him off the second floor of the atrium into the rock garden below.

visually this is the same atrium we always meet alt in in cyberspace and also where V meets johnny for the first time. hmmm. meaningful, perhaps.

not unlike what happens in RED, johnny unloads a clip into smasher at that point, but from there the scene instantly cuts to him running to the roof attempting to board the AV with rogue, where smasher shoots him down again. it’s possible johnny actually died to smasher in the atrium and we have some fabricated memories going on.

either way, in 2077, we lose the character beat of johnny dying for his friends, and the current-day general consensus from rogue and others is that he’s perpetually a selfish asshole with ulterior motives.

and, just to wrap up the politics of it all: morgan blackhand is rumoured to have been secretly hired by the militech-backed NUSA government to help end the 4th corporate war by... you guessed it! nuking arasaka.

HERE'S WHERE JOHNNY'S BODY ENDS UP IN CYBERPUNK RED (SPARKNOTES VERSION):

RED ends with a story called "black dog" set in 2045. black dog is the last song johnny recorded right before the assault on arasaka tower, but the final copy is a bootleg copy of the song and only a fraction.

we're introduced to a fun group of cybernetic-enhanced characters that represent the classes in the TTRPG and based on/designed by real people in collaboration with CDPR.

this group includes trace santiago, santiago's son, who is a media that is curious about the mystery surrounding the circumstances around his father and the arasaka bombing.

just connecting lore here: if you talk to saul at the aldecaldo camp in 2077, he confirms that santiago was killed for his involvement with johnny and the bombing, something that rogue and johnny reference when they talk about their now-dead crew from the afterlife, and in chippin in, santiago is a friend that johnny lists as someone he had disappointed.

the group sets off to find any info about black dog, and meet up with a full conversion chrome woman named samantha in a garage who is blatantly a johnny silverhand fangirl. trace discovers she has a history with johnny, having rescued him from a studio fire at some point in 2015 and speculates she could have been a groupie also.

she mysteriously has a more complete recording of black dog, though not perfect, and offers to trade it for a service: she wants the group to transport a large crate to a facility in new mexico, asking them not to open it.

shit goes down. evidently everyone in night city wants to kill them for this package once it starts moving. eventually they open it. it's the arasaka nuke that had been hidden and never went off, emblazoned with warnings.

trace inquires about the circumstances surrounding the arasaka assault with an older member of the lobos who had been present with rogue and johnny. the man mentions that it was weird, because morgan blackhand organized the whole thing and then ran off immediately with a mysterious bag that we now know contained the nuke.

michiko arasaka intercepts the gang, explaining the situation around the bigger nuke, that other factions in arasaka want to utilize it for their own goals (presumably hanako and yorinobu) and her father's legacy, that she feels responsible for. she escorts them to new mexico so that the nuke can be dismantled once and for all.

they meet up with a woman named angel in new mexico that takes the crate from them, at a facility that specializes in nuclear material. she gives the group the full recording of "black dog". the group leaves successful.

this woman is also a johnny silverhand stan. once alone, she calls up samantha, who says, "i promised i would get him to you in the end" and reveals that she had already gutted/dismantled the original nuke and discarded the material into the bay.

angel opens the "nuke" to reveal a hidden cryochamber, and greets the face of the person inside with, "hello, my love."

i mean, holy shit. okay! so that’s DEFINITELY johnny’s body. cool!

now let’s go into all the references to this story in the actual game of cyberpunk 2077 that SUGGEST we are going to pursue this story AND johnny's body since it’s such a HOT FUCKING TOPIC.

and i know many of the following can just be considered easter eggs. but my personal interpretation of this game is that it has a really delightful way of intentionally glossing over important story details—and not by ONLY putting them in shards (which people tend to dislike because lol reading) but by also hiding them in plain sight, constantly deferring to V's own ignorance, distracting us with shallower, shinier things, encouraging us to actually play as the fool hero of this story.

so here's the fun list of “””evidence”””:

this one’s a reach, but fun. in the initial arasaka assault flashback in 2023: we can interact with the groupies at kerry's show as johnny. samantha doesn't appear to be present, but the first person and groupie you can encounter in the flashback has a passing resemblance to angel in that she has a cybernetic arm.

in chippin' in, where we go to johnny's "grave" in the oil fields: if we are to take the 2077 retelling of events as truth, the story could instead be pretty easily be changed that samantha procured his body from there.

mike pondsmith, who wrote these stories and created the TTRPG can be heard on the radio narrating various conspiracy theories. and sure, these can just be easter eggs, intended to reference the differences between the TTRPG lore and the game, so take it with a grain of salt:

johnny. bro. tell him it was morgan blackhand

to top it all off, mike also directly references the actual WORSE nuke arasaka had hid in another arasaka conspiracy:

SPOILERS FOR GAME ENDINGS AHEAD.

in the rogue ending of the game we discover rogue has a son. it's possible her son is trace (edit: nvm NOT LIKELY, since in RED’s black dog story rogue is listed separately from santiago’s mom in conversation) OR possibly one of the other characters. she tells her son to "pull over and look at the stars" or something along those lines. maybe just details, so that screams nomad to me.

rogue also has a photo of herself and johnny with mike pondsmith in her apartment/office in the afterlife. i initially read this as a delightful cameo but it also can mean mike the CHARACTER knew johnny and rogue, and rogue therefore has some kind of relationship to him and these conspiracies on the radio. and why the fuck not make him a full on character? we have a smattering of streamers and personalities already integrated into quests in the game. the creator of all this should be no exception. fuck it!

rogue and johnny constantly dance around this accusation of her “selling out”. it’s repeated over and over that she and adam smasher worked for "the same people". i'm beginning to wonder if this wasn't meant to imply only arasaka since smasher mysteriously disappeared after the AHQ assault in 2023 and returned to SOMETIMES take jobs from arasaka... but possibly morgan blackhand and/or by extension, the NUSA or any other greater influences. (like nightcorp? we still don’t know where all this shit with nightcorp/the peralezes/sandra dorsett’s discovery about their research into mind control is gonna go) this also doesn’t account for the multiple factions inside arasaka with VERY different motives.

morgan blackhand and adam smasher are rivals in the TTRPG, a role that appears to be at least partially filled by johnny instead in 2077. in relation to the arasaka factions, it’s worth nothing that smasher specifically works for yorinobu as his bodyguard at the beginning of the game, in part i assume because yorinobu is avoiding working with arasaka security details as he stole the relic and is plotting against his father. he is then promoted to head of security by yorinobu when yorinobu assumes power.

in the ending as you work your way through arasaka tower with rogue and shaitan and johnny, rogue remarks:

michiko at this point in 2077 is the leader of the more “liberal” faction within arasaka, so it’s possible we’re seeing that while rogue and smasher work for the same people/family, they couldn’t be more different.

you can also encounter rogue more than once on the phone fighting with wakako, who has apparently crossed her. wakako also seems to have her own ulterior motives and works mainly with the arasaka-backed tyger claws. she notably gives v/takemura the parade security info for “play it safe” without asking for anything in return, enabling hanako’s kidnapping. my theory is that yorinobu intentionally leaked the parade info to her to give away to put hanako in danger or at least continue to destabilize arasaka.

in the takemura/devil ending of the game, there is a point where violence breaks out at the arasaka board room meeting when yorinobu-allied security open fire on them. one of the only people that survives along with hanako is michiko arasaka, who was at odds with hanako’s decisions, but very involved in the preceding discussion.

and now for is my favorite detail! in the afterlife AT ALL POINTS IN THE GAME (but it can only really be inspected in the rogue ending when we are allowed behind the bar), we can find a photo of the squad that transported johnny's body from samantha to angel on the shelf below johnny's tequila, of them hanging out in front of the afterlife sign:

this implies rogue has some relationship with them, and sentimentality, if we're to judge by the placement. she maybe even took the picture. i don't know, it's charming, it could be all easter eggs. who fucking knows.

either way, rogue and these kids both have in common that they worked with or at least interacted with michiko arasaka.

and you know what my final evidence is? more wishful thinking! black dog plays on the radio in game. we got a full recorded version of it by refused. if not an oversight, i go ahead and take it to mean the final version was finally released to the public by those kids that were looking for it.

i haven’t the slightest idea how this is gonna wrap up in future DLC. who has johnny’s body now in 2077, decades after it was dropped off in mexico? what is the truth?? where the fuck is morgan blackhand?? from the devil ending, we know that arasaka stole jackie’s body and put his soul into mikoshi, so the idea that they would just toss johnny’s corpse has always been laughable. the “where’s johnny?” promotional comic was even about thompson unsuccessfully trying to find johnny’s body. i know i am biased here but i cannot fathom all this talk about johnny’s body ending off with us NOT finding it, whether it’s just to bury it, shove johnny’s engram back in it, make out with it, or WHATEVER.

if you made it through this slog, congrats. thanks for reading!

#cyberpunk lore #johnny silverhand #spoilers #cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk2077 #cp2077 #cyberpunk game #lore post

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nightingaelic · 3 years

Note

I was reading your "Fallout 4 companions meet Arcade Gannon" reacts when I had an idea. FO4 companions reaction to visiting the Mojave Wasteland with the Sole Survivor.

"She was Boston, I was Vegas

She was Crêpes Suzette, I was pie

She was lectures, I was movies, but I loved her."

- Frank Sinatra, 1981, "I Loved Her"

Cait: "I've never been much of a gambler, but where there's gambling, there's usually a good time to be had."

While Cait finds the casinos of the Strip a little too ritzy for her liking, she rather enjoys the smaller, satellite venues: The Atomic Wrangler in Freeside, the Vikki and Vance casino in Primm, even the saloons in Goodsprings and the Mojave Outpost (the latter of which being where she foolishly engages in a drinking contest with Cass and happily gets her ass kicked). Her greatest enjoyment, however, comes upon discovery of the Thorn in Westside, with its arranged bouts between wasteland critters and the opportunity to go a round yourself if you're feeling lucky. Instead of the trapped horror she felt when the Combat Zone was taken over by raiders and she was forced to fight, Cait revels in the glory she reaps when choosing to face off against a fire gecko, a night stalker or a cazador with her trusty baseball bat. By the time the visit is over, she and Red Lucy have grown close, and the Thorn's mistress is going around openly calling Cait "my hunter."

Codsworth: "Ah, Las Vegas! Why, I can recall when you considered a quick getaway to this paradise just before young master Shaun's arrival. It appears we aren't too late, after all."

Codsworth is somewhat comforted by the lack of overt nuclear devastation in New Vegas, but that feeling wears off as soon as the first set of thugs in Freeside tries to corner him and the sole survivor and take their caps. Once the would-be muggers are laid out on the ground, Codsworth abandons his rose-colored glasses and puts his quippy, dismayed personality back on. Still, he loves the Strip, particularly the Ultra-Luxe with its refined guests, decor and hygienic practices, but he quickly sours on their hoity-toity attitudes. Instead, Codsworth turns to the presence of the NCR as a sign that civilization is creeping back into the wasteland. He's also tickled pink by the Kings and the Chairmen, but not the mobster-esque Omertas: They remind him too much of the pre-war mob activity in good old Boston.

Curie: "Excusez-moi, but what is that structure there? The tallest one, with the blinking lights."

Curie is thrilled to be out in the desert, observing the local populace and documenting their survival techniques, social structures and power struggles. She's fascinated with the area's history, and drags the sole survivor along to seek out the Mojave's most (in)famous individuals to record their stories for her research into post-war civilization. This lands her in quite a few questionable situations, but her general attitude of perseverance and wide-eyed wonder about the world open a lot of doors for her. She makes a lot of friends at the Old Mormon Fort among the Followers of the Apocalypse, though most of them assume her frustration about her own "biological reactions to extreme living conditions" is just her complaining about the heat like everyone else. Arcade's pretty sure she's a robot, though he's too polite to ask about it outright.

Danse: "We're close now, to the birthplace of the Brotherhood of Steel. This is an honor I never thought I'd experience."

Though it's boiling hot inside his power armor under the desert sun, Paladin Danse is overjoyed that he's accompanying the sole survivor on this journey into the cradle of the ideology that he's devoted to. He's heard about the Mojave from Brotherhood of Steel veterans, those who traveled with Elder Lyons when they initially came to the Capital Wasteland and those who accompanied Elder Maxson when he was just a Squire, and he keeps spouting off random trivia about the area. Any run-ins with disillusioned Scribe Veronica might leave him a bit put out, but it's overall a fun trip for him through a part of the continent that's a little less smashed to rubble than the rest of the world. He especially enjoys visiting the NCR and Brotherhood military outposts, if only to offer critiques and suggestions to any soldiers that give him the time of day.

Deacon: "Sheesh, visiting the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter, am I right?"

Deacon has been here before. Well, he doesn't actually say he's been here before, but he keeps dropping hints to the sole survivor that he's somehow on a return trip. He knows the legends of the Sierra Madre and the Blue Star treasures offhand, he has a whole conversation with the Securitrons guarding the Strip about what happened to Robert House, he even knows how to competently play Caravan. Every time the sole survivor asks him about how he knows so much, though, Deacon just grins and keeps chugging his Sunset Sarsaparilla. Obviously no one recognizes him by face, but he does have a setting-appropriate wardrobe along that includes NCR bandoleer armor, a coat-tailed tuxedo, top hat and White Glove Society mask, and a black leather jacket to go with his pompadour wig.

Dogmeat: [curiously sniffs everything]

Dogmeat can't figure out why this place is so dang dry, but he's on his best behavior for the sole survivor as they make their way over the dusty roads of the Mojave. He politely greets each other traveler on the roads, who keep asking his companion where they got "a non-cyber cyberdog." For the most part though, the trip is pretty in line with everywhere Dogmeat goes: Big rodents, big bugs, tired people and plenty of ruins to explore. Dogmeat's one outstanding adventure comes in the form of an attempted kidnapping by some of the Kings, who think their leader needs a new dog after Rex hit the road with some fool. The King doesn't take kindly to this, and graciously has the dog returned to his friend.

Hancock: "Oh, man, how does anyone live out here? I'm drying out, I feel like a radroach husk."

Hancock is having the time of his life in the Mojave, apart from constantly complaining about how he prefers the Commonwealth's weather. He's chummy with everyone, but especially with the ghouls he encounters. He buys Raul a bunch of drinks and asks him about his past, he suggests future career paths and hobbies for Calamity, and he is absolutely enchanted with Beatrix the dominatrix. He's also rowdy enough to attract the ire of nearly every casino in New Vegas: The White Glove Society seethes when the sole survivor points out that his Revolutionary War outfit technically meets the dress code, the Omertas howl when he starts encouraging the strippers and sex workers to band together and take over the casino, and the Vault 21 dwellers keep asking if he's liable to turn feral. The Chairmen, however, treat him as something of a novelty and gift him with a seersucker suit to go with his jaunty personality.

MacCready: "You know, I played cards with a guy from out here once. He tried to teach me a game called... what was it, Candyman? Kilogram?"

MacCready has the barest smattering of knowledge about the Mojave Wasteland, and he keeps injecting it into conversations no matter how inaccurate it is. He's fascinated with the sole survivor's recollections of what Vegas was like before the Great War, and his expectations are sky-high by the time they arrive on the city's outskirts. Those expectations are absolutely met once inside the Strip, even if the sole survivor's are let down. MacCready is just tickled by the existence of a city that is solely dedicated to parting you from your caps, and he settles into each new business for the express purpose of people-watching. He only tries gambling once, and immediately quits after he loses all of his pocket change.

Valentine: "Good old Las Vegas. Somehow, I'm not surprised it's still got a reputation as 'Sin City,' even this long after the bombs."

The Nick Valentine of old never visited Las Vegas, but he certainly knew about it well enough for the Nick Valentine of today to draw on those impressions. He's extra-wary about the city as a result, an attitude not helped by the many people staring at him because of his detective getup, jagged edges and golden eyes. Some people are polite enough to walk up and ask what he is: Others offer to buy him off the sole survivor directly, much to Nick's chagrin. When James Garret offers him a thousand caps for "one night of his services," Nick puts his foot down and starts glaring at everyone who so much as walks up to him and the sole survivor during their trip. The exceptions to this rule are Veronica, who is extremely polite and non-invasive with her questioning; Arcade, who is too polite to even mention Nick's synthetic state; and Raul, who finds the whole thing hilarious but admits that his ghoul status has landed him in some similar situations.

Piper: "I've heard plenty of stories about this place, and if even a quarter of them are true, I ought to get a good travel piece out of just about anyone we pass on the street."

Piper's on a mission to track down the history of New Vegas, which, like Curie, sends her on a path toward its biggest political figures. Aside from them, she's particularly interested in the services of the Mojave, like the Gun Runners, the Crimson Caravan Company, and especially the Mojave Express. Piper gets along swell with just about everyone, and she basks in the widespread acceptance that she lacks back home due to her chosen profession. She desperately tries to get Johnson Nash to ship a case of Sunset Sarsaparilla cross-continent for her, but he gently turns her down and tells her that the only courier he knows crazy enough to undertake a trip to the Commonwealth is too busy nowadays.

Preston: "They're not too friendly to outsiders here, or so I'm told, but there are always good folks to be found if you know where to look."

Preston, true to form, offers help to every little settlement he and the sole survivor come through on their journey, which delays their path to Vegas quite a bit. He makes a beeline for the Old Mormon Fort as soon as he hears the Followers of the Apocalypse have a base there, though, and spends most of his visit picking the brain of its leaders about the best ways to aid those in need in the wasteland. He and Arcade get into some spirited debates about the pros and cons of having a civil service force focused on military matters versus civilian matters, and the Minutemen leader leaves the Mojave with a lot of new ideas to carry home to the Commonwealth.

Strong: "Strong not looking for 'good time,' puny human. Strong looking for thing that make super mutants stronger."

Strong hates New Vegas, but that's nothing unexpected. The sole survivor tries to limit their time in the city and take him around the desert to locales where super mutants are more likely to be found, which brings them to Jacobstown. Surprise surprise, Strong hates Jacobstown - at first. Little by little, through talking with Lily, the other nightkin, and Marcus, Strong starts to realize that the super mutants of the town are doing exactly what he values and sharing their resources among each other for the good of the community, just minus the usual violence associated with super mutants. He struggles with this alternative way of life for a bit, but eventually comes to accept that to be a super mutant, you don't have to constantly attack those around you to show off your strength.

X6-88: "Be careful. The Institute's records about this area indicate high levels of theft, murder, and unsavory characters. It would be best to keep our guard up."

Like Nick, X6-88 greets everyone in the Mojave with open suspicion, and can hardly be convinced to leave the sole survivor's side for their entire journey. His dedication to this task leads those around him to joke about him being "a human Securitron," which the sole survivor finds amusing: X6-88 does not. Still, the ability to hire and maintain a professional-looking bodyguard while visiting New Vegas doesn't go unnoticed, and most people assume that means the sole survivor has a lot of money to spend or be separated from by force. Criminals are more likely to be ruthless, hell-bent on stealing the loads of caps the sole survivor surely has tucked away. Business owners, on the other hand, are more polite to the pair on their travels, giving them better service and goods that ingratiate X6-88 a bit more to the common people aboveground.

BONUS!

Ada: "Jackson brought us out here once, when Zoe decided she wanted to try acquiring a Securitron. The leader of the Strip turned us down."

While Deacon is playing coy about his experience in the Mojave, Ada is completely open about hers. She hasn't been to the Strip, the dam, or any of the Mojave's "fun" destinations, but she remembers the Crimson Caravan Company headquarters, the 188 trading post, and many of the small towns along the way. Her fondest memories are of scavenging around the ruins of the REPCONN test site, the Aerotech Office Park and HELIOS One. She also recalls that her caravan friends came to visit primarily to find a Securitron to take apart and repurpose, but won't say exactly what happened when they tried to do so, other than warn the sole survivor "not to invite the wrath of the House."

Gage: "Now this is a town that knows how to run a successful racket. We need to find out who's in charge, see if they can give us some tips."

Porter Gage walks right up the steps of the Lucky 38 as soon as he finds out that someone inside is running the Strip, and demands that the Securitrons let him in to "talk to the boss." The robots aren't impressed, of course, and toss him out straightaway. Gage, not one to be discouraged easily, tries to find information among the nearby raider gangs instead: Fiends, Vipers, Jackals or Great Khans, he's not too picky. The current state of the raiders in the Mojave quickly informs him that they're failing one by one against the power of New Vegas, and he renews his efforts to find the recipient of the endless streams of caps. Thwarted at every turn, he and the sole survivor retire to Gomorrah, where they bemoan their bad luck while the courier sits a few seats down from them, listening in and smirking.

Longfellow: "Just point me to the nearest saloon. If I can't cool down, I'll try to forget I'm hot."

Longfellow parks himself at the nearest watering hole and does his best to avoid the scorching Mojave heat. The Maine-born grandpa is pretty miserable during the daytime hours unless he's sitting in front of a fan with a cold beer, swapping stories about Far Harbor critters with the bar regulars. At night he's a bit more open to adventuring with the sole survivor, when the desert cools down and he can see the sights by moonlight. Although he's not a fan of the hustle and bustle of the Strip, most of the large casinos there have air conditioning thanks to the Lucky 38, so he claims a table in the back and glares at anyone who disturbs him and his drink. He gets along with most of the New Vegas crowd though, if they agree to pick up the tab.

Maxson: "We came this way, when the Elders sent me to the East Coast. I wonder if the chapter here is still persevering."

Elder Maxson is surprisingly reluctant to visit the two things that the sole survivor would've thought he'd be interested to see in the Mojave: The Strip, or the Hidden Valley bunker. If pressed, he'll admit that he's not the type to cut loose and gamble, drink or participate in general debauchery as a result of his upbringing and position of authority, but neither is he keen to drop in on the dying Western chapters of his order and become stifled by protocol and ass-kissing. He prefers to wander the desert itself, seeking solitude among the cacti and under the stars. Given the chance, he'd probably nip off to Quarry Junction and anonymously solve the NCR's deathclaw problem, if it hasn't already been taken care of. He refuses to wear his uniform for the entire trip.

Desdemona: "The Mojave probably wouldn't know what to make of our mission, which is how you know it's a good place to hide. I wonder if any of our rescued synths made it out this far."

This is by far the most relaxed the sole survivor has ever seen Desdemona, and why wouldn't it be? She's so far removed from her usual sphere that she drops her usual, tight-knit demeanor and embraces loosening up. She's still not talking openly about the Railroad's operations, but she is more likely to answer questions both personal and professional. Like Deacon, she knows a bit about the Mojave, but not so much that she can blend in completely. Instead, she embraces being a tourist and does all the usual things that go with it: Visiting the Strip, the Sunset Sarsaparilla headquarters, the Thorn, and especially Hoover Dam. When she's looking out over Lake Mead, with the sun getting caught in her hair as it sets on her left, she almost looks happy.

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thebonggirll · 3 years

Text

chapter thirteen

< previous: chapter twelve

Up on the rim, the Cupid statues were drawing their bows into firing position. Before they could suggest taking cover, the cupids shot, but not at them. They fired at each other, across the rim of the pool. Silky cables trailed from the arrows, arcing over the pool and anchoring where they landed to form a huge golden asterisk. Then smaller metallic threads started weaving together magically between the main strands, making a net.

"We have to get out," Percy said.

"Duh!" Annabeth said.

He grabbed the shield and ran, but going up the slope of the pool was not as easy as going down.

"Come on!" Grover shouted.

Y/N and him were trying to hold open a section of the net for them, but wherever they touched it, the golden threads started to wrap around their hands.

The Cupids' heads popped open. Out came video cameras. Spotlights rose up all around the pool, blinding them with illumination, and a loudspeaker voice boomed: "Live to Olympus in one minute ... Fifty-nine seconds, fifty-eight..."

"Hephaestus!" Annabeth screamed. "I'm so stupid.' Eta is H.' He made this trap to catch his wife with Ares. Now we're going to be broadcast live to Olympus and look like absolute fools!"

They'd almost made it to the rim when the row of mirrors opened like hatches and thousands of tiny metallic ... things poured out.

Annabeth screamed.

It was an army of wind-up creepy-crawlies: bronze-gear bodies, spindly legs, little pincer mouths, all scuttling toward them in a wave of clacking, whirring metal.

"Spiders!" Annabeth said. "Sp-sp-aaaah!" She fell backward in terror and almost got overwhelmed by the spider robots before Percy pulled her up and dragged her back toward the boat.

The things were coming out from all around the rim now, millions of them, flooding toward the center of the pool, completely surrounding them.

Annabeth and Percy climbed into the boat. They started kicking away the spiders as they swarmed aboard.

"God just scream already Y/N!" Grover shouted. She whipped her head towards him and he said, "Dude I know what Apollo kids use as weapons. Just trust yourself and do it! We can just tell them to shut their ears!"

"Thirty, twenty-nine," called the loudspeaker.

They were walking towards the diner parking lot where Ares was waiting for them.

Too much happened but the important thing is that Annabeth and Percy were safe. Ofcourse, at the end of it, it was a combined effort. But Y/N felt happy after a long time.

"Hey," Percy cleared his voice, "That was cool, what you did there."

"I'm just glad that you guys are safe...and your ears are working fine." Y/N said. When Percy and Annabeth were on the boat and the spiders were surrounding them, many getting into the boats they were in, Y/N yelled them to cover their ears. Ofcourse, Percy immediately screamed asking why but after Annabeth told him to do as said, he covered his ears.

And after that Y/N screamed. Yes, that was her offensive power. Her voice was as sweet as a nightingale but she can use it as a weapon at times too. Her voice was loud and the soundwaves blew most of the spiders away. Some of the screens of the cameras also broke because of her pitch. She was finally feeling relieved to be of some help in the quest.

"Uh, I guess we didn't have time to thank you...so.." Percy said.

"Oh so other than that you aren't even bothered to talk to me right?" Y/N asked teasingly.

"Wait, that's not what I meant," Percy stuttered, "we wanted to thank you but-"

"You've been using 'we' a lot Percy," Y/N smirked looking forward, she had the same teasing tone, "Is there something you wanna tell?"

"Well uh.." Percy hesitated, and then remembered that she was Annabeth's best friend. "N-Nothing. What are you-"

"Percy, both of you are my friends. I won't snitch around~" Y/N said, "Besides, neither of you are good at hiding it."

"What do you mean?"

Y/N looked at him - the same sea green eyes looking into hers - she looked away quickly, "Both of you are too egotistic to tell this to each other. But," she sighed, "I feel like you are much less than her. You will...tell her right?"

"Yeah...I think so," Percy smiled looking at her, "Grover told me..she felt the same. Yes."

It didn't matter how much she wanted to feel happy for them. A part of her still selfishly wanted it to not happen. But Percy just confirmed it. She smiled bitterly, and said, "Look, Ares."

Percy walked towards the god of war.

"Well, well," he said. "You didn't get yourself killed."

"You knew it was a trap," Percy said.

Ares gave him a wicked grin. "Bet that crippled blacksmith was surprised when he netted a couple of stupid kids. You looked good on TV."

He blushed and shoved his shield at him. "You're a jerk."

Annabeth and Grover caught their breath.

Ares grabbed the shield and spun it in the air like pizza dough. It changed form, melting into a bulletproof vest. He slung it across his back.

"See that truck over there?" He pointed to an eighteen-wheeler parked across the street from the diner. "That's your ride. Take you straight to L.A., with one stop in Vegas."

The eighteen-wheeler had a sign on the back, which he could read only because it was reverse-printed white on black, a good combination for dyslexia: KINDNESS INTERNATIONAL: HUMANE ZOO TRANSPORT. WARNING: LIVE WILD ANIMALS.

Percy said, "You're kidding."

Ares snapped his fingers. The back door of the truck unlatched. "Free ride west, punk. Stop complaining. And here's a little something for doing the job."

He slung a blue nylon backpack off his handlebars and tossed it to him.

Inside were fresh clothes for all of them, twenty bucks in cash, a pouch full of golden drachmas, and a bag of Double Stuf Oreos.

Percy said, "I don't want your lousy-"

"Thank you, Lord Ares," Grover interrupted, giving me his best red-alert warning look. "Thanks a lot."

"You owe me one more thing," Percy told Ares, trying to keep his voice level. "You promised me information about my mother."

"You sure you can handle the news?" He kick-started his motorcycle. "She's not dead."

The ground seemed to spin beneath him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean she was taken away from the Minotaur before she could die. She was turned into a shower of gold, right? That's metamorphosis. Not death. She's being kept."

"Kept. Why?"

"You need to study war, punk. Hostages. You take somebody to control somebody else."

"Nobody's controlling me."

He laughed. "Oh yeah? See you around, kid."

Percy balled up my fists. "You're pretty smug, Lord Ares, for a guy who runs from Cupid statues."

Behind his sunglasses, fire glowed. They felt a hot wind in their hair. "We'll meet again, Percy Jackson. Next time you're in a fight, watch your back."

He revved his Harley, then roared off down Delancy Street.

Annabeth said, "That was not smart, Percy."

"I don't care."

"You don't want a god as your enemy. Especially not that god."

"Hey, guys," Grover said. "I hate to interrupt, but..."

He pointed toward the diner. At the register, the last two customers were paying their check, two men in identical black coveralls, with a white logo on their backs that matched the one on the KINDNESS INTERNATIONAL truck.

"If we're taking the zoo express," Grover said, "we need to hurry."

After they ran out of the truck and released the animals captured inside it, the demigods found themselves at a dead end, standing in front of the Lotus Hotel and Casino. The entrance was a huge neon flower, the petals lighting up and blinking. No one was going in or out, but the glittering chrome doors were open, spilling out air-conditioning that smelled like flowers-lotus blossom, maybe.

They got in, but Percy noticed something strange after some time. The people in this casino never got out. He managed to shake his friends out of the trance and obsession they were in and escape the timeless casino.

They ran to the nearest newspaper stand and read the year first. It was the same year it had been when they went in. Then they noticed the date: June twentieth.

They had been in the Lotus Casino for five days.

One day was left until the summer solstice. One day to complete their quest.

next: chapter fourteen >

book one: the lightning thief

percy jackson x reader series

MASTERLIST

Tags: @the-natureofme @jumpingtrainsandflyingskies @idk-bye-no

#percy jackson x reader #percy jackson #percabeth #percy and annabeth #percy jackson and the lightning thief #percy x annabeth #annabeth pjo #annabeth chase #annabeth x luke #pjo #pjoverse #pjo apollo

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janekfan · 3 years

Note

for the bingo prompts could i request 'unexpected trigger' for martin? you don't grow up in a home like he did without occasionally unlocking repressed memories.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28963869

Here we go!

Shake it off. You’re alright. Nothing you haven’t dealt with before. You made it through then! You’ll make it through now!

Martin let his consciousness stream with all the tricks and coping mechanisms he’d ever picked up from his brief time spent in various support groups with their stale biscuits and cold, bitter tea. It had been a bad morning, his mum’s cross mood from the night before carried over into the early hours and Martin got very little sleep. He’d made her a rubbish breakfast that she tossed in the bin before slamming her mug into the floor--

And it was.

Fine.

Everything was fine because he would make it be fine.

He’d do his job and make Tim and Sasha and Jon tea that would be appreciated and they would smile, well Jon wouldn’t but he would find an empty cup an hour later and that was almost as good, and the others would thank him. Martin was good at taking care of people. It’s what he did best and he couldn’t let one bad day ruin that for his friends no matter how brittle his nerves were.

“Oi, Marto.” Apparently he hadn’t schooled his expression as well as he thought. “You alright?” The concern put him on edge, the soft tone a niggling itch in the back of his mind and filling his stomach with a churning unease. Flee. Run. Escape. Nothing good ever came of being burdened by him.

So he laughed lightly, hitching his messenger bag a little higher, subconsciously placing it between them. A barrier. Ridiculous. Like Tim would ever--

“Martin?” The hand on his shoulder wasn’t unwarranted and he barely contained the flinch. Wouldn’t do for Tim to notice how his worry, his kindness was clouding his reality, every inch of Martin’s skin screaming for contact and isolation both. He shook his head to clear it.

“Sorry, Tim. Didn’t get much sleep.” He offered up a hollow smile, knowing it wasn’t enough to fool him, praying it was enough to get him to drop it because all he wanted to do, needed to do, was get away.

“Okay, well. Lemme know if you wanna skive off.” Lopsided, his grin didn’t seem real and Martin couldn’t stop himself from reading into it. “I’ll cover for you.”

“Thanks Tim.” Exhaled on a stagnant breath and finally allowed to retreat, Martin tried in vain to slow his racing pulse, burying himself in his translation.

He waited patiently as Jon flipped through his pages, brow creased in the familiar way that meant he was about to be scolded. Martin knew it wasn’t his best, far too distracted by Tim and Sasha’s questioning looks to truly focus. Jon was quiet. Pensive. Fastidiously tapping the papers together and clasping them together with a binder clip; something Martin forgot to do. Any moment now. Meticulous, Jon set the packet aside, on one of the many piles he had to sort through. Piercing, his brown eyes met his own over the rim of his glasses.

“Your work rarely contains this many errors, Martin.”

Jon might as well have struck him, the calm, calculated words so much like a physical blow, and salt flooded his tongue, filling his mouth with a handful of coins like copper choking him, choking him, choking him. It wasn’t right. Jon wore his everything on his sleeve. Easy to trust, to read, predictable. He was supposed to yell. Speak harshly and honestly and just on the edge of too mean.

“Martin?” There was that concern again, soft and false and sounding a warning so deep in his veins he couldn’t ignore it, rabbiting heart squeezing hot blood through his body and urging him to disappear. “Are, are you alright?” He was coming around the desk, the barricade between them smaller, smaller, smaller, no longer there as Jon stood with some distance between them, arm held out, reaching, but hesitating, face twisted up in fear(?).

“I’m sorry. Yes. Of course, I’ll fix those files for you.” He was crying, not even trying to stop because he was suddenly in the room with his mother of all people and she didn’t care if he was upset. Only cared if the job was done so he’d do it. He’d do it. And she would love him and mechanically he felt himself move as if someone else was pulling his strings and it was easier to let it happen.

“M’Martin, wait.” There was a hand on his arm, tentative and light and Martin looked up into Jon’s concerned face, snapping suddenly back into the reality of the Archives and catching himself in time to not shrug away. The touch was barely there, easy to remove, not grabbing, gripping, grasping his clothes and hauling him towards-- “Take a moment, here, here, sit down. Catch your breath.” Guided, not dragged, to Jon’s chair, still warm, grounding, and from seemingly nowhere, Jon produced a handkerchief, passing it to Martin and letting their fingers touch just slightly. “There now, alright.” Fingertips ghosted between his shoulder blades and he tipped forward under their silent suggestion, burying his flushed face in the clean cotton, drawing inwards enough that he only heard Jon come back from wherever he’d gone. The door was closed, the shade drawn, the lamp turned low, and the desk between them again as Jon worked on the other side of the desk. Martin groaned, chest aching when he straightened up.

“Martin?” Firm. Not demanding, but not leaving much room to stay silent and he appreciated it more than words could explain.

“I don’t. Jon.” He waved away his words and the knotted tangle of anxiety began to loosen.

“No need to apologize.” Their eyes met and Martin saw understanding reflected back. He could explain or not. There was a choice, but no pressure and the next breath came easier. “Now. I’ve marked the passages that don’t make sense. I’d like this back first thing tomorrow morning, if that’s agreeable, Martin.”

“‘Course, Jon. First thing.” He accepted the bundle with Jon’s neat cursive blue in the margins and stood, shaky but no longer overcome with the desire to run as far and as fast as his legs could take him. “I’ll be around with tea in a bit.” Jon had gone back to his work but he nodded.

“Thank you, Martin.” The scritch of his pen didn’t slow and Martin let himself out, closing the door behind him.

Jon’s handkerchief still clutched tightly in his hand.

#TMA #the magnus archives #panic attack #martin centric #martin blackwood #jon sims #martin has childhood trauma #implied child abuse #implied child neglect #Emotional Hurt/Comfort #angst #fear #anxiety

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ichorness · 3 years

Text

there will be no tenderness- pt 1

ao3 link

Rating: E

Relationship: Rowan/Castor, Castor/Avor/Evrin

Warnings: noncon, breeding kink (no pregnancy), anal, spitroasting, slapping, spanking, branding, choking, knotting, leashes, mild puppy play, rough oral sex, rough vaginal sex, trans character being penetrated in front hole, kidnapping, emotional manipulation. lmk if i missed anything.

The royal procession gleams where it travels down the road dug through the steep hilly terrain, hard packed dirt hardened by years and years of horse hooves and carriage wheels. The carriage that passes below Rowan now is dark wood polished to a shine, pulled by 4 large white horses with braided manes and jeweled bridles. Rowan snorts at this. Only royal horses need rubies studding their bridles.

The royal guard accompanying the carriage is nothing to sneeze at, however. Half a dozen highly trained knights, devoted to nothing else but the safety of their king and the king’s family. They’re mounted on darker, smaller horses, built for speed but still strong enough to tote large men and women dressed in full mail.

Rowan lays on their stomach at the top of the hill nearest the wooden bridge that spans the river that cuts the land in half. If they look across the road, a bit to the east, they can see the tops of two burly heads also aimed at the road. The somewhat uncontrollable battle-lust of Rowan’s compatriots make them uneasy, but this is the price one pays for throwing their lot in with a couple of packless werewolves, and the two have been reliable so far.

They refocus their attention to the procession. The prince and a few of his companions are being escorted from the royal family’s country estate in the warmer, greener southern countryside where he wiles his winters away to the royal palace on the northwestern coast. The first breath of spring always brings the prince, the king’s younger son, home, on a route cleared of all other travel until he makes it safely to the capital city. The path the carriage takes changes yearly, but Rowan spent a few days in various taverns listening to merchantmen and caravan drivers griping over having to change their travel plans. Supposedly they’re compensated for the inconvenience, but apparently not enough to keep from grumbling into their cups.

The first pair of accompanying horses is close to nearing the bridge now. It’s time. Rowan lets out a low, steady whistle, like an owl, and waits until it is returned. Then, they make their sliding descent down the side of the hill, skidding to a halt a few yards ahead of the procession, directly in the middle of the road. The knights ahead of the carriage pull their mounts to a curious halt, hands already on the hilts of their swords.

Rowan raises their hands, heavy silver ring on their left pointer finger already drawing their magic forward from their chest. “Hey!” one of the knights shouts, drawing his sword and making to dismount.

By then, it’s too late, however. Rowan can feel the heavy, fast heartbeats of the horses as if they were Rowan’s own, pounding in their ears. They look into the eyes of the horses and feel the impulses of their minds, reaching in and gathering up the strands of their consciousnesses into their left hand and clenching their fingers tight around the bundle. A small tug.

The horses bearing the knights let out enraged snorts and brays, kicking and bucking with ferocity until the knights go spilling to the ground. A firmer tug from Rowan and the horses turn on the knights, staring down over them with fury and hatred. Stamping their great hooves and kicking out with their back legs.

It’s barely a thought for Rowan to sever the harnesses connecting the white carriage horses to their load, allowing them to thunder off away from the scene, dragging the driver a few yards before the fool has the good sense to release the reins. This doesn’t save the poor man, of course, for with a snap of Rowan’s ringed fingers, he bursts into a wash of flames, burning to a husk in seconds. No witnesses.

These distractions are enough that Rowan’s werewolf companions approach almost unnoticed, until Avor, larger and blonder than his compatriot, tears into the first knight. This is enough to finally draw screams of terror from inside the carriage, the prince and his pampered friends clearly unused to such brutality. One of the knights draws her weapon, a long necked rifle from the east, new and expensive, supposedly able to fire projectiles at amazing speeds.

Rowan has never seen one up close, as they are prized and the sale of them is heavily restricted, but they know that within the chamber there is flint and powder to launch the small steel ball within the barrel. They release their control of the horses, that part of the job now done, and focus their energy on the spark waiting to be lit inside of the rifle. All at once, it explodes with surprising force, blowing up in the knight’s face as she draws it close to her face to take aim. She falls to the ground with a scream, face a bloody mess and hands blown to bits.

A knight ducks one of Evrin’s clawed slashes and charges toward Rowan instead. Rowan clenches their left fist tight enough that their arm aches with the force of it, and the knight slows, a look of confused fear crossing his face. His movements become brittle and stuttered until he stops completely, frost traveling fast over his frame, feet to head. Freezing his insides, skin going blue and white. Rowan picks up a decent sized rock by the side of the dirt road and lobs it at the frozen knight. He shatters on impact, bloodless, like an ice statue.

Evrin and Avor make quick, bloody work of the rest. Their fronts are wet with red by the time the last knight falls dead, missing his throat. They stop, looking to Rowan for confirmation, who nods. The large men rip the carriage doors off the body of the carriage completely, to the horrified cries of those inside. Rowan can see four individuals, two young nobles, an older man (probably an attendant or tutor), and the prince himself. He isn’t wearing his crown in the privacy of his carriage, but his portrait is on enough walls in the kingdom that there is no mistake.

Prince Castor is cowering against the corner of the carriage, nails digging into the plush seats as if that will protect him. Rowan would pity him, if he didn’t represent such a large sum of money. “What do we do with the rest?” Evrin, smaller and moderately more reasonable than Avor, asks.

Rowan shrugs. “No witnesses,” they say, reaching into the carriage and grabbing for the prince. He shrieks when Rowan snatches his slim wrists, kicking and flailing. He’s small and weak, however, his well heeled, pampered life betraying him when he can’t even manage a proper punch. If his aim had been better he would have broken his thumb against Rowan’s face. Rowan wrestles Castor out of the carriage and wrenches his head back by a handful of his soft hair. “You saw what I did to your guards with this, didn’t you?” Rowan holds up his ring for Castor’s inspection, imbued with the power of a magical focus.

Castor manages the barest of nods. “Do you want to know what I can do to you?” Rowan can see Castor’s pulse hammering against the skin of his neck. A tiny shake of the head. “Then be a good boy,” Rowan says against the shell of his ear, breathing in the smell of his clean, perfumed skin.

The prince, wisely, stands utterly still, aside from his trembles of fear, which Rowan does not blame him for. They put him out of his pathetic misery, pressing two fingers to his temple and slowing his mind and heart until he slumps heavily into their arms, fast asleep. He will not wake for several hours. It’s a small mercy, but he will be spared witnessing the gory fate of his friends. They produce a pair of iron manacles from their pack and fasten them tightly around Castor’s princely wrists, hands behind his back.

Avor and Evrin are busy hauling the bodies of the knights toward the carriage and piling them inside of it. A limp arm hangs out the left door, and Avor kicks it back into the carriage with irritation. He hasn’t bothered wiping the blood from his face, allowing it to seep into his beard, but Evrin at least took a cursory swipe at himself with a rag sticking out from his pocket. Once all the bodies are in the carriage and the doors shut, Evrin looks to Rowan. “You’re up, boss,” he says, his tone going snide.

Rowan raises both hands, fingers splayed, and a gust of flame flares up from beneath the carriage, engulfing the entirety of it immediately. Soon the pillar of smoke will be visible for miles, as well as the stench of burning human flesh and hair.

It’s time to depart.

They take 3 horses that used to bear the knights, Rowan’s magic making them agreeable to these strangers. Rowan balances the sleeping prince in front of them in the saddle, pulling his fine velvet, fur lined hood over his head so the face on a million portraits and stamps around the kingdom isn’t bare to the world, and sets off at a steady gallop. Evrin and Avor have a bit more trouble with their mounts, magic or no. The horses sense that there are predators among them, that these man shaped creatures are beasts that can and will eat them. Avor’s steed requires a firm heel to the side before it sets off after Rowan, but soon, the three of them are riding west just as the sun turns in the sky to begin its lazy descent.

Castor’s body aches, tailbone and hips smarting like they do after a day of riding. His shoulders, also, are painful and tense, arms strained and burning. He groans softly, confused. His face is against the hard, damp ground instead of a pillow, and his neck is itching at him. He goes to stretch, bring his arms in front of him to sit up, and stops when he feels the cold, hard metal of the cuffs around his wrists. Tight enough to bruise, and the raw feeling in his wrists suggest that they have.

His breathing picks up now, panic setting in as memories of what occurred before his sleep come back to him, a bit hazy, but still alarming. Sounds of slaughter, crackling fire, the cries of men and horses. Castor rolls onto his back with a grunt and struggles into a seated position, staring around.

He’s sat in a small clearing where a tiny camp has been pitched, a tent and two bedrolls situated around a hastily dug fire pit. The itch at his throat is a length of rope that has been tied around his neck and connected securely to a fallen log a few feet behind him. It isn’t thin rope, either, and of course he’s already been divested of his dagger and travel purse. His ears burn when the phrase “like a dog” floats through his mind, collared and leashed as he is.

This minor embarrassment is in the back of his mind, however, as he takes in the others at the camp. Two massive, burly men, covered in hair and arms bulging with muscle sit on one side of the fire, eyeing him like meat. Castor has never seen werewolves before, but he can safely assume that’s what these men are. One of them, more blonde than his fellow, has a permanently elongated face, as if partially phased into that of his wolf form, eyes a clear and inhuman bright blue, and large clawed hands and feet as well. If a werewolf spends too much time in his bestial form, returning to a completely human shape becomes impossible. The other, smaller and darker haired, appears human enough, but still has a thinly veiled ferocity about him, made all the more apparent by his proximity to the other.

The third of this small party is not a werewolf, but Castor remembers them. Their cool voice in his ear and their magic ghosting over his body. The heavy silver ring on their hand gives them away, the signet on the top an engraving of many interlocking circles in a hypnotizing pattern with a sunburst at its center, a symbol of magical power. Castor has no magical talent of his own but has studied the topic enough to know the most common of sorcerers' glyphs. Most sorcerers Castor knows spend their lives amongst dusty old tomes or else are conscripted into his father’s army, but clearly others found it more prudent to seek other lines of work.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” the sorcerer says blandly, crouched beside the fire and gazing intently into the flames, either scrying or lost in thought. One of the werewolves, the larger more brutish one, snickers.

Castor glares at them sourly, lip curled with disdain. This causes both of the werewolves to laugh, as if he’s a pouting child and not one of the most powerful people in the country. “Where am I? What do you want?” he demands, trying to sound commanding. It comes out shaky and thin.

The sorcerer looks up from the flames and gives a wane smile, rising and approaching him. “Consider it a temporary interruption of your journey home. We’re ransoming you,” they say calmly, pulling a key from their pocket and reaching around Castor to uncuff his hands, putting themself very close into his personal space, close enough for Castor to feel the heat of their body. He read somewhere that sorcerers have higher body temperatures, due to the power inside them.

The manacles fall and Castor winces, examining his wrists. They’re chaffed pink and red. “Now, please remove your clothing,” the sorcerer says and Castor’s eye bulge.

“What?” Castor asks shrilly.

The sorcerer snorts. “We will be a mite less conspicuous if we aren’t parading the prince around in all of his finery. Besides,” they pinch Castor’s cloak between their fingers, feeling the material, “This will fetch a pretty price. Velvet cloak, rabbit fur lining. Silk shirt with handspun lace, if I had to guess. And,” they hook a finger over Castor’s top button, “Pearl buttons.”

Castor crosses his arms, knocking the sorcerer’s hands away. “No! Why didn’t you do it when I was sleeping, if that’s the case?”

“I wouldn’t undress someone while they slept, that would be rude,” the sorcerer replies, twisting their ring around their finger.

“If he don’t want to do it, Rowan, ‘haps we can help. He might not be used to dressing and undressing hisself,” the blonde werewolf suggests hungrily. The sorcerer, Rowan, closes their eyes, face drawn with irritation, probably at having their name revealed.

“If you make me ask again, I’ll take Avor up on his generous offer,” Rowan says, a glint in their eye. Castor swallows, looking over Rowan’s shoulder at the hulking werewolves. His fingers shake at the clasp of his cloak, but it falls to the ground. Then follow his supple leather boots and fine woolen trousers, vest, and silky white shirt. The buttons are pearl, and slip in his shaky grasp, but they too come open. He stops when he’s down to his thin underclothes and socks, cheeks burning and unable to meet Rowan’s gaze, praying he won’t be forced to take anything else off. Rowan nods, once, and sweeps their own cloak off, older and much more tattered than Castor’s, the wool worn very thin in some places, and wraps it around Castor’s shoulders. “To stave off the chill, Your Highness.”

They lock the manacles back around Castor’s painful wrists, but allow him to have his hands in front of him this time. Castor clutches the cloak closed tight around him and sits on the ground, knees tucked to his chest.

Rowan walks away, leaving Castor alone in the line of Avor’s hungry gaze. He can practically feel how the werewolf aches for him. His companion only masks it marginally better, but when the wind shifts and blows at Castor’s back, his nostrils flare, clearly smelling him.

Rowan lifts their pack onto their shoulders, crouching in the dirt at the edge of camp and sketching a glyph into it, one of warding and protection. “Where are you going?” Castor asks, heart beating in his throat. He doesn’t trust Rowan at all, but he knows with a fierce certainty that he doesn’t want to be alone with the two werewolves.

“To make sure we will not be found,” Rowan replies simply, wiggling the fingers of their ringed hand, “And mail a letter.”

“My ransom letter?”

“Quite. Boys, please keep our esteemed guest company while I’m gone,” Rowan says, and with that they set off into the trees, the rapidly darkening forest swallowing them whole.

Castor draws his cloak closer around himself, fists clenched tight around the fabric. Avor grins at him leerily. “Why aren’t you with your pack?” Castor asks nervously.

The unnamed one shrugs. “Had a few ‘differences in opinion’ with the pack. Struck out on our own,” he says shortly. His smile as he says it makes Castor wonder if he’s not remembering what the flesh of his former packmates tastes like. He shudders.

“Me ‘n Evrin are a pack of two. All we need,” Avor says proudly. “Most the time. It does get lonely, some. Evrin here is no good to lay with.” He jams a hard elbow into Evrin’s side. “Not soft, not good for holding. Bet you are, though. Bet you’d be nice and warm and wet.”

Castor shakes his head frantically, pressing himself back until he’s pressed flush with the log he’s leashed to. Avor takes a few steps forward, closing the space between them and wrapping a hand around the rope attaching Castor to the tree. “Where you think you’re going, pup?”

Castor’s heart pounds, the blood rushing in his ears drowning out almost everything else. He clings the cloak closed in front of him, even as Avor uses his grip on his leash to draw him up to his knees, closer to Avor’s body. The press of the rope on his neck isn’t choking, not yet, but it easily could be, and they all know it. “I can hear your heart, boy,” Evrin says, reaching over to cup a rough hand around Castor’s cheek. “Smell your blood pounding.” His thumb traces just under Castor’s eye, then his fingers trail down, over his neck and what’s visible of his shoulders and collarbone.

Avor uses his other hand, hooking a claw under the clasp of the cloak at Castor’s neck and tearing it away with no effort at all. Castor’s hands hold it shut around his body but now his shoulders and upper back are bare, save his thin undershirt. “Please,” Castor whispers, voice high and reedy and shaking so badly he can barely force the word out. “Don’t.”

Evrin moves to pull the cloak away from Castor and Castor clings to it tightly. Not tightly enough to stop an impatient werewolf, however, and the fabric tears loudly in the silence of the evening, leaving Castor with handfuls of tattered wool as the rest of the cloak is ripped away. He whines then, a pitiful little whimper, tears springing to his eyes. “Already crying, pup? Haven’t even done anything yet. Jus’ wanna look at you,” Avor says lowly, in a voice that might have been comforting if he didn’t yank hard on the rope in his hand, choking off Castor’s airflow all at once as the prince scrambles to his feet, still more than a head shorter than Avor.

The early spring evening is cold and he can feel goosebumps blossoming on his body, his nipples hardening painfully in the chill. Evrin’s warm bulk closes in behind him, caging him between the two. He runs his hands over the thin fabric of Castor’s undershirt, almost reverent, before gathering it in both hands and ripping it open at the back to touch his skin. Evrin’s hands are burning hot on Castor’s back, callused and nails just a bit too long. Avor tears the shirt off the rest of the way, tossing it aside. In one hand he holds the rope tight and a handful of Castor’s hair, tilting his head back.

Avor doesn’t kiss him as much as he drives Castor’s mouth open with his own, sliding his tongue between Castor’s lips and laughing when Castor shrieks and squirms, though he can’t move at all against Avor’s strength and Evrin behind him.

With his other hand, Avor scores five angry lines over Castor’s chest and stomach with his claws. Castor yelps, the thin sharp cuts a searing pain, and then makes another higher noise when Avor catches one of his nipples between his fingers and pulls hard. It hurts, and yet Castor feels a familiar coil in his stomach. He tamps that down firmly, and it isn’t hard when Evrin stops stroking his hands over Castor’s stomach and suddenly drives his teeth hard into Castor’s shoulder. His teeth are sharper than they should be and break skin easily, more rivulets of blood spilling over his skin. He’s distracted from the momentary pleasure, until Avor breaks away from his mouth and licks a long line up his throat, following the pulse thundering along in his veins, tasting it thoroughly.

Evrin’s hands reach around his front to tease his nipples now, hands missing the painful claws, but he is no more gentle.

“You were wrong, little puppy. You’re so soft, warm too,” Avor says into Castor’s ear. “Wonder if all princes are s’nice as you.” Castor shivers at the gust of breath against his cheek. Evrin moves one hand from Castor’s chest and drags it down his front, cupping his hot pussy through his thin shorts.

“I can smell you, y’know. Smell you getting wet. Can’t hide from us, pup,” Evrin says with a low laugh, grinding the heel of his palm roughly into Castor’s dick. Castor’s hips leap on instinct, hitching up into the contact, before he can control himself and jerk away with an ashamed little cry.

“No…” he mumbles, shaking his head in Avor’s grip. Tears begin to slip down his cheeks in earnest now, blurring his vision.

Avor laughs in his face and let’s go of his hair to backhand him across the face, hard enough that he stumbles to the ground. Castor’s cheek smarts fiercely and he cries harder. No one has ever raised a hand to the prince before. He cups his cheek defensively and sniffles, but isn’t on the ground alone for long before Evrin and Avor join him, forcing him up onto all fours. Avor puts his hand in Castor’s hair again, pulling his head up as he fumbles his belt open, his claws tearing his trousers in his haste.

He snarls in irritation but draws his cock out, shoving his trousers down his thighs. It’s massive, long and thick and leaking from the tip already. Castor flails, scrabbling with his bound hands against the ground to rear his head away, letting out noises like a wounded animal amongst senseless begging.

Avor doesn’t budge, but he snaps, “Quit your fussing,” and fists his hand tighter in his hair, scratching his scalp and definitely ripping some of it out. Castor winces, which is a mistake, because the next time he opens his mouth Avor presses his cock in between Castor’s lips.

Castor immediately chokes and gags, unused to the feeling and unprepared for it, the head of Avor’s cock filling his mouth and stretching his lips open around it. As Avor sinks in more, undeterred by Castor’s streaming eyes and spasming throat, Evrin yanks Castor’s pants down to his knees, exposing his shamefully wet cunt to the cold night’s hair. Castor screams, muffled by Avor’s dick steadily working its way down his throat, but Evrin only spreads Castor’s ass cheeks to expose both his holes and chuckles softly.

“You filthy pup. You like his cock in your mouth don’t you?” Evrin asks, and Castor flails his feet in disagreement, but it doesn’t matter, because a thick, rough finger is feeling around in his wet pussy. Castor screeches again, trying to buck his hips and dislodge the finger, but only succeeds in sinking further down on it. “Quit screaming,” Avor says, grabbing hold of the rope around his neck and jerking it tightly, choking off what little air Castor is able to get around the cock nudging into his throat.

Evrin doesn’t bother with anything more than the finger and rubs the tip of his cock against Castor’s wet entrance briefly before sliding in while Castor grows red faced and faint from lack of air.

Castor has played with himself before, taken his own fingers and toys, but nothing nearly as large as this. Though he’s wet, the stretch burns badly, his tight hole feeling as if it might rip open. He releases a strangled cry as spit leaks down his chin and Evrin drives further in, slowly and steadily, hands bruising tight on Castor’s hips.

Avor releases the rope to hold onto Castor’s head with both hands as he begins to fuck his throat in earnest, hard and fast and sloppy while Castor tries to suppress his gags, focus on breathing through his throat. His cheeks and chin are shiny with spit, the sound of Avor’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth wet and obscene, and he’s still taken only slightly more than half.

Evrin pulls out to spit on his own cock and then Castor’s cunt before shoving back in hard and fast, forcing his cock deep and groaning with satisfaction. “That’s right pup, take it all,” he murmurs, reaching forward to ruffle Castor’s hair like a dog. He eases back and thrusts home again, snarling when Castor clenches on him. Castor cannot help the moan that escapes him or the burning shame when Avor and Evrin both laugh at him. “Stupid whore. Knew you’d love it,” Evrin says, picking up his pace.

Castor releases punched out whines every time Evrin fucks into him, enjoying it despite himself, growing wetter with arousal. “Good little bitch, taking my cock,” Evrin growls, voice growing guttural. The nails that he draws down Castor’s back are sharpened claws, opening shallow cuts.

“Gonna cum in you, pup. Gonna give you my knot,” Evrin says low in his throat. Avor continues fucking Castor’s throat, not speaking, only snarling and growling lowly. Castor takes almost the entirety of his cock now, throat finally opening up to him. Castor is still crying, tears trickling down his face, but his mind is going fuzzy with the sensation, hands on him and cocks inside him making it hard to think. He’s wet all down his thighs now, and if he wasn’t being held so tightly by them he’d be rocking back onto Evrin’s cock.

Castor can feel Evrin’s cock starting to swell at the base, stretching Castor’s cunt even more, forcing in and out until it’s too wide to fit, stuck tight inside Castor. Castor lets out a low wail, sobbing and hiccuping at the feeling of being so desperately full. Evrin ruts into him a few more times, growling like an animal, before Castor feels cum flood into him, thick ropes of it, filling him even more. He moans loudly and Evrin growls contentedly, settling.

Avor drives into Castor’s soft throat harder now, driven wild by Evrin’s orgasm, his snarl rattling in Castor’s chest. He can feel Avor’s knot begin to swell, bumping against Castor’s lips, but much too wide to fit into his mouth. Avor begins to realize this as well and grunts with irritation, thrusting forward harder. Castor gags hard, drool spilling down his face, but the knot doesn’t budge, even though it isn’t entirely swollen yet. Avor pulls his cock all the way out angrily, allowing spit and pre-cum to dribble down Castor’s chin and connect his lips to Avor’s cock with wet strings.

Avor slaps Castor hard across the face, causing him to jerk and fall off of his elbows where he’s propped up shakily. He pulls Castor back up by the hair and uses his other hand to try to pry Castor’s mouth open, forcing it wide, but still the knot can’t fit. “Should knock your teeth out, pup!” He shouts, hitting him again. Castor’s lip splits on the impact and he cries out, pressing his face to the ground again and not getting up. Avor leaves him there, looking at Evrin.

“Can’t cum if ‘m not knotted. Pull out,” he says and Evrin grunts.

“I haven’t gone down yet. Take his ass instead,” he suggests, stroking a finger over Castor’s asshole. Castor squirms and whines, shaking his head urgently, trying to form the words to plead for Avor not to.

“Won’t fit, an’ it’ll take too long to make it. Needta breed him, Evrin, now. Pull out,” Avor snarls, loud and angry.

Evrin groans, too content in his post-orgasmic haze to be bothered by his companion’s anger or respond in kind. “Fine. Deep breath pup,” Evrin says, slapping Castor’s ass hard. Castor shrieks, but then it turns into a sobbing scream as Evrin pulls himself free of his cunt, knot still swollen hard and thick, large enough that Castor worries he’ll tear in two. He doesn’t, and Evrin sighs, getting to his feet to allow Avor to take his place. Castor can feel thick dribbles of cum leaking out of him and clenches his hole instinctively. He feels so stretched open, loose and pliant.

Avor does, thumbs spreading Castor’s cunt greedily, inhaling audibly. He takes his cock in hand and presses it to Castor’s opening, shoving in hard and fast to his knot, which doesn’t fit at first. Castor realizes how much bigger Avor is than Evrin and whines into the dirt. A few more shallow thrusts and Avor’s knot finally sinks in. Castor whines, the stretch painful even after everything. As Avor fucks him harder and deeper, grunting at every pass of his knot, Evrin pulls Castor’s head up with an oddly gentle hand in his hair. He’s fisting his cock lazily, still thick with its knot and coated in cum and Castor’s own slick.

“You’re better with your mouth on something, pup,” Evrin says, drawing Castor’s lips down onto the head of his cock. “Lick it clean.” Castor takes the head in his mouth obediently, curling his tongue around it before pulling off and working his lips and tongue around the shaft, lapping up the mess, tasting them both. “Like it, don’t you, puppy? Oughta keep you for ourselves. Make a good breeding bitch,” Evrin suggests snidely.

“‘S a good cunt, but no cunt is worth the amount of money we’d lose keeping ‘im to ourselves,” Avor says, his voice nearly unrecognizable, low and rumbling. He sinks inside one last time, knot flaring wide and filling Castor up completely, stuck fast. He begins humping and grinding his hips down, no longer thrusting, holding Castor’s body flush against his.

Castor’s mouth goes slack on Evrin’s cock, tongue lolling out at the unbelievable pressure, the fullness and the ache. He’s faintly aware of the moans he’s releasing, but he’s so full that he doesn’t care. Finally, Avor cums with a howl, loud and victorious, dragging his claws hard down Castor’s back, leaving deep red cuts in his flesh. Castor screams, too, at this, at the pain but also at the feeling of cum flooding him again, the needle bite of claws in the skin of his ass. It’s so much, too much, too much for any human to withstand, and Castor almost drowns in the wave of his own orgasm. He spasms, cunt clenching down hard on Avor’s knot, falling flat on the ground except where his hips connect to Avor’s. He sobs with it, in both relief and new shame at the pleasure.

He knows Avor and Evrin are both speaking to him, goading him, insulting him, but he can no longer parse their words, instead laying utterly still and spent. Avor seems to want to remain tied until his knot goes down, unlike Evrin, and so pulls Castor into his lap for a more comfortable position, stuffing his fingers in Castor’s mouth. Castor barely notices or reacts to it, except for the fact that Avor sinks deeper inside with the new position. He settles there, head lolling, tears beginning to dry on his cheeks.

Rowan stands at the edge of camp, just inside the protective ward, and surveys the scene in front of them. The kidnapped prince lays on the ground, slumped into a sad little puddle, covered in dried blood and other fluids. His undershirt is gone, the shorts rucked down around his knees in a tangle. He’s very still, but his eyes are open and glassy, tear tracks clear on his face. Avor and Evrin sit huddled closer by the fire, looking supremely pleased with themselves. “I expected you to exhibit a modicum of self control,” Rowan sighs, and Avor snickers.

“He’s still alive, ain’t he?”

Castor sniffles. Rowan kneels down beside him, watching the way he shivers, possibly from cold, possibly from something else. “Come along, Your Highness,” they say, gripping him by the arm and pulling him to his feet. They make quick work of the rope around his neck, freeing him from the fallen tree he was tethered to. Castor hesitates, resisting. “Unless you’d like to spend the evening with your new friends?” Rowan gestures behind them to Avor and Evrin. Avor winks lewdly at him.

That gets the prince moving, hitching his shorts up most of the way and following Rowan meekly toward their tent, the only tent they bothered pitching. The werewolves don’t mind sleeping beneath the stars. Inside is warmer, a bedroll laid out as well as a larger traveling pack and an oil lamp. In one corner is Castor’s purse, which the prince stares at openly. He doesn’t put up any fight when Rowan invites him to sit down upon the bedroll, however. “They did a number on you,” Rowan says, tracing warm, gentle hands over all of the cuts and bruises Castor accumulated in the last few hours. Castor shivers under Rowan’s touch, and Rowan smiles.

They heal the scratches and the deep bite mark, the bruises on his hips and throat. He sits with his knees up, tucked against his chest. When they draw their fingers down his chest and brush against a swollen, abused nipple, he whines, then bites his lip hard as if to silence himself. Rowan hooks their fingers under the waistband of Castor’s ruined shorts, drawing them down. Castor catches their wrist in a tight grip, but Rowan makes gentle shushing sounds, as if soothing a frightened animal. “Easy, Your Highness. I’m no insatiable werewolf.” Castor let’s go, balling his hands into fists and tucking them under his chin protectively.

Rowan draws the shorts off all the way, nudging Castor’s knees apart, showing the mess of wet and white between his thighs. “They bred you deep, didn’t they?” they coo, brushing two fingers over his puffy folds. Castor twitches, but Rowan does little else but look. He’s so soft and gentle, even battered and dirty, he’s every inch the fragile, porcelain prince. Rowan is not an insatiable werewolf, but they do feel compelled to touch and feel him, maybe even take something of him for themself.

“Will it… take?” Castor asks worriedly. Rowan places a gentle hand over his abdomen.

“Not unless you’re a werewolf as well. Their kind can only mate with another of their own,” Rowan assures him. Castor visibly relaxes at this, but twitches each time Rowan touches him. Rowan can’t stop touching.

“Did you enjoy it?” Rowan asks lowly, trailing their fingers through the white mess still leaking from between Castor’s legs. Castor flinches, but his legs ease open further.

“No! No,” Castor says sharply, even as Rowan slips two fingers into his stretched, aching cunt.

Rowan arches an eyebrow. “No?” They withdraw their fingers and Castor releases a small whine. Rowan quirks their lips in half a smile. “I find that hard to believe. You enjoy this, don’t you?” Rowan ghosts their fingers, now wet, over Castor’s swollen dick, making the prince whine out again. He shakes his head frantically. Rowan laughs this time, massaging his thumb in firm circles around Castor’s sensitive cock, watching him struggle not to thrust his hips up into Rowan’s touch. “It’s alright, Your Highness. You can enjoy it. I want you to.”

Castor keens, leaning back on his elbows slowly, begrudgingly. His eyes are hooded but his expression is still distantly guarded. Rowan clicks their tongue. “Though I imagine after your evening activities you can hardly feel this at all,” they slide their fingers back inside Castor, pushing through the cum and slick. “No matter.”

Rowan withdraws their fingers, sliding them along Castor’s slit and then lower, brushing them in small circles around Castor’s ass, teasing the hole gently. Castor jumps, hips lifting as he clearly struggles between pulling away and leaning closer. “Have you had your ass fucked before?” Rowan asks conversationally, teasing his rim with one finger.

“N-no. I’ve never been with anyone before,” Castor mumbles.

“You’ve touched yourself before, though, haven’t you?” Rowan asks, pressing down with their fingers just hard enough to slide it partially inside Castor’s ass before withdrawing again. Castor nods hesitantly. “Have you fucked your own ass, I wonder? In your royal chambers, aching to feel full?” Rowan continues, sliding the finger in further and stilling while Castor clenches down on it, panting. “Have you?” They add firmly.

“Yes,” Castor breathes out in an embarrassed huff, spreading his legs more. Rowan shifts, kneeling between them, fingering Castor’s ass steadily with one cum covered finger now, their other hand going to his cock, jerking it between their thumb and forefinger.

“Did it feel like this?” Rowan eases a second finger inside. It’s tight, they have to press more firmly, and Castor’s breath catches in his throat, but he nods. “Tight and aching, just a bit of pain. Do you like pain, Your Highness?”

Castor pauses and then shakes his head no. Rowan stuffs the fingers of their left hand into his mouth briefly, hooking them over his teeth. “You needn’t lie, my prince. Your secrets are safe with me.” Rowan withdraws the fingers, wet with spit, and goes back to Castor’s dick, now rubbing against the sensitive head in time with his thrusts in Castor’s ass. He’s more relaxed now, taking the fingers easily, though he still whines with every particularly deep push inside.

Castor’s mouth stays open, panting out hot gusts of air ghosted with keens and moans, rocking his hips minutely. Rowan can see his cunt clenching as well, the heave of his chest and the flush over his neck and cheeks. He’s turning a pretty shade of pink all over, eyes closed and head tilted back. “Lying doesn’t work, anyway. I can tell how much you like it. Can feel it,” Rowan says, and Castor shakes his head again, more of a reflex than anything.

Rowan shifts their position, leaning further into Castor’s space to drive their fingers deep, pausing to gather more slick and cum still leaking from his abused cunt before adding a third finger. Castor cries out, throwing his head back. Rowan’s thumb is rough on Castor’s throbbing cock, grinding into it to draw out every sound Castor will grant them, and Castor doesn’t disappoint. He’s a noisy thing, almost shameless in his pleasure, and Rowan drinks it in.

They know Avor and Evrin can hear him, of course they can, and Rowan takes pleasure in that as well. Knowing they can give the prince something the werewolves couldn’t, that this royal, pampered thing is opening his legs for them so willingly, giving them the one thing the werewolves hadn’t taken for themselves.

“That’s it, Your Highness. Take it all like a good boy,” Rowan coos and Castor opens his eyes to meet Rowan’s gaze as he moans. “Take what you need, my prince. I won’t deny you anything,” Rowan swears.

“Please,” Castor breathes out, the last vestiges of his shame bleeding from him as he reaches out and takes hold of Rowan’s wrist, keeping them from retreating, grinding up into their fingers with fast, loud gasping breaths. “Please.”

“Yes,” Rowan replies simply, enraptured by the prince. His delicate skin marred with bloody scratches, his soft mouth open, the line of his throat stretched out invitingly. The way he feels under Rowan’s hands, so silky soft and hot to the touch, body open and inviting, leaking all over the both of them. The wet sounds of Rowan rubbing his dick and fucking his ass are obscene, but almost drowned out by Castor’s high cries and throaty groans. He might have screamed for Avor and Evrin, but he will moan and whine like this for Rowan only.

All at once, Castor clenches up, drawing tight like a bowstring, drawing in a long gasp before arching his back and moaning loudly. His holes spasm and his hips thrust and twitch uncontrollably, wetness gushing over Rowan’s hands, squirting until both Rowan and Castor’s thighs are soaked. He’s whining now, like a wounded animal, unconscious little squeaks and hiccups of pleasure and agony as Rowan works him through it.

When Castor begins to draw away, Rowan stops, wiping their hands on the prince’s already filthy underpants. Castor sags down onto the bedroll, limp and panting for a moment, before rolling onto his side and curling up.

“You’re beautiful,” Rowan says. Castor sniffles, looking at them briefly before clenching his eyes shut tight and crossing his arms across his stomach. “You can sleep with me,” they continue, “I imagine it will be more comfortable in here than on your back in the dirt out there.” They nod meaningfully toward the flaps of the tent and Castor cowers. Rowan moves around him, pulling back the top flap of the bedroll and ushering the spent prince into it before shedding their outer layers and joining him, closing the covers tightly around them.

There isn’t room for modesty in a single bedroll, though Castor struggles for it for a few moments. Pressed tight and small against the very edges of the furs, flinching from every brush of their bodies together. Rowan lays on their back, ignoring him completely, eyes closed. When the prince hesitantly shuffles closer and tucks himself against their side, however, they smile. Rowan rests a hand in the prince’s now heavily mussed hair, running their fingers through it until his breathing evens out and he relaxes fully against them.

It’s the wee hours of the morning when Rowan wakes again, and the first thing they notice is that they are alone. The second thing is the lightness of their left hand. Their ring is missing. Normally, panic would set in at this, a missing ring and hostage, but Rowan only rolls their eyes, kicking their way out of the fur bedroll and pulling on their boots and coat.

The morning is chill when they step out, the sun only barely beginning to crest the horizon. Avor and Evrin are already awake and moving around, having dressed and snuffed out the fire. “Where did he go?” Rowan asks.

Evrin gives them a sly grin. “North, skittered off about fifteen minutes ago. Figured we’d give him a li’l head start, sporting-like,” he says, jerking his head in the direction Castor fled to. Either the prince truly is royally stupid, assuming he could sneak past two werewolves and then outrun them and a sorcerer he stole from, or he’s simply hoping to reach civilization before they catch him.

“Do all wolves like to play with their food?” Rowan asks, and Avor laughs.

“Nah, most says fear rots the meat, ruins the taste. Me, though, I like tasting the fight,” he says, flashing a smile with a mouth full of sharp teeth.

“You may retrieve him, but refrain from eating him, or a repeat of last night, if you please,” Rowan says.

Avor and Evrin exchange a glance, and then Evrin speaks. “Should go alone, then. Avor has a harder time staving off his darker impulses after a chase.” Avor snarls, but doesn’t disagree. Rowan nods and Evrin lopes off into the woods, hunching down to run on all fours, body elongating to accommodate it. Rowan has no concern, for the nearest village is several miles off, and there’s no way a prince stripped to his skivvies will beat a wolf there.

They flex their left hand. Rowan is not concerned, but they are irritated. Stealing their ring was clever, perhaps, because the lack of a focus for their magic leaves them weakened, but also foolish, because now he will face a fierce punishment. Their softness the evening previous was clearly a poor decision on their part, but Rowan cannot help feeling pity for a broken, crying boy. Castor will learn not to take Rowan for granted again.

Five minutes barely pass before Rowan hears a scream pierce the woods to the north, a high pitched pathetic little cry befitting of a prince. “Your friend wastes no time,” Rowan says to Avor, who simply growls, appearing more bestial by the minute, agitated at being left behind. Probably desiring another taste of royal skin.

Evrin returns soon after, dragging the prince by his ankle. He is filthy now, covered in dirt and leaves and grass, scrabbling at the ground with his nails. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks and he chokes on them, coughing in between his fearful sobs. Evrin drops him in front of Rowan, who kneels beside him. Castor avoids their gaze, hugging himself where he lay. Evrin reaches into his trouser pocket and hands over Rowan’s ring, which glows when it is returned to them.

“Stealing my ring was very foolish, Your Highness,” Rowan says lowly, fitting the ring back onto their finger and reveling in the feeling of completeness, of power restored. “I can understand fleeing. I anticipated it. But taking a sorcerer’s focus is a great betrayal.”

“I’m sorry,” Castor whimpers, wet faced and wobbly lipped.

“You will be,” Rowan says, cupping their ringed finger with their other hand and watching as it begins to glow with heat, the air around it buckling. The metal grows orange, then red, then white hot.

Castor shrieks and scrambles back, but only gets a foot or so before Evrin pins him down with a foot to his chest, shoving him flat onto his back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, please I won’t do it again! I’ll be good,” Castor begins babbling, staring with wide eyes as Rowan hovers over him again. “I’ll be good.”

“Hold his arms down, please?” Rowan requests of Evrin, who kicks the prince’s arms apart and then lowers himself to kneel above his head, holding his wrists down firmly. Rowan straddles his waist and takes a moment to cup his cheek. “You will learn your lesson,” they say and kiss him on the wet cheek. Castor sobs.

They press their burning hot ring into Castor’s chest, above his heart, the heat immediately blistering the tender skin. Castor wails, voice cracking with the force of it, before Rowan claps a hand over his mouth. He sobs into their palm, thrashing around. Rowan admires the burn on his chest, a perfect brand of their ring, all of the lines of the rune on it bubbling up into fierce blisters.

Rowan leans down, close to Castor’s ear, breath stirring his hair. “You’re mine now, do you see? You bear my mark.” Castor doesn’t respond, only continues to cry. But if he doesn’t understand it yet, he soon will.

#there will be no tenderness #my writing #op

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mimeparadox · 3 years

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Alias vs. Nikita: Sydney Bristow and Nikita Mears: On Ethos

It took Danny for Sydney to even consider that SD-6 was not what it claimed to be.

All told, the core premise of Alias is not one that stands up to scrutiny. In order for SD-6 to successfully fool nearly its entire staff into thinking that it was legitimately part of the C.I.A., the organization would have had to be either identical to the C.I.A., which presents myriad problems; its members would have had to be not nearly as innocent or patriotic as Alias pretends they are; or not nearly as perceptive or paranoid as spooks are required to be.

Unfortunately, there is ample evidence that the latter (*1) is true. Consider, for example, how the existence of the Alliance is common among SD-6 members. Somehow, despite the fact that the cartel is precisely the sort of threat a group like SD-6 would be designed to handle—“the very people I thought I was fighting against,” Sydney claims—nobody ever finds it weird that SD-6…never actually fights it. More relevantly, there’s the fact that SD-6 had a policy of eliminating security threats, which agents knew about and apparently considered to be part and parcel of what it meant to work for the C.I.A. If anyone had doubts or suspicions, they were more than happy to set them aside as they did crimes. And Sydney was no different—until Danny.

Danny Hecht’s murder was the first crack in the mirror; Daniel Monroe’s was the last straw. His death may have led Nikita to escape Division, but as the story makes clear, she already had an established history of questioning, and even covertly disobeying, her superiors. What’s more, it was not personal tragedy that led her to seriously question Division, but rather, the things she was asked to do. Therein lies the first key difference between Sydney and Nikita: they view the world through drastically different prisms.

For much of Alias, Sydney approaches the world through a tribalist perspective, dividing the world into two: those who are with her, and those who are not. Us vs. them. Right and wrong are determined not by the morality of an action or the contexts under which it is performed, but rather about who does it. Espionage is good when performed by the United States, but not when performed by an enemy. Lying to one’s friends and attempting to undermine their life’s work is forgivable when she does it, but not when someone like Lauren does.

For much of Alias, this binary thinking undergirds Syndey’s entire moral philosophy. There was nothing objectionable about SD-6 until it stopped being her tribe, after which she comes to hate it without qualms. The C.I.A. may be just as bad as SD-6 (or it would be, in a show more determined to explore its premise and or show the U.S. in a more critical light), but its actions can reflexively be excused away or forgiven. A.P.O. is as clear an illustration as one can get of this dissonance: explicitly designed to mirror SD-6, it is an admission that Sydney’s problem with her former employees had less to do with anything they actually did, but with which team they played for. Conversely, her loyalty to the C.I.A. has less to do with what they do and more what they do for her: while Sydney will likely never outright turn against the United States, she’ll bite back when she thinks they are a threat to her or her loved ones, without ever considering it to be a betrayal of her beliefs—blackmailing and extorting the government are okay when she does it. We see this in a smaller, more personal level with Sydney’s parents, whose actions Sydney considers unforgivable until she is convinced that they were done for her benefit. Once this happens, their many crimes prove very easy to get over.

One could argue, correctly, that Nikita is also all about doing the most for her loved ones: more than once we are shown that she is the sort of person who chooses her family over the world. However, her ethos is ultimately and fundamentally non-tribalist, and it is precisely this quality which led to her turning against Division. While Percy and Amanda and Michael did their damnedest to make sure their agents’ first priority was Division itself—us vs. them—Nikita never bought into that narrative, continuously choosing others—Ramón, Alex, Stefan and Ari Tasarov, Daniel, herself—over the organization.

Additionally, one of Nikita’s trademarks is the ease with which she makes allies, and her willingness and ability to work with others, even when their agendas do not align. The fact that Michael and Alex were working for Division did not stop Nikita from assisting them when necessary. Similarly, Owen joining Gogol frustrated Nikita, but it did not cause her to turn against him. It’s why she was able and willing to rejoin Division, once Percy and Amanda were driven out: just because someone is against her doesn’t mean she can’t work with them—there may be an “us” and a “them”, but not necessarily a “vs”. For Nikita, the world is complicated and requires compromise: purity is a good way to get jack squat, and condemning people for making those compromises when she herself has done the same would require condemning herself.

If only Sydney thought the same. Shockingly for someone in her field, Sydney is consistently terrible at working with people if they’re on her shit list. And while she might argue that this is merely a refusal to compromise her principles, it’s not about that at all: it’s about a desire for simplicity where it does not exist.

One of the chief features of tribalism is that it is not concerned with logical or moral consistency, and we see this quite a lot with Sydney’s behavior, which at best lacks self-awareness, and at worst is plainly hypocritical. Consider how many times Sydney goes rogue, disobeying, lying to, extorting or undermining her superiors, and how it results in lasting consequences for her, precisely zero times. Consider how she spent SEVEN YEARS as one of the top agents for an international criminal organization, and how little this ultimately matters (seriously, no one ever ever ever brings it up as a potential reason why she shouldn’t be trusted, which is appallingly stupid). Another person might notice this, realize how much they’ve benefited from others’ sympathy and understanding, and treating others similarly, but Sydney, not so much. Irina turns herself in, doing the same thing Sydney herself did a season earlier? She is the worst—a traitor, even though she never claimed to be loyal to the United States. Sloane claims to have reformed? Not on her watch. Perhaps most egregiously, when it is revealed that Lauren is part of the Covenant—the group which kidnapped Sydney and brainwashed her in order to turn her into an assassin—at no point does Sydney consider that the same might have happened to her. And not only is this mindset hypocritical, especially when she turns around and conditionally lets bygones be bygones, it actively makes her a worse spy. Because she is so often invested in not understanding her enemies, she often misses opportunities to see them as potential tools (*2). Additionally, she is often at sea when those same antagonists choose to use her.

Had Sydney persisted in her tribalist outlook throughout the series, Alias would not have worked. Fortunately, she did not, and her transition into the sort of person who could work with Sloane or embrace Rachel, who was partly responsible for Vaughn’s death, allows her story to follow a concrete emotional arc. It’s largely accidental, but the growth is there. Ironically, Nikita’s journey goes the other way, as circumstances lead her to adopt Division as her tribe, and to take morally corrosive measures she had once condemned in order to protect it. It is only circumstance, in the form of the Division mutiny, that prevented her and her friends from becoming the very thing they’d sought to escape. And in the end, she chooses to set aside tribalism: after Ryan is killed, she chooses the world over herself.

What is particularly interesting about this divergence in worldviews is that it’s largely unintentional: while Nikita is precisely who the showrunners designed her to be, Alias’ writers surely did not intend Sydney to be as morally vacuous and un-self-aware as she is. Even so, both characters’ ethos make complete sense, given what we know of them, and in the next part, I’ll be talking a little bit about how both Sydney and Nikita were shaped by their pasts.

----

Footnotes!

*1: Technically, the former is also true, insofar as, if we discount the security section shenanigans, we don’t really see SD-6 or its members do the work of an evil organization. The missions Sydney and Dixon are sent on are identical to the sort of missions the C.I.A. will send them on, which suggests something rather different from what the show thinks it suggests.

*2: Case in point, Simon Walker. While he never draws Sydney’s ire the way someone like Sark does, that she never considers cultivating him as an asset despite the fact that he likes her and his relationship with the Covenant is entirely mercenary is one of the more frustrating things of that arc.

#Alias #Nikita #NikitaTV #Sydney Bristow #Nikita Mears #A vs N #My Stuff #I really do love Sydney #But she's quite hard to like a lot of the time

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riversofmars · 3 years

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Clara finds her luck is finally turning and formulates a plan while the Doctor learns more about the past of her counterpart and their wife.

Read on AO3 or below

Chapter 7: Nature and Nurture

/The Library/

River gasped for air when she hit the marble floor, she rolled to the side, quick to avoid another attack. She threw herself into the Doctor at waist height and knocked him over. Child’s play. She was back on top in no time. He would get better at this with age.

“How did you get so good at hand to hand combat?“ He grinned, he couldn’t quite keep the admiration out of his voice. He enjoyed a good fight and she had given him a few cracked rips already. He threw her off, physically, he was stronger.

“Some of us are trained assassins.“ River smirked getting back to her feet. She wiped her mouth with a back of her hand where her lip had split.

“Pretty shite assassin if you can’t make the kill.“ He got back to his feet as well, God, her lips looked extremely kissable right now and that fire in her eyes…

“Who said I was trying to kill you?“ River laughed as they started circling each other. He looked her up and down, intrigued.

“What else would you call this?“ He asked and lunged for her. She dodged a right hook and delivered a jab to his side.

“Foreplay?“ She suggested with a wink. She couldn’t deny how much she was enjoying this. She had never seen him so young before, he didn’t know her and this was delicious tit for tat. “Plus, you attacked me first.“ She reminded him.

“Maybe I don’t like people getting involved in my business.“ He tried to catch his breath. Who was this woman? She acted like they had known each other for years but he was sure he had never met her before. He didn’t like it when people tried to play him the fool and yet, it was refreshing. It had been a long time since anyone had had the balls to talk to him the way this woman did. And God, she was good. Particularly when she whipped around and decked him with a kick to the back of his knees. She was on top of him in a flash.

“Is that your sonic or are you just happy to see me?“ She smirked as she held him down pinning his wrists against the ground.

“Who are you?“ He asked intrigued, forgetting to fight back for a moment. Maybe it wasn’t his sonic after all.

“So you really don’t know who I am?“ She raised her eyebrows amused as she let go of his hands but didn’t get off him, if anything, she moved her hips a little against him.

“I’m looking forward to getting intimately acquainted.“ He grinned running her hands up her thighs.

“Perhaps when you're older.“ River smirked studying his face. “So young… Looks like my message arrived a little early.“

“Doctor?!“ An angry voice interrupted.

“Donna?“ The Doctor and River both looked around at Donna who had just thrown the door open. She put her hands on her hips, not amused at all at the scene in front of her.

“For fuck’s sake, really? REALLY?“ She snapped. “I’ve been running around this place ages and it’s just books, fucking BOOKS, Doctor! What are we doing here?“

“Well, I don’t know, but I found the person that sent the message!“ The Doctor pushed River off and scrambled to his feet.

“Don’t tell me this was a booty call, so help me, Doctor, I will castrate you.“ Donna jabbed her finger at him.

“You must be Donna.“ River chuckled, of course she knew full well who she was but she reminded herself that they didn’t know her in return, not yet.

“What of it?“ Donna retorted seizing her up. “Who are you?“

“Professor River Song.“ River grinned extending her hand which Donna didn’t take, instead she looked to the Doctor who was still focused on the mystery assassin in front of him.

“You like your hook ups to have PhDs now or what?“ Donna scolded him which made River laugh but he wasn’t paying attention.

“River Song, lovely name. I’m the Doctor by the way.“

“Yes, you still are, aren’t you.“ River tilted her head a little as she looked him up and down. “Ah such a long time ago…“

“What’s that supposed to mean?“ Donna looked in between the two of them.

“I’m from his future, his personal future.“ River answered with a shrug, as if it wasn’t obvious by this point. She tried not to get offended at his lack of recognition, instead, she delighted in his youthful naivety and playfulness. He was a far cry from the person she would spend the rest of her life with, but they all had to start somewhere and their story was more complicated than most.

“What? Are you his wife or something.“ Donna rolled her eyes at her.

“Spoilers.“ River grinned and returned her attention to her future husband. “But honestly, Pretty Boy. Drop the name. Doctor doesn't make the universe tremble as it should.“

——

“Any chance you can tell me what this place is and who you are?“ River asked as she looked around. Clara remained silent contemplating her next move. River didn’t recognise her. And she didn’t seem to know what had happened. This wasn’t their River Song, that was immediately obvious. There was only one possible explanation: The Emperor had told her, that the Doctor’s River was dead so she had to have been the one the Doctor had been trying to bring back using the extraction chamber. And she must have succeeded! Only she didn’t know she had. However the Doctor had crossed from her universe, the same thing must have happened with River, only delayed. A plan was forming in Clara’s head. It was about time her luck changed.

“River Song, right?“ She said, putting on a smile.

“How do you know who I am?“ River frowned slightly confused, she had never seen the young woman before.

“Well, the Doctor sent me…“ Clara explained. It was a gamble but if she played her cards right, this River need never know where she was or what had happened. At least for the time being. She could make her trust her. It would make things far easier.

“The Doctor is here?“ River’s expression brightened immediately.

“Well, not here, it’s a bit more complicate than that, she…“ Clara carried on but River interrupted:

“She? My, I’ll say, that is a bit more complicated.“

Clara tried her best to keep up, draw from her responses as much information as she could. This River didn’t know the Doctor’s most recent regeneration yet, she must have been dead a while. If the Emperor’s dedication for her wife was any indication, the Doctor would feel the same way about her River which would prove to be very useful. And judging by the fact that she didn’t seem to recognise her, she had died before the Clara from the other universe had started travelling with the Doctor. Again, very useful.

“My name is Clara, I’m a friend of the Doctor’s.“ She introduced herself with a sweet smile and extended her hand to her.

“Lovely to meet you, Clara.“ River smiled, mirroring her warm expression while shaking her hand. Clara wanted to laugh. This was almost too easy. “What is this place?“ River asked.

“You’re on Gallifrey in an extraction chamber, it’s rather complicated to explain but I need you to trust me. The Timelords won't be pleased we used their technology to bring you here so we need to get you out of here before anyone realises, do you think you can help me with that?“ Clara asked, a compliant helpful prisoner would be far easier to control than one that realised she was one.

“Well, I did once break into the Met Gala and walk out with the Crown Jewels unnoticed. I think I can manage to avoid some Timelords.“ River grinned with a sense of excitement. She couldn’t believe her luck, the Doctor had actually managed to save her from her death. That impossible man… woman? Either was, she couldn’t wait to see them again. “Lead the way, Clara.“ She smiled and Clara grinned:

“Excellent.“

——

“Feel better yet.“ River asked when they were back in the Royal Wing, just her and her wife.

“I would feel better if I could wrap my hands around her throat.“ The Emperor retorted still seething with anger. She made her way to a large window that overlooked most of the Citadel and the gaping void far below.

“They will find her, she can’t have gone far.“ River tried to sooth her as she stepped up behind her and wrapped her arms around her slender waist. The Emperor relaxed a little, only being alone with River allowed her to do so. “I know you don’t want to hear it but this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t let Clara in on this.“ River hummed, sensing it was as good a time as any to voice her concerns.

“It’s not her fault.“ The Emperor retorted quickly but lacked the passion with which she had defended her earlier.

“The Monk is her associate.“ River reminded her.

“I know you don’t like her but she is a powerful ally and a friend.“ The Emperor retorted with a sigh. “In case you haven’t noticed, the circle is getting smaller.“

“Yes where are they all? Martha, Donna, Sarah-Jane? Off on their jollies I guess?“ River huffed, clearly annoyed.

“I can’t very well force them to sit around and play my personal guards, so much more fun to be had out there…“ The Emperor gave a shrug. She understood. She had made many close friends along the way, united in their sense of adventure and destruction. She couldn’t blame them for seeking more exciting activities than sitting around the palace keeping people in line. Most days, she didn’t enjoy it either. “I miss it, River, the rush, the adventure…“

“Which is why it’s about time we find somewhere else to conquer.“ River reminded her, intent on cheering her up. Some people were just not meant to sit still.

“I will get her back.“ The Emperor’s expression turned hard again as she looked out over the city. Her city. Her planet. Her universe. How did they dare defy her? “And I will kill everyone involved in helping her escape.“ She pressed through gritted teeth. “Perhaps I’ve been too lenient. People seem to forget what happens when they disobey… That’s why we can’t let this treachery stand.“

“We haven’t had games in a while.“ River mused, feeling a sense of excitement at her wife’s statement.

“No, we haven’t.“ The Emperor considered her words with a grin.

“Bread and circuses, isn’t that what the Romans on Earth used to do.“ River chuckled. “I just don’t understand why they don’t see you as the generous ruler you are.“ She sighed.

“I have been generous. I have made Gallifrey the centre of the known universe, what else do they expect.“ The Emperor snapped, annoyed, not at River but at the situation in general.

“I know you have.“ River nuzzled into her hair and pressed a kiss to her neck.

“Ungrateful children.“ The Emperor huffed. “I won the Time War for them, I brought the entire universe to heel. If they chose to act like spoilt brats I will treat them as such. I have been kind to them. For years I’ve turned a blind eye and let them lead their little lives, ignoring their whispers and dissident behaviour because they’re still my people. But if I find out they have anything to do with this… We will have games Gallifrey won’t forget for generations. I will purge this city.“ She growled.

“I know you’re sentimental, my darling. With Clara… with your people… But your kindness could become a weakness if we’re not careful.“ River hummed holding her close.

“Clara won’t move against me, she has no cards to play and whether you like it or not, she is also too sentimental about me.“ The Emperor replied.

“Is that why you’re doing nothing to discourage her?“ River huffed, unable to completely brush over how touchy she was about the subject.

“Maybe I like to keep my options open.“ The Doctor smirked and turned in her arms to see the expression on her face. River was quick to pull back and attempt to slap her but the Emperor caught her hand mid-air with great amusement. “Don’t worry, my love, my hearts belong to you alone, I’m just teasing you.“ She took her wife’s hand and placed it against her chest for emphasis. “If I find out Clara’s had anything to do with it or is going behind my back in any way, I will kill her with my own hands.“ She promised.

“I will hold you to that.“ River sighed but smiled. She had never disappointed her or broken a promise. There was no-one she trusted more.

“I’m gonna go down there myself.“ The Emperor turned back to the window. Mist and smoke shrouded the lowest levels of the city in darkness.

“Darling, are you sure that’s entirely necessarily.“ River frowned. Though she knew full well that she was able to handle herself she didn’t like the idea of her going amongst the people that hated her most. She had grown quite attached to this face of hers.

“When I said I’m going to rip this city apart looking for her, I meant it.“ The Emperor growled and River knew she wouldn’t be able to stop her.

——

The Doctor excused herself from Missy’s tent. She needed some fresh air to process while Missy continued consoling her friend. The Doctor couldn’t bring herself to look on much longer. It wasn’t just the fact that she felt utterly useless, it was also the guilt for how she was watching Missy. It was as if at every turn she was expecting her to show her true colours, break the facade, lose the grip on herself. She just couldn’t bring herself to accept the truth and emotions behind her actions and she knew that was wrong. This Missy didn’t deserve her mistrust and yet, she couldn’t quite overcome her doubts just yet.

Missy had made her promise to come back before too long, she insisted it wouldn’t be safe to stay out in the open. It was only a matter of time before the guards would be back. For now, the Doctor was walking around the camp, getting a sense of the place.

As she was acclimating to this universe, as she was learning more and more about her counter part and these distorted versions of her closest friends, she couldn’t help but wonder how all of it had come to pass. Perhaps if she learned more about this version of the past, she could work out a way forward. Some sort of weakness or miscalculation. There was one question that bugged her more than all the others and she thought maybe, she would be able to find some answers here. It didn’t take long to find Manton, he was talking to two men by the entrance to the tent city, almost as if instructing guards. Though he insisted he was not a Colonel here, he certainly appeared to be playing a similar role. It gave her hope that her theory might be correct.

“You’re not leaving, are you?“ He greeted her with raised eyebrows as she came to a halt in front of him.

“No, I was actually looking for you.“ The Doctor replied. “There’s something I wanted to ask you about if you don’t mind. I think Missy is going to preoccupied for a while, so…“

“How can I help?“ He asked, indicating that there was no need to justify herself.

“Uhm, so… In my universe…“

“I am somewhat curious about that.“ He chuckled but allowed her to continue without pushing further.

“I won’t bore you with the details.“ She gave him an awkward smile. She didn’t think any of them would particularly want to know about how they were her enemies in another life. “In my universe you were working with a chapter of the church of the papal mainframe… does that… mean anything to you?“

“The Kovarian Chapter.“ Manton raised his eyebrows, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised, it stood to reason things ran somewhat similar in both universes but it still caught him off guard.

“Yes.“ The Doctor smiled in relief, affirmed in her suspicions. “Madame Kovarian, is she… I mean… What happened to her? She’s not…“

“She’s here if that’s what you want to know.“ He interrupted her babbling with a kind smile.

“She is?“ The Doctor had hoped so but she was surprised nonetheless.

“Would you like me to take you to her?“ He asked slightly amused.

“Would you?“

“I don’t see why not, but she might not be quite what you’re expecting…“ He replied. “This way, Doctor.“

To the Doctor, all the tents looked more or less the same but Manton seemed to know where he was going. It didn’t take them long, the relatively small tent was located to the outskirts of the camp, almost as if she liked to keep to herself.

“Madame Kovarian?“ Manton spoke up as they entered the tent, announcing their arrival. The Doctor followed him somewhat reluctantly, she wasn’t sure how she was going to feel for seeing the woman that had had such a large impact on her life, having caused her and her closest friends so much pain, but as she lay eyes on her, she didn’t feel the same distrust she did with Missy. Missy still looked too much like herself, Madame Kovarian, however, appeared nothing like the woman she remembered.

“Madame Kovarian?“ The Doctor echoed her name. For one thing, it was to reassure her that it was actually her. For the other, it was to make herself known as Madame Kovarian appeared to be blind. She wore eye patches similar to the eye drives the Doctor remembered but there was no technology to them and the Doctor couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling, that she would find her eye sockets empty underneath. She sat in a sort of rocking chair by an open fire, her posture, ailment and well worn clothes made her look twice the age the Doctor remembered her as.

“Madame Kovarian, this is the Doctor.“ Manton said and gestured for the Doctor to step closer. Madame Kovarian looked in the direction of their voices, her expression concerned but he went on to explain. “I told you about her earlier, she’s from the other side.“

“Hello…“ The Doctor said softly.

“Right, yes of course…“ Madame Kovarian said weakly.

“I was hoping you could help me put some pieces together.“ The Doctor pulled up a chair to sit across from her.

“Just be aware, Doctor, her memory is not what it used to be.“ Manton said gravely.

“Why? What happened?“ The Doctor looked around to him.

“In our last… altercation with the Emperor, things didn’t go so well for us.“ He answered.

“Maybe you could stay? I just need to find out about what happened here, about…“ The Doctor couldn’t help but pity Kovarian, she looked like a shadow of the person she knew.

“Melody?“ Madame Kovarian spoke up, as if plucking a word from thin air.

“Yes, Melody, I need to know about Melody Pond.“ The Doctor leaned forward feeling a wave of reassurance, she did know what she was talking about.

“Such a troubled child, she always was, I tried so hard…“ Madame Kovarian mumbled and the Doctor realised she wasn’t actually answering her question, she was just reminiscing.

“We know you did.“ Manton placed his hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

“Guess some things just don’t go away, those parents…“ Kovarian muttered.

“Amy Pond did this to her.“ Manton explained. “Her eyes…“

“Guess she didn’t take kindly to having her daughter taken from her.“ The Doctor couldn't help but point out. While she couldn’t condone the violence, she could understand the emotions of a grieving mother.

“How do you know about that?“ Manton frowned.

“Happened in my universe, too.“ The Doctor said somewhat numbly. She was struggling to see right and wrong here, there lines were blurry, so she pushed on. “Why did you do it? It’s cruel to take someone child, I thought you’re meant to be the good guys…“

“It’s not quite what you think, Doctor.“ Manton said when it seemed as though Kovarian was unable to respond. “I won’t deny, things were bleak in those days, we were running out of options. We failed with the Pandorica, the last attempt of the remaining powerful and free civilisations…“

“A nameless, terrible thing, soaked in the blood of a billion galaxies…“ The words suddenly had a different ring to them as the Doctor recalled them and a chill ran down her spine. “The most feared being in all the cosmos. And nothing could stop it, or hold it, or reason with it. One day it would just drop out of the sky and tear down your world.“ It seemed in this universe, the legend was in fact true.

“She didn’t have a name in those days, all of existence was trembling, Doctor. They would go from world to world and destroyed and conquered…“ Manton tried his best to explain but his words failed him.

“It didn’t start with Gallifrey then?“ The Doctor realised.

“It ended with Gallifrey.“ Madame Kovarian whispered.

“And River…“ The Doctor leaned forward, pushing on, she needed to know.

“We’re not proud of it, we never planned for it to happen… things were coming to a head at Demons Run, it was our last big stand… there was a fight like you’ve never seen…“ Manton seemed to shudder at the memory of it.

“There was blood everywhere…“ Kovarian’s voice was weak. It was as if she was jumping from one painful memory to the next.

“Amy Pond was heavily pregnant at the time but she wouldn’t keep out of it. She went into labour…“ Manton explained.

“And you couldn’t just let an innocent child die…“ The Doctor realised where this was going and immediately regretted assuming them guilty of the same things as their counter parts.

“Of course not.“ Manton gave her a sad smile and the Doctor concluded:

“So you saved her.“

“I just couldn’t bare to leave her with those people…“ Madame Kovarian spoke up, sounding stronger, more like herself. It was as if this was something she was sure of. “Growing up amongst that violence…“

“We did what we could.“ Manton added.

“And you realised she was special… the perfect assassin to…“ The Doctor carried on.

“And she wanted to help us in the end.“ Manton had to point out, as if to justify it. “She grew up amongst us, of course she learned of what we were dealing with. She always had a wild… violent… streak, she needed no encouragement from us.“ He smiled a sad smile. “And yes, we’re not proud of it but we thought, yes, maybe, this was the way, the only way to stop them… their best friend’s child, a cruel twist of fate but…“

“But she fell in love with them…“ The Doctor sighed and she didn’t know whether to laugh of cry. “Of course she did. Nature over nurture… River Song and the Doctor… some things seem to be inevitable, no matter the timeline or universe.“ It was an incredibly romantic thought, that no matter where they started, who they were, how they were raised, they would always find each other. But it sounded like this River had been given everything, had been brought up right and chosen to fight for what’s right on her own account… and then turned her back on it all and for what? Was it power or was it love? Were people like the Emperor or her even capable of the latter?

“Manton?“ They were interrupted when a young man burst in. “They’re here.“

“Who is.“ Manton asked in alarm, meeting him halfway.

“The guards.“ The young man answered and his heart sank. They had had less time than expected.

“Doctor, you need to…“ He turned but only to find that she was gone already.

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thetorturerwrites · 4 years

Text

Lamb: Ch 2 - Someone Like You

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Previous Chapter

Summary: “You need someone in the middle—not dead, not alive.” You arched upwards, trying to get even a bit of slack, just enough to speak. “Someone like me.”

C/N: Look - If you’re new here, this is adult shit. If you’re not new here, you know what my C/Ns are about. Be warned.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: Did I ever think I would be writing about Kylo and babies? No. No, I did not. Am I writing about Kylo and babies? Maybe. Its a crazy, crazy world, y'all.

Special thanks to @kylorengarbagedump for helping me edit this asshole of a chapter.

***

“Retribution.”

The word sounded ludicrous on his lips, infantile and irresponsible. Abruptly, you had a clearer picture of what was happening. In this mesmerizing nirvana, his encapsulated kingdom, you were a child, stumbling into an adult’s arena to demand attention.

Your senselessness laid bare, you stared at him, adrift in the gleam of irises that never settled on one color. The pregnant moon overhead framed him, adorning his breathtaking face with a perfect, glowing halo. He was unnaturally beautiful, the kind of king women wept for.

“Father...”

He met your whisper with a sneer, and you recoiled. He, too, thought your trek here was juvenile; you were just a witless woman wrestling with her emotions. Your heart sank at his judgment, disappointed that he thought you naïve.

Ashamed, you fixed your eyes upon a creeping succulent. You traced thick, tear-shaped leaves and winced at inch-long thorns. You could all but feel the phantom pinpricks. The red and pink blooms made for a variegated shroud to decorate the otherwise plain shrine.

It was lovely in its lethality, a fitting summation of this place.

“The Resistance slaughtered my planet, my ENTIRE family.”

You licked your lips and tugged at his sleeve, pulling yourself up to sit. Recognizing what you had just done, you wrung your hands, as though he was a walking electric current. Even so, he was the only bit of warmth in this melancholy vale, and you subconsciously leaned into it.

“You’re a fool.” He rose to an obscene height and moved away. “I care less than a whit for your holy wars. You murder on fantasy, not truth.”

The absence of his body was nearly as painful as his lack of understanding, and the resultant shout erupted before you could stop it.

“IT WAS NOT OUR WAR!”

Your exclamation bounced off shedding trees to die away in spongy, mossy hills. Sniffling, you pressed the heels of your hands into exhausted eyes. Yelling at men was an awful idea; yelling at this specific man was the epitome of lunacy.

How were you going to explain the hole in your soul to a creature who had none? To Ren, your mourning and loss were just specks in eternity, but he didn’t spend his days loving the living only to lose them. If your grandmother's stories were true, he had been this walking void since his creation.

And the brothers made themselves a land with a great vault separating light from dark. In their wisdom, they decreed the living would gather under golden sun, and the dead would gather under silver moon. Grandfather Sky Walker gave his blessing: Let them rule over these lands through all ages. Let there be day and night, and let them usher in The Balance.

He was here. It was true.

That cast his indifference into an unusual shade of acceptance. Like this place, he existed outside of the universe’s organic stream. It wasn’t a lack of feeling; it was one colored by millennia of demise.

You were struck by the understanding that he made everything here in his image, all of it immaculate, alluring, and fatal. Just as he was.

“The Resistance decimated my planet on a rumor—a rumor that we were a First Order cult.” Your voice was steadier than you expected. “But my family, my friends and everybody I knew...We were just ordinary people.”

You lifted your eyes and found him examining you, a curious look playing across his striking features. You huffed a pained breath and looked away again, fearing you would shatter under his scrutiny.

“My grandmother believed in the Balance, not in some notion of wiping the Galaxy clean of Soloists.”

His silence was deliberate, aimed to unnerve, and you crumpled forward, bending as though you could implore his aid into reality. When he moved, it was to stalk a circle around the altar. His head cocked to assess your every angle. Captured prey, you could do nothing but watch, wait, wonder.

“Belief in the Balance will not return your family. Nor will I.”

His glorious voice had bite; but where there should be an echo, there was none. Every lilting tree, every swaying vine, even the very air enveloped him, moved with him, absorbed his energy.

Hugging yourself, you fought down your apprehension.

“No, it won’t.”

You looked past him to fat carmine leaves and marveled at how they turned their faces towards The Ren, their master.

He only understood in terms of the absolute.

“I came to ask you to kill them—the people who murdered my family. The Resistance.”

His circuitous pacing ended at your front, and he speared you with such a look you felt conquered. If he was the next crusade, the holy war renewed, you would fight for him, lay down and die for him.

His long fingers slid you to the altar's precarious edge. So near to him, your comatose heartbeat increased, thudding against ribs his knuckles skimmed.

“All of them?”

You nodded, meek and uncertain. He stepped in, spreading your legs wide just by his body’s substantial design. He was the epitome of domineering, his shape meant to terrorize the weak, to endure immortality.

Uncertain if you were allowed to put your hands on him, you braced against the slab, leaning slightly away.

The scent of this place, misty and piny and richly floral, was powerful, distilled to purity in his body. It seeped from his pores, the sumptuous belladonna curling around you like tainted tendrils. He obscured what scant light there was and blotted out your senses, filling your light head with dread and longing.

With one finger under your chin, he lifted your face and beckoned you into such a trance you didn’t notice how he lazily caressed your outer thigh. One by one, he tugged upon the plum, plump bows keeping the rest of you hidden.

“What price are you willing to pay for genocide, lost lamb?”

It was hypnotic—the timbre of his voice, the delicate dance of his fingertips, the starry shine of his eyes. You blinked at his question, too caught up in the slow drag of his knuckles along your sternum and down between your breasts.

Your lips worked feebly, discarding every suggestion your brain made. What could you offer a being such as this? Prayers? He would condemn them. Offerings? Paltry trinkets. Blood? You’d already given it. Pleasure? You weren’t sure he was capable.

It was a cruel game, and the realization burst over you like icy water, flooding your addled mind and shocking you back from stupidity.

You had nothing. Purposefully divested of everything, you sojourned here a destitute fool.

“There it is.” He brushed a thumb across your lips, smirking. “She understands now that she has nothing, is nothing, of value with which to bargain.”

He collected your silent tears and fed them to you, salt in the wound. Chidingly, he wrapped stiff fingers around your quivering neck and squeezed until you felt your supernaturally sustained pulse drumming in your ears.

“It is as I said. The dying lamb has no value to the shepherd.”

Fear licked at your nape, clamoring into the rational parts of you. Your mind whirred, desperately trying to unearth some kernel that would serve your purpose. There had to be something.

The memory struck you suddenly and at full velocity. Careening, your breath stopped. The lineage of Soloists was a pastime for your brother, who made you sit through innumerable sessions and lectures.

And Solo took himself a wife, making her flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone. Their union was prosperous, and she begat him many sons, the first being...

Your body shot into motion, vacating all self-preservation. You grasped his hand and pulled it to your chest. You were even so bold as to thread your smaller fingers through his. On instinct, both legs wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his legs in a feeble hold.

You were unwilling to renounce your argument without a fight. Hastily, the words spilled out, a wishful wine you weren’t sure he would drink.

“NowaitIcanbeyourvessel!”

A perfectly sculpted black brow rose over his eye. He untangled his fingers from yours, scoffing. Your face burned, impossible beads of sweat forming at your pounding temples. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you pressed them to your flaming cheeks and tried to calm yourself.

“Choose your next words carefully.”

Entertained by the toddler, he was indulging your delusions, but there was a limit to his patience. Sturdy hands slid beneath your thighs, parting and lifting them so he could draw your hips further into his. You couldn’t argue; you were the one who stopped him from leaving.

Was that an erection you felt there? Was this proof to your curiosity? The possibility sent goose flesh tingling to every inch of your skin.

“Your brother... Ah!”

Athame in hand, he gouged the tip into your unblemished thigh, raising a lone drop of blood.

“Your brother has many children; does he not? There are stories about his prolific family.”

Out sized, you spiraled into anxious desire. When he tired of your nonsense, pulverizing your bones would be little more than a snap of his fingers. Yet, here he was, still wedged between your thighs and feeling a lot like a man who could make you forget your name.

“Reminding me of my brother is not the way to make your case, lamb.”

He dragged warm lips over your pulse, lathing it with his tongue. His wide palm wrapped around your generous hip, and every single thought fled on bated breath. He was woefully seductive, a wolf in shepherd's clothing.

You licked your lips and shook your head, trying to agree and clear away cobwebs, but his hands and nipping kisses befuddled you so much you could only sputter half-formed words. Switching your concentration to the blade, you valiantly tried to keep track of it and tied yourself to it's path like a lifeline.

“But you don’t.” You splayed your fingers out wide, palms flat on the altar. "Your seed will kill a living woman, yes? But a woman already crossed over cannot carry a child."

You were about to launch yourself from the proverbial cliff. Regardless of what came next, you would be a splatter at its bottom.

“I- I can.” You begged the endless midnight sky to strengthen your resolve. “You can have me.”

He had been rubbing you up and down his rigid length, your body no more than an instrument to appease his ardor; but at your declaration, he gripped your hips painfully tight and bit your shoulder.

Attuned to his mood, the stars dimmed to a faint radiance. It was the one detail your brain could latch onto, the way even the greatest of them conformed to his will.

“You think that’s a novel gesture? That you’ll be the first person I’ve fucked here?” His voice was low but no less edgy. “How many would you wager have died screaming at the end of my dick?”

A pathetic whimper escaped your open mouth, and hunger set it to watering. The idea of him fucking you here, in this open clearing under his meticulously curated twilight, was salacious, tantalizing.

“Countless.” You couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your hips, trying to jump start his back into rhythm. “But I would wager very few of them have been willing to bear your children.”

He growled, a vicious, threatening promise. His soft touch turned angry, coiling into your hair and yanking your head back. Your throat seized, elongated by his grip and fully bared for execution. What had been a grazing scratch of your blade turned again to a harsh point dug into the skin.

You could hardly speak, reduced to gaping at his flashing onyx eyes. They blazed with a fiery hatred, and you knew it was because you were right. It wasn’t easy for him like it was his brother. He had spent eons alone whereas his brother wanted for nothing.

It infuriated him.

“You need someone in the middle—not dead, not alive.” You arched upwards, trying to get even a bit of slack, just enough to speak. “Someone like me.”

He curved around you so tight you could smell the deadly nightshade on his breath, every single part of him designed to snuff out life. You chewed the inside of your cheek, wondering how each part of him tasted.

“Someone like you?” He spat the words, fingernails digging into your scalp. “Impure? Spoiled by how many men in your lifetime? Cowed by a little death and stupid enough to make demands of me?”

He was so close to snapping your neck, and you itched for it. You would gladly die at his hand, reunite with your family. All of these morose colors blended with the sorrow in your heart, and you pictured your bones rotting to dust, anchoring you here forever.

But he held off, glaring down at you in barely-checked contempt.

Caught between wanting to die and wanting to murder, your breathing tilted into erratic, skirting panic so closely a fallen eyelash would detonate the bomb in your chest.

He looked at you in such a way, though, that your apprehension settled. He was angry because he didn’t know how to feel things. He was intended, to his very marrow, to only ever take. Anything else was uncomfortable and worthy of destruction.

You nudged his nose with yours, a mirror to his earlier gesture.

“Someone willing.” It was less than a whisper, barely a breath.

His calculating gaze roamed your face, judging the depth of your commitment. In seconds, the pointed extension of his anger sliced down your supple thigh, cutting open a large gash.

But pain wasn’t his target.

His aim was true. The rogue missile was expertly guided. And when the thing forced into your cunt, you screamed in unmitigated horror.

“I’m no gentle lover, and this is not your marriage bed. Willing or not, the lamb is meant to be slaughtered.”

You splintered into a wrecked and blubbering mess, heaving and howling. You clung to his shoulders, gouging little crescents into his neck. You had expected to die today but not by the blade cleaving apart your pussy. Offering him your womb seemed to make him only want to carve it from your body, a trophy to mark your idiocy.

“You should not offer things that don’t belong to you, lamb.” The vibration tickled your earlobe, drawing you down from your mania. “Your body was mine the moment you crossed into my land.”

You felt it then, the shift and nudge inside your cunt. Where you were certain there had been a sharp edge, there was only an ornately ridged column, handcrafted and safe.

It was the hilt.

The wave of frenzy crested, and you opened puffy, red eyes onto a lucent, luminous moon.

He had buried the knife’s handle into your cunt and was pumping it slowly. He held the traitorous blade without even a single red cell shed.

You wailed a halfhearted objection because this was a profane corruption of a consecrated relic. A particularly long drag of the makeshift phallus countered and shook loose a vulgar moan, and you squeezed tight around it.

It was shameless and sacrilegious.

And it felt so, so good.

You whimpered when he licked your lower lip, barely making contact. Your thighs splayed wide, eager, and an appreciative noise rumbled in his throat. He rewarded your responsiveness with another slow, deep plunge of the weapon, and your head lolled back.

“How is your religion serving you now, lamb?”

He shoved the handle as far into you as the guard would allow and worked it back and forth, rubbing the ridges and pommel against the sensitive spots inside. You moaned sinfully loud, and grasped at him.

He was ruthless, prodding the elusive bumpy patch until you bucked against his hand and watching you float through this immoral delirium.

You wished it was him. His mouth, his fingers, his cock. Anything but this false idol ramming into your pussy.

Your whimpers turned to pleasured cries. Your calves tensed and shook. Looking down on his blasphemous claim, you yelped and pushed at his arms, the torrent of blood splashed over your thighs and sex wrenching you from your high.

In your hysteria, you’d forgotten that he’d sliced open your leg.

“Father, please…”

He dug his thumb firmly into the wound, gripping nearly your entire thigh in the one tremendous hand. For a moment, the throb in your pussy traveled up to swirl around the intrusion, and you writhed to get away.

“If you call me that again,” he bit your jaw, raising a welt, “I will slit you open from cunt to crown.”

He played in the plasma, coating his fingers with it. You whined and grimaced, caught between salvation at your cunt and persecution at your leg. When his tacky thumb connected with your clit, you shouted, wracked with tremors. Like a savage, he masturbated you with your own blood, rubbing fast circles.

Rapture barreled down the length of your spine, working its way through every extremity. You were going to cum for him, at the end of your family's treasured athame, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

It was indecent, and you drowned in it. You collapsed back onto the altar, arching up into a delicious bow. Your knees drew up higher, and your hips worked for him, chasing what he dangled but never quite delivered. Your fingers scrambled against the uneven stone and fisted the velvet garment.

Your insides coiled, churning terror and thirst together until you couldn’t tell one from the other. Inching closer and closer to that crack of lightning, your cries built, a tumultuous, hoarse crescendo. You thought he would make you tow that line forever, so close to bliss but never allowed to feel it.

But finally, mercifully, it came.

A blistering exaltation slid over your every nerve. Your cunt clenched and quaked, gushing a lewd prayer. The knife in his hand was the center of all gravity, and every part of you swiveled around it, rolling and bucking and shaking. You hurled a string of curses no priestess should ever know, earning a derisive chuckle.

“Such filth from that pretty mouth.”

Spent, your back finally met the slab beneath, and you fought for breath, chest stinging and throat crackly. A pained whine escaped when his torture implement departed from your slick center, but he gave you only a brief reprieve.

He climbed above you, dropped his heavy knee onto your sensitive mound, and shoved the sullied hilt into your mouth. Your eyes flew open, but he captured your jaw and kept it in place, ensuring that you held the thing upright.

Copper tang pooled on your tongue and wafted under your nose. On a muffled whinge, your eyes rolled back into your head. Automatically, obediently, you rocked your hips under his trap.

“No less than you deserve.” He was all spite and venom. “Swallow.”

You couldn’t look at him, the stars in his eyes daunting and demonic. Your tongue moved around the hilt, licking away the remnants of your vulgar display. You curled your fingers into the hem of his shirt, exhaled slowly through your nose, and complied, gulping the taste down.

A timid glance found him studying you, but you didn’t know what he was seeking. Obedience? Passion? Reverence? The gravity of the moment was inescapable. He was deciding if you died here and now, and he gagged you from making any further entreaty.

Lithe for his size, he slid from the perch and pulled the athame from your mouth. Silently, he lifted you from the slab and dropped you on the ground. Not knowing if any of the flora was poisonous, you squealed, shot to your feet, and clutched the abused blade to your heart. A second later, you nearly impaled yourself with it when he threw the hefty book at you.

Grateful that he didn’t destroy your remaining link to your family, you sunk to the ground and dug aching fingers into the dirt. It was cool and soothing, and you wanted nothing more than to lie down in it and die.

Instead, you watched, benumbed and mute, as he punched a large hole straight through the center of the altar. It should have been alarming; the crash of rubble should have scared you, but your senses were far past overstimulated.

Silently, he manipulated a chunk of the altar into a slender loop.

It was astonishing. He was literally creating something from stone that should have been unyielding. Crouching beside you, he pushed your chin up to lengthen your neck. It was then you understood what was happening. The thing he was fashioning out of the imbrued marble was for you.

Without a word, he molded it around your neck, cementing it with a pinch of his mighty fingers.

His masquerade as a man fell away. That shrine had stood for a thousand years, likely more, and he demolished it as though it was parchment. He had desecrated the altar to enslave you, spinning an infinite bondage into existence with his very will alone.

The strength, the unfathomable power unleashed a yearning you weren't prepared to address. He was something wholly beyond what you'd been taught. He was profound, unknowable.

You ran your fingertips along the jagged edges and discovered his collar was perfectly measured to your size. His fingers would fit between it and your skin, but nothing more.

Every story you ever heard about this place rang in your ears, a raucous chorus of warnings. The living could not stay here, nor could they take anything from here.

But it was too late.

By your own hand, you now existed between life and death, trapped here by this pillaged, obsidian tether and it's king.

You didn’t know if he would do as you asked or if he would make you bear his children.

You did know that you would never be leaving.

#kylo ren #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #kylo x reader #lamb

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rumbelleshowdown · 4 years

Text

Author: Tea Rose

Prompt: Insects at night; bubble bath; Victorian

Group: C

North Star

The water was deliciously warm, and Belle sighed, sinking lower in the bath and letting her knees rise up. Tiny bubbles were rolling down her thighs into the water, waves of white foam from the rose and lavender soap she had used. They piled against her wet skin, and she lifted a foot, lathering the soap between her hands and stroking fragrant froth between her toes. The sound of swift footsteps made her glance around, and she smiled as her maid, Ruby Lucas, entered with a copper jug full of steaming water.

“Last one, Miss Belle,” she said breathlessly, and Belle sat forward, hugging her knees as Ruby poured in the hot water, making the bubbles seethe and burst.

“Thank you,” said Belle, relaxing back and letting her arms stretch out. “Did I hear the front door just now?”

“Mr Gold arrived,” said Ruby, and seemed to bite her lip to hide a smirk as Belle squeaked.

“Mr Gold? But he hasn’t visited in an age! Is he staying long?”

“Tiana was making some supper for him while I was fetching the water,” said Ruby, with a grin. “So it looks that way, Miss.”

Belle floundered, pushing herself upright and splashing water over the edge of the tub.

“Hurry! My blue dress!”

Ruby was used to her mistress’s impulsive nature and swift decisions, and she managed to get Belle dressed and ready quickly, although Belle thought it fortunate that she hadn’t washed her hair that evening. She hurried from her room as soon as the last pin was in place, and paused at the top of the stairs, hands smoothing her skirts nervously. Voices were drifting up from her father’s study, and Belle clutched at the smooth oak banister, her heart pounding and the colour rising in her cheeks as she recognised the warm brogue of Mr Gold. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering the way his smile made the corners of his mouth twist and his eyes gleam with a soft, amber light.

He had been friends with her father for some time; Maurice French’s strange inventions and boundless enthusiasm for the latest scientific discoveries made him somewhat eccentric in the eyes of his peers, but Mr Gold shared his interests, and the two of them had struck up a friendship. Gold had a fine house in London and an estate north of the Scottish border that Belle had regrettably never seen. Maurice didn’t like to travel, preferring to spend all his time at home, shut up in his workroom or reading in his library. Gold travelled a great deal, searching far and wide for a son he had lost and was desperate to find.

Belle had seen a picture of his son once, a drawing in charcoal of a dark-haired boy of around fourteen. It had been crumpled and a little smudged at the edges, as though it was looked at often. Thinking of the pain that Gold had carried for years made her heart ache for him, but he always had a smile for her, and a present from his travels, and fascinating tales of the places he had visited. He had been coming to the house regularly for the past five years, and Belle had been completely in love with him for around four and a half. For all the good it did.

She took a deep breath, composing herself before she entered the room, and both men turned to look at her, Maurice short and round with a balding head and bristling white mustache and Gold a little taller, thin and clean-shaven. He wore his brown hair longer than was fashionable, curling over the collar of his coat and brushing his cheeks. It was turning silver at the temples, and she had always thought how soft it looked, and how much she wanted to touch it. There was an old ring on his right hand, a moonstone in a heavy gold band, which she had noticed him turning between finger and thumb when lost in thought. Gold bowed his head as she entered.

“Miss French,” he said. “You’re looking remarkably well.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s been too long since we saw you, hasn’t it, Papa? Where did you go?”

Gold glanced between them.

“I just returned from the south of France,” he said. “Choppy waters in the Bay of Biscay, but the winds were with us.”

“Oh!” said Belle excitedly. “I’d love to go to France! Please, tell me what it was like!”

Gold turned towards her, the little smile he often wore twisting his mouth and making his dark eyes gleam in the lamplight.

“I rode a horse through endless fields of lavender,” he said softly. “The scent filled the air around me, and seemed to sink into my skin, so that I could smell it at night when I lay down to sleep. The road was hard earth, baked and cracked by the sun, winding between small villages and farms where the locals dozed in the shade of the olive trees with their cats. In the evenings, the sun would set in a blazing puddle of molten gold, and I ate fresh bread and soft, pungent cheese and drank red wine that was dark as blood and tasted of spices.”

Belle could feel her mouth fall open as the sound of his voice washed over her, filling her mind with the images his words created. His eyes were fixed on hers, his gaze steady.

“Must be a shock to come back to London, what?” said Maurice jovially, and Gold looked away, breaking the spell.

“The city is even busier and dirtier than I remember,” he said, with a grin. “It’s strange: I tell myself each time I go that I should sell the house and leave London entirely, yet something keeps pulling me back, turning me home. Like a guiding light. Like the North Star.”

He glanced briefly at Belle, and she felt a blush begin to heat her cheeks. Please don’t leave, she thought. Please don’t leave me.

“It’ll keep your housekeeper on her toes,” chuckled Maurice.

“Poor Mrs Potts,” said Gold, sounding rueful. “I fear the house will still be shut up tight. I’ll have to let myself in and build a fire. It’ll be the devil’s work for my valet trying to make me presentable tomorrow morning; he does like to do things properly.”

“Then stay with us, my dear fellow!” cried Maurice, patting his shoulder. “Goodness, you can’t be expected to open up the house yourself at this hour!”

“Well, it would certainly be a relief not to have to go out again,” said Gold. “The journey was rather tiring. Of course, I wouldn’t want to impose...”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Maurice. “Let me speak to Mrs Lucas. I’ll have one of the guest rooms made ready, and Locksley will look after your man.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind.”

Maurice bustled out, and Gold turned to Belle with a smile.

“I’m sorry to be calling so late, Miss French,” he said. “After travelling for so long, I almost lost track of the day, not to mention the hour.”

“We’re very glad to see you,” she said warmly, almost reaching for his hand before remembering herself and pulling back. “And you must be tired. Please, don’t feel that you have to stand on my account. Do take a seat, I insist.”

Gold’s smile widened.

“I could never refuse you anything, Miss French.”

Gold was served a simple supper of raised game pie, bread and cheese, and afterwards he and Maurice drank brandy and talked over the latest news. Belle was eager to hear more stories of the trip to France, and Gold obliged, telling her of the sights he had seen on the roads through Provence to Avignon.

“Sounds dusty,” declared Maurice. “And much too hot. This summer has been wretched. Far better to stay at home.”

“Well, I would love to travel,” said Belle. “I always wanted to see the world. I’ve lived twenty years, and barely left London! What I wouldn’t give for some adventure!”

“You young people are too restless,” grumbled Maurice. “Certainly I have no desire to be always going here, there and everywhere. And certainly young women shouldn’t be travelling alone and - and adventuring. It’s unseemly.”

“This is the Victorian age, Papa,” said Belle severely. “If Her Majesty is considered capable of ruling an entire empire, then allowing the rest of us women the freedom to do as we please will hardly bring about the downfall of civilisation.”

Maurice clicked his tongue.

“Really, Belle!” he said. “What must Mr Gold think of you?” “Mr Gold agrees wholeheartedly,” said Gold. “The world would be far better if women had the same freedoms as men, and were recognised for the infinitely superior creatures they are. Where will you go on your travels, Miss French?”

Belle thought for a moment.

“Perhaps I shall start a little closer to home,” she said. “I have always wanted to visit Scotland.”

“Well, you’re more than welcome to come to Dundorcha,” he said. “Although at this time of year, the midges will want to eat you alive.”

“Perhaps in the winter, then,” she suggested, and he smiled.

“I’ll make you very welcome.”

It was nearing midnight. Maurice was snoring in his chair, and Belle had followed Gold out onto the balcony overlooking the rear gardens. The summer night was cool, the only light coming from the oil lantern that Gold had carried with them and placed on the table where Belle took her morning tea. A moth appeared out of the night, batting translucent wings against the lantern’s glass shade. Smaller insects joined it, the glow from the lantern catching them, brief flecks of light in the darkness. Gold was gazing out into the night, his expression distant, thoughtful. His fingers turned that old ring, the gold band catching the light from the lantern.

“Where did you get that ring?” asked Belle. “I always meant to ask. It looks old.”

Gold looked down, splaying his fingers.

“It is,” he agreed. “Older than you might think.”

“Is it a family heirloom?” she asked, and he smiled in an almost secretive way.

“Something like that.”

“A good luck charm, perhaps?” she suggested, and he shrugged.

“It’s supposed to help the bearer find what it is they want most in the world,” he said, and leaned towards her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s magic.”

“Really?” she asked, a little breathless at his closeness of him. Gold pulled back, a tiny sigh escaping him.

“Well, that’s what I hoped,” he said, sounding resigned. “A fool’s hope. There is no magic in this world. At least, not any more. Perhaps there used to be.”

He sounded despondent, and she wanted to comfort him, to tell him there was always hope.

“Is there no word of him?” she asked gently. “No word of your son? I’m sure you’ll find him. I can feel it.”

Gold shook his head, his mouth twisting.

“I’ve been searching for so long now,” he said quietly. “Every time I hear the faintest rumour I pick up and I chase after it. Every time I’ve been disappointed.”

“You mustn’t give up hope,” she said, and he turned to her with a sad smile.

“I try to keep faith that I’ll find him,” he said. “Alas, this time it was not to be. I didn’t choose the right place. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even in the right time.”

“The world is vast,” she said. “Trying to find one person out of - of thousands - must be next to impossible. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “And perhaps it isn’t merely my own misfortune. If he wanted to be found, he wouldn’t make it so difficult.”

Belle stepped closer.

“You think he’s - hiding - from you?” she asked curiously, and he sighed gently.

“There was a misunderstanding,” he said. “Before he - before I lost him. I think he might still be very angry with me.”

Belle bit her lip, shaking her head.

“But you’re his father,” she said softly. “He must know that you love him. He can’t stay angry forever.”

“I hope you’re right.”

His eyes were downcast, and he suddenly looked very tired. Tired and sad. On impulse, Belle stepped close, turning her face upwards and pressing her mouth to his. She felt him freeze at the touch of her lips, and she drew back, her heart pounding. Gold was staring at her wide-eyed, a stricken look on his face, but then his gaze darkened and he reached out to cup her cheeks with warm hands, bending his head to kiss her.

Belle opened her mouth a little, a moan escaping her as his lips met hers, soft and warm. The touch of his tongue made her rise up on her toes and press her body to his, and he let out a low groan as she slid her hands around his waist. A faint, jagged noise seemed to burst outwards, like the sound of glass shattering in the distance, and Belle’s eyes flew open as what looked like a rainbow-hued ripple spread out from them and dissipated. Gold was breathing heavily, staring at her wide-eyed.

“What was that?” she gasped, and he smiled broadly, gazing at the ring on his finger, which seemed to pulse with a soft light.

“A second chance,” he breathed. “A spark of magic. I can find him. With this I can find him.”

“Magic?” she asked, puzzled, and he cradled her cheeks with his palms, still grinning. He looked to be on the verge of tears, and she couldn’t understand it.

“The most powerful magic of all,” he said softly. “Powerful enough to transcend realms and trigger the spell in this ring. True love.”

Belle clutched at his waist, nodding fiercely.

“Yes!” she whispered. “I do love you! I’ve loved you for so long!”

“And I love you, too.” He pressed his forehead to hers, seeming to breathe in her scent. “I never dared to hope that you might feel the same, my darling Belle. I never dared to dream that you might want me. And now you’ve given me this gift. This chance.”

“I - I don’t understand,” she said. “What did I do?”

His thumbs stroked her cheeks, his nose brushing against hers.

“There’s power in love, Belle,” he said. “Love creates magic. Magic enough to let me find my boy. Will you come with me?”

Belle smiled at his strange talk of magic, reaching up to stroke a hand through his hair. It was every bit as soft as she had thought.

“I’d love to,” she said. ”We’ll see the world, just as I always wanted. I’ll help you find him, I swear it. Whatever you need.”

Gold kissed her again, soft lips gently pulling at her own, and she melted into the kiss, safe in his arms. Magic or not, it would be the most wonderful adventure.

#rumbelle showdown 2020 #round three entry #author: tea rose #rumbelle fic

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deathsteel · 4 years

Text

30 day fanfic challenge

Prompt #13 -Regret

“Fuck”, Dean muttered, scrubbing at the dark ink curving over his collarbone with a washcloth.

It hurt like a bitch, the skin red and inflamed and raw like he was scrubbing over a sunburn. But, damnit, Dean was NOT going to keep looking at the name of his ex-fucking-girlfriend tattooed right over his heart like some damn fool.

Last night was supposed to be their 5 year anniversary, but instead Dean had gotten drunk alone at the divest dive bar to ever exist while looking at pictures of Lisa on her honeymoon on Instagram. They’d gone on to Jamaica, how lame. Dean would have taken her to see the Northern lights, kissed her in a forest, and climbed to the top of a mountain to declare to the world how much he loved her. In his hungover state, Dean spitefully hoped that Lisa and Benny got rained on the whole time they were there.

So yea, Dean was out a best friend and a girlfriend all in one fateful night two years ago. He didn’t even really know why he hadn’t unfollowed the two of them on Instagram yet. Sam said it was because he liked to torture himeself, but Dean had just thought of it as him playing the long game until Lisa was single again. He’d had the tattoo for two and a half years and it served as a constant, daily reminder of how shitty one Dean Winchester was at relationships.

“You should get that covered up,” his roommate Garth said, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway of the bathroom.

Dean just groaned at the other man who looked annoyingly well-rested and continued to rub at the curling script even though he knew it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. He tried to avoid his own gaze in the mirror because he knew he looked like death warmed over and eventually just tossed the washcloth in the sink with a growl of frustration.

“Really, man,” Garth continued, cheerful as ever even though Dean had brusquely pushed past him on the way out of the bathroom. “The guy that does all of my work, he’s great. He specializes in cover ups too! He did this trailing flower thing on Bess’s side to cover up the scar from her accident. It's pretty awesome.”

Dean knew which of his girlfriend’s tattoos that Garth was talking about. Bess had worn a bikini last summer for the first time that Dean had known her and he’d seen the ink flowing gracefully down her ribcage. It had been lifelike and beautiful, dandelions both in bloom and as the white-tufted seeds clinging to delicate stems; waiting to turn into wishes. He hadn’t even noticed that Bess had a scar that the tattoo was covering up, but that was probably the point.

He stormed towards his bedroom, mulling over the thought of going under the needle to cover up Lisa’s name on his skin.

How much longer could he kid himself? Was it even healthy to continue to hope that he and Lisa would get back together? She was fucking married at this point, to Benny of all people! Benny was a good dude, the best dude. And Dean was scum for selfishly wanting them to split up.

The little voice in Dean’s head that sounded an awful lot like Sam whispered that it was time to let go.

“Garth!” Dean hollered, pulling a grey t-shirt roughly over his head and reaching for his discarded jeans from the night before. “You got the name of this tattoo guy?!”

Ethereal Ink was in the up and coming part of town that all the locals snidely called ‘gentrified’. It was located in a refurbished furniture manufacturing plant that had one been the town’s pride and joy in the 60s and 70s, but it had since been updated and broken up into smaller subsections that housed the tattoo shop, a smoothie bar, and a hot yoga studio respectively. Dean grimaced at the sign for the empty space next to the tattoo shop that declared ‘Artisanal Cheese Shoppe Coming Soon!’ as he walked into the parlor before dropping his jaw open as he started at the flash adorning the walls around him.

It was unlike any tattoo shop he had seen before, which granted he had only seen the one when he had initially gotten the ‘Lisa’ tattoo and it had been much seedier than the shop he stood in now. One of the walls of the shop was painted with a sweeping solar system, glowing in hyperrealistic color and scale, the stars and constellations radiating vibrantly against the starkly painted navy hue of the wall itself. A second wall was swathed in plaques and trophies, proudly displayed showing the triumphs and accolades of the shop’s employees.

The remaining two walls showcased lovingly framed flash art and pictures, but it didn’t look like the kind that someone could just pick off the wall and request to have put on their bodies. No, the placement of it looked purposeful. Arranged artistically and clustered into themes, the art seemed to capture the personalities of the people who drew them.

Dean noticed that the artists Anna seemed to prefer portrait art of people and pets, keeping mostly to a black and white color scheme. Hannah, on the other hand, used bright colors and worked in a style that reminded Dean of old sailor tattoos. Billie seemed to favor a tribal, geometric style, and Jess appeared to be the shop’s resident piecer since her cluster was artfully taken photo close-ups of healed piercings. But the last group of artwork, infuriatingly unsigned, seemed to be a marriage of realism and storybook illustrations. There was something arrestingly lifelike in the drawing of a fox posed among vibrantly pink wildflowers and playful in the drawing of a rocketship taking flight. Dean liked all of the artwork, but these caught his attention, these made his hands itch to reach out and touch.

“You my two o’clock consult?” A femenine voice asked causing Dean to spin around and face the counter that separated the awards from the rest of the store. A dark skinned woman with riotously curly hair and tattooed arms revealed by her black tank top leaned comfortably on her arms against the glass top of the counter.

"Yea," Dean replied, putting on a charming smile. "You Cas?"

“No,” the woman said flatly, unfolding her arms to reveal twisting dark tribal tattoos going up the inside until they disappeared under her top. “I’m Billie. Cas is sick and I’m the next best at cover ups.”

Dean tried not to be disappointed, Cas must be who the unsigned artwork belonged too and it was much more intriguing than the stark tribal pieces the woman seemed to favor.

It must have shown on his face though, “You can reschedule with him in about a week or so,” Billie offered. “He has the flu, so he shouldn’t be out longer than that. But Cas said you sounded pretty eager to get this done in your email so he asked me to see you.”

“Cool, well.” Dean floundered, not wanting to appear ungrateful because really, he wanted this fucking name off of his body like yesterday. “Uh...where do we start?”

“Come back to my office and show me what I’m working with,” Billie said, gesturing to the hallway that led behind the counter and deeper into the store before heading that way herself.

Dean followed quickly and was led into a doorless office that contained a padded, reclining tattooing chair, a very large tool chest that was covered in stickers, and even more art featuring tribal tattoos on the walls.

“So where is this no doubt beautiful work that you want to get covered up?” Billie asked blandly, taking a seat on a small rolling stool that had been tucked into the corner.

“On my chest,” Dean answered, perching on the tattoo chair before he hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt and tugged it down to reveal the inked skin in question. “It’s just the name of an ex and well…”

“Hey, no shame,” Billie said, leaning forward to study the ink. “We all do dumb stuff for love, right?”

Dean shrugged and let out a puff of air through his nose in amusement. It was nice not to be made to feel like a tool for getting a dumb tattoo.

“Can’t say I’ve ever gotten a person’s name put on me though…”Billie mused, pulling out her cell from her back pocket. “Mind if I take a few reference pictures? So I can make sure my sketch actually covers the old ink?”

“Sure,” Dean replied, feeling like a moron again. He should’ve never gotten this tattoo, even Lisa had thought it was dumb when he’d shown her.

“Can you take your shirt off for me?”

“Um...yea?” Dean said hesitantly, reaching back to pull the shirt over his head.

“Don’t be shy,” Billie replied, her phone audibly clicking as she snapped a few pictures of Dean’s newly revealed torso and shoulders. “This way I’ll know how much room I have to work with. Plus you’re not my type.”

“Oh,” Dean laughed nervously. “Not enough muscles?”

“Not enough tits,” Billie replied with a smirk, winking at him before snapping another picture and sliding her phone away. “But I’m sure there are lots of people who would appreciate your physique just the way it is. You can put your shirt back on now.”

Dean smiled to himself as he did just that; he had never been one to turn down a compliment from anyone, even if they weren’t interested in more than just admiring for aesthetic reasons.

“So what are you thinking as far as design?” Billie asked, taking her seat back on her stool.

“Well…” Dean started before hitting a proverbial brick wall. He really hadn’t thought beyond just wiping Lisa’s name off of his body. “I’m open to suggestions?”

Billie just raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you alway this impulsive when it comes to putting something permanent on your body?”

Dean just waved his hands in a helpless gesture and put on what he hoped was a charming smile. Based on Billie’s expression it didn’t really work as well as it typically did.

“Which art did you like the best out there?” Billie asked, smiling when Dean froze like a deer in headlights. “I saw you looking at Cas’s stuff? You like those flowers and nature things?”

“Yea, but uh...yours are really great too,” Dean offered trying to backpedal his way out of inadvertently insulting his tattoo artist.

Billie just waved away Dean’s compliment with a grin, “I know my stuff is not everyone’s cup of tea. I can see the appeal in the Cas’s pretty stuff.”

Dean wanted to protest that the prettiness of the other artist’s work had very little to do with why he liked it, but honestly it was pretty and Dean was comfortable enough with his masculinity to admit that he liked flowers sometimes. Especially after all of that therapy he did after his and Lisa’s breakup.

“Listen,” Billie continued, entirely unaware of Dean’s inner monologue. “This is just a consult, we’re not getting married. If you like the flowers, I can forward these pics onto Cas and he can work something up for you.”

Dean gnawed on his lip for a second, ultimately deciding that another week or two with Lisa’s name on his body didn’t mean anything. Maybe he could just cover it up with some bandages or something. He nodded in agreement and moved to get to his feet.

“That settles it then,” Billie said, getting to her feet and leading Dean back towards the front of the shop. “But, let me get your contact info so Cas can reach out once he’s back to schedule with you.”

“No prob,” Dean replied, jotting down his cell number and email address for Billie before giving her a little salute and bidding farewell.

The first text came the next afternoon.

“What is your favorite color?” Unknown Number 1:47pm

Dean stared at his phone incredulously for a minute before shrugging and typing in ‘Red’ and hitting send.

It had been a slow day at work, maybe this was one of those call/text your number neighbor things going around again.

“What is your star sign?” Unknown Number 3:20pm

‘Aquarius,’ Dean replied, feeling bold. ‘What’s urs?’

‘Leo,’ Unknown Number replied a few minutes later, followed quickly by, ‘Favorite flower?’

Dean smirked to himself as he thumbed out a reply, ‘Chocolate sunflower.’

‘Opportunity’ Unknown Number 3:42pm

‘Huh?’ Dean replied back.

‘Chocolate sunflowers symbolize opportunity,’ Unknown Number answered. ‘I like proteas, myself.’

A quick google search taught Dean that proteas symbolized change and hope; he decided to share this newfound knowledge with his mystery text buddy.

He earned a photo in return. It was just a picture of a blooming flower, one which Dean now knew to be a protea, inked onto a forearm that was corded in sinewy muscle and ended in a long-fingered masculine hand. Dean noted the ink smudges on the tips of the index and thumb, the fine, dark hairs dusting the skin around the tattoo, and the freckle on the edge of the palm of the hand.

‘I was thinking of a bouquet,’ Unknown Number shared. ‘Something big to cover up that name on your chest. I’ll send some sketches along shortly.’

Dean swallowed hard, realizing that he had been flirting with his tattoo artist via text. His apparently inked and muscled and weirdly nerdy tattoo artist.

If asked he would deny stalking the tattoo shop’s instagram until the day he died, but it was in a picture simply captioned ‘#flowerboy’ that Dean managed to find a picture of the elusive Cas. The Cas who would be covering up the name of Dean’s ex-girlfriend. The Cas who had probably seen shirtless pictures of Dean courtesy of Billie. The Cas who was practically the walking embodiment of all of Dean’s wet dreams that featured a male counterpart.

He groaned into a pillow for a little bit, questioning all of his life choices, before beginning to feel better. Dean had a lot of regrets, but bailing on this tattoo would not be one of them. This could be an opportunity for something. A change that he needed. Hope for something more with a cute guy who had the swoonest arms that Dean had seen in a long time.

And yea, he did swoon. Just a little.

#30 day fanfic challenge #destiel #spn #regret #fic writing #fanfiction

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sunnyrosewritesstuff · 4 years

Text

Day 2 Hobbit Plot Bunnies

Title: A Hobbit’s Tale: Reclaiming One’s Home

Summary: Role Reversal AU. Prince Bilbo Baggins, formerly of the Shire, has never really had a purpose amongst his people other than to stir up trouble for the displaced hobbits. Therefore, when Gandalf approaches him with a plan to retake the West, Bilbo is willing to do whatever it takes, even team up with a band of dwarven blacksmiths disguised as warriors to take down the Goblin King.

POV: Switches between Bilbo and Thorin

It was a dark and stormy night as a small figure fought his way to a run-down inn in Esgaroth. He tugged his cloak tighter to his person as he pushed his way through the Big People around him to claim a small table near the back. Being so close to Erebor, none of the men took notice of the figure half their size. Once he was settled in with a piping hot plate before him did Bilbo Baggins-Took, exiled Prince of the Shire, pull back his hood.

He could feel the stares even more so now that he revealed that he wasn’t in fact a dwarf. Halfing, Shire-folk. The whispers floated just on the edge of his enhanced hearing, and under the table he readjusted the grip on his long knife. He didn’t really expect anything to happen, but he also knew to be cautious.

Bilbo was able to finish his meal in peace, and pulled out his pipe as he continued to wait on his purpose in coming to this Yavanna-forsaken lake town. He had just lit the bowl and took a couple of deep puffs when a figure in a long gray cloak and equally big hat stopped before his table. He looked up, but the lighting and angle hid the man’s face.

“Good evening.” He greeted with a curt nod.

“What do you mean? Do you wish me a good evening, or mean that it is a good evening whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this evening; or that it is a evening to be good on?”

Bilbo heaved a sigh of relief. “Gandalf.”

The old wizard gave a deep chuckle as he threw his head back, his eyes twinkling in delight.

“Hello, my dear friend.”

“I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me.” Bilbo complained, trying to hide the meek smile around his pipe stem.

“Misplaced in my memories, surely. But never forgotten.” Gandalf affirmed as he sat down across from Bilbo. “Now, what exactly have you done this time to get yourself kicked out of the New Shire?”

“No, no. That’s not what happened.” Bilbo was quick to dispute. “I saw an opportunity to help my fellow hobbits, and I took it. This...is an adventure, not a sentencing.”

Gandalf merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Bilbo held the staredown before he groaned releasing a cloud of smoke.

“And perhaps...I did get carried away when I said the Brown Lands would be more green if the men there would just give us control and keep their smelly booted feet off the land and their long noses out of our arses.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Fortinbras didn’t think that was very clever?”

“Oh, my cousin didn’t have much of a problem with it. I dare say the village chief we were negotiating with was ready to strike me down where I stood.”

Gandalf hummed in agreement and part amusement. Bilbo let the silence fester between them long enough for another draw on his pipe before he spoke again, more reverently.

“I know I don’t make it easier on Fortinbras or the rest of my family, but my pride as a Took and as a hobbit is all I have left, Gandalf. I can’t believe they sent me away to get rid of me, and maybe a small part of me thinks…”

Bilbo trailed off staring at the grain in the wood of the table between them.

“Yes?” Gandalf prompted the smaller fellow.

Bilbo shook his head, and the hesitancy in his eyes moments ago was replaced with steely determination.

“The hobbits will return to Eriador. Even if I have to stand alone before the Goblin King himself. I will have my kin living again in the quiet burrows of the Farthings.”

Gandalf gave the hobbit prince a soft look. “The bravery of hobbits will never cease to amaze me. Or perhaps, it is your mother’s legacy I see shining in you, rather than your people as a whole.”

Bilbo felt himself blush as he always did when Gandalf compared him to his mother.

“Which is why, I do not hesitate to give you this: the last possession she left in my care.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow as he finished off his pipeweed and tucked the wooden heirloom away for another day. He reached across the table to take the folded parchment Gandalf threw down between them. His eyes raked over the map in awe when he realized what it was he had before him.

“Gandalf, this is a map to…”

“Yes.” Gandalf nodded putting his hand over Bilbo’s much smaller one. “And if we are careful and clever, I dare say with this we can see your dream fulfilled.”

Bilbo’s eyes filled up with tears as he shook his head mutely.

“I don’t...I don’t know what to say.”

“Keep it secret. Keep it safe. And while I think it is a fine plan of foolishness to march into your enemies hold outnumbered nearly ten thousand to one, I thought if you wouldn’t mind the company, I have an idea for some hired help.”

“Who?” Bilbo questioned.

“A company of soldiers I’m well acquainted with conveniently located in Erebor.”

***

Thorin had it in his head from the morning he woke up, that it was going to be a perfectly normal day. He had a couple of orders to finish up for cookware from one of the widows in Dale and an axe for Gloin’s son he thought he would begin. He planned to take Fili and Kili out to the edge of Mirkwood on that hunting trip he had been promising for so long. May catch up with Balin and Dwalin over a pint of ale in the tavern later that evening. There was certainly nothing that seemed to suggest he would earn a visit from Tharkun, bringer of grey moods, and yet a couple of hours into his forge, that’s precisely who showed up.

Thorin barely glanced up from the hot metal he was beating into shape, trying to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Most would recognize he was busy, and wait for him at the front of the shop. Not the old wizard it seemed.

“Well, if it isn’t the disturber of peace himself.” He greeted gruffly, his eyes never leaving his work.

“Now, now, Thorin. Is that any way to greet old friends?”

“I wasn’t aware that’s what we were.” Thorin raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well, old friends of your father.” Gandalf was quick to correct.

Thorin huffed a bitter laugh. “Yes, friends. Tell me, is it common to leave all of your friends to the mercy of orcs?”

“That was not my doing, Thorin Oakenshield, but that of your king.” Gandalf remarked gravely.

That, Thorin knew all too well. He grunted before plunging the skillet into the basin of water watching the rapidly cooling metal for imperfections. When he finally deemed it well enough, he pulled it back out and set it to the side before giving Gandalf his full attention.

“What do you want?”

“I’m on a recruiting mission for an old friend. You see, he’s a long way from home and in need of an escort to get over the Misty Mountains.”

Thorin shook his head with a chuckle. “Your friend sounds like a fool. No one steps foot west of the Misty Mountains anymore. Besides, I’m a blacksmith, not a warrior.”

“That’s not entirely true. There are still some settlements to the west out of goblin hands, and I’m sure my friend will accept any help freely given even if that comes with a little rust here and there.”

Thorin resisted the urge to rub a hand down his face and instead scratched at the bottom of his shortened beard.

“Perhaps I’m not making myself plain enough, friend. I will not be coerced into another farfetched scheme of yours. Now away with you, I have better uses for my time than to argue it away.”

“At least hear him out. You may find yourself empathetic.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Thorin crossed his arms at that point, refusing to budge on the issue. Gandalf gave him a calculating look before shaking his head as if in disappointment. Thorin was not swayed.

“You’ve changed Thorin Oakenshield, and not entirely for the better. Very well, I will rid you of my company. Good luck to you in your smithing endeavors.”

Thorin merely gave him a nod watching him pass through the settlement on his way to Dale before returning to his work. Dwalin gave him a look, but Thorin shook it away. Seeing Gandalf again brought up dark memories, but nothing that he hadn’t made peace with. He was happy. His family, well what was left of it, was happy. Even if their houses now existed on the outskirts of the mountain rather inside her warmth. This was his life now, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize it for another fullhardy attempt against the goblins.

The rest of the day passed much in how he was expecting it to go. Dis noticed his mood and tried to pry the worries from his mind, but he assured her he was fine. He met the brothers Lin down at the bar, and after his second beer he had nearly forgotten his exchange with Gandalf. That’s when he appeared.

“Will you look at that?” Balin marveled, his voice low.

Thorin and Dwalin were both facing the older dwarf, and therefore couldn’t see what had captured his attention. They both turned in their seats before their jaws dropped in much the same open awe as most of the patrons. It was a halfling. Obvious by the large feet containing bronze curls, and the pointed leaf-shaped ears hidden in hair equally fair. He walked with a pompous air of someone not swayed by the staring and whispers happening around him. He paused for only a moment before squaring his shoulders and marching right up to Bombur who had stopped cleaning the glass in his hand subconsciously as the creature eased its way forward.

“Have you ever seen a halfling before?” Dwalin murmured.

“Nay.” Balin denied with a shake of his head. “Father said he had once before the Fall of the Shire. He said the land used to be beautiful, rich in food the way Erebor is rich in gold.”

The halfling had quick words with Bombur but spun around towards them as if he somehow heard Balin’s soft words. He said something to Bombur with a nod of his head before making his way towards their table. The whole time, Thorin couldn’t take his eyes off him. No dwarf there really could. Thorin fought the urge to smooth down his hair as he set his beer back on the table. The hobbit came right up to him and gave a bow of his head.

“Thorin, son of Thrain?” He questioned.

Thorin only blinked in shock that this near ethereal being with a musical lithe in his voice sought him out. Dwalin gave him a kick with his boot which managed to wake him up enough to answer with a gruff ‘aye’.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” He stated holding out his hand.

Thorin merely stared at it numbly, and for the first time the halfling seemed to lose some of his confidence.

“That is...was I wrong to assume that is a traditional dwarven greeting?”

“Uh, no. Thorin, son of Thrain at yours and your family.” He returned shaking the smaller, softer hand.

Bilbo nodded, regaining the cool detachment once more.

“Very good. I assume these are your companions?”

“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service.” Thorin’s friend eagerly answered shaking the halfling’s hand as well.

“Well met, Dwalin.”

“Balin, son of Fundin, at your service.” Balin picked up after Dwalin.

“Well met, Balin.” Bilbo shook his hand as well. “May I?” He asked indicating the spot next to him.

“Please, Mister Baggins. Can we order you anything?” Balin took over with pleasantries.

“No thank you. I like to keep my wits about me when conducting business.” The odd being was quick to brush off, his jade eyes piercing Thorin.

“Business? With me?” Thorin smirked.

What could an average dwarven blacksmith have to offer a wandering halfling? The little creature bristled in confusion.

“Yes, Gandalf told me you were made aware of this meeting. Is something the matter?”

All of Thorin’s good mood vanished in an instant.

“You’re Gandalf’s friend.” He accused.

“I hope you are quicker with a blade than you are in a conversation, Mister Thorin or this will be a poor venture indeed. Yes, Gandalf, the man who spoke with you earlier sent me here as was scheduled. Or was I too late to catch you before you were knee deep into your spirits, and the drink had addled your mind?”

Thorin glared at the fiery being wondering what he wanted to be most insulted by: the soft creature’s barbed words or his relation with Gandalf.

#7 days of plot bunnies #birthdayplotbunnies #starterdrabble #bagginshield #thilbo #it's amazing how little I had to adjust their characters #if this reminds you of a certain disney movie its only partially on purpose

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