#A-THORN-BENEATH-THE-NAIL | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alphabetboyluvr · 10 months

Text

throttle - jjk | four

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - smut, a lil dirty talk over text, titwank, lil spit, lil degradation, lots of praise <3, handjob, showers, vaginal sex, (1) reference to you up?, jungkook cums 3 times in this one, the oc.... does not. CURIOUS. jaykay is soooo smitten :( Busan is proposed!! oh how our throttle couple luv busan <3, the angst is about to go from a 2 to a 6, jk is the pied piper, jk and cc play the desperation olympics, and they both lose!! namjoon is the worst (calls the oc a sket (twice!))

word count - 10.8k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

"Look what the cat dragged in," you smile, all big and bashful as soon as you see him.

It's been a little while; too long, you think. Different schedules and busy personal lives have kept you apart - but none of the distance ever matters. It always melts away with one flash of his pearly smile, which he often tries (and fails) to contain around you.

"I wish," he groans, flopping onto your sofa. You're on the floor, typing away on your laptop, indifferent to the way he just lets himself into your apartment. It's been this way for a while now. "Haven't been near pussy in ages."

You gag, as if he's your brother or something. "Shut the fuck up, Yoongi."

He's dressed down in a pair of jeans and a shirt two sizes too big for him, but you can smell his laundry detergent from where you're sat. He's made an effort.

"You started it," he snorts, eyes not on you, but on your television. It's playing some muted drama that neither of you care for. He knows this, even when he asks you, "Whatcha watching?"

"Dunno," you hum, as predicted. "Just had it on for company."

Yoongi nods, understanding the desire.

He does it too; leaves the television running just so that he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts.

Things are better these days. He's not as scared as he once was. It's been a couple of weeks, and after all, time heals. Eases. Pacifies.

Yoongi asks what you're doing, and pretends to be shocked when you tell him you're stalking.

"Who is it this time?"

"Just a guy."

"It's never 'just a guy'."

It's morbid, the curiosity that Yoongi forces himself to endure. It's like your nails have a grasp around his heart, and with every beat of it, they sink further into the muscle. The more attached he becomes, the deeper the pain runs.

You don't realise quite how profoundly his blood turns green. He's good at feigning indifference; good at pretending like it is just a crush.

And so he asks questions because he wants to hurt himself a little bit more. Wants his heart to ache. Wants to feel the discomfort he so closely associates with love. It's reached a point where he thinks love has to hurt, otherwise, it's not real.

"Since when has a guy ever been more than just a guy," you toy back. None of your past lovers have ever lasted too long. You doubt Jungkook will, either. Just the way the cookie crumbles.

"Since you fall in love at the drop of a hat," Yoongi smiles. His eyes are slightly clouded, the sombre vapour of burnt-out desire smoking in them.

"I've never been in love," you retort a little too quickly.

It's not a lie, but it makes way for the admittance of something else instead: you just love the attention that comes with men fawning after you.

And so you let Yoongi think that you have the capacity within you to love, because you fear that the love he has for you is conditional; transactional.

You just have to trust that the intentions behind acts of love are pure. You have to trust.

This issue with trust is that it's earned, not owed; and nobody has ever earned your trust. Never. Serpents lie beneath roses, and you'll be damned if you pick one either way, 'cause if it ain't a fang, it's a thorn that'll get you instead.

"Anyways," you hum, not wanting to dwell on the topic. All of your searches of Jungkook's name have garnered minimal results, nothing of which you can be sure relates to him. Now, you need a distraction and Yoongi is as good as any. Your knees click as you stretch out, and Yoongi winces at the sound, before you plonk yourself down on the sofa next to him. "What shall we order for dinner?"

There's a howl of wind sneaking between the cracks in your window panes; a stark reminder that winter is still here, and it's still as bitter as ever. Like the river you walk across on a near-daily basis, your heart will take a while to thaw.

But as with all seasons, winter will mollify; and perhaps so will the ice chains that wrap themselves around your warmest muscle. Maybe. The way Jungkook hugs around your chest when he takes you from behind already has the ice weeping in the dark of night. You think it's just some kind of placebo effect. Best not to get carried away with sensation.

Yoongi says something, but you're not listening. All you can hear is the soft splatter of water dripping from the ice; right down onto the chime that's oscillating in your stomach again. Fuck.

Across the street from your apartment complex sits a black SsangYong. It lurks in the shadows; silent, sinister, stalking.

A curt snap echoes through the car, as Namjoon breaks a Pepero stick in half, much to Jungkook's annoyance.

That's literally not how you eat them, he seethes internally. His nostrils are a little flared, and his eyes are hard as they stare out the window and across to the stairs that lead up to your entryway. It has a plain end for a reason.

Namjoon knows this, obviously. Doesn't care. Can sense the way it's getting under Jungkook's skin, so he does it again.

"No point in us being here," Jungkook eventually huffs, channelling his disdain into something - anything - that isn't how fucking annoying Namjoon is. It's been nearly an hour.

"Whoever owns that heap of shit has to come out, soon," Namjoon says of the Mini parked outside of your apartment block. He mutters under his breath for what must be the millionth time, "Fuckin' Ajumma's car."

"It's a John Cooper Works," Jungkook says a little flippantly. He's not impressed, not by any means, but he knows it isn't something to turn his nose up at. Might look like the kind of thing his mother would have loved, but it packs a punch. Limited edition, factory-grade. One of only two thousand. A mean little beast that'd give his Pony a run for its money, even with the mods.

"Okay? Tell Mr John Cooper that it's still an Ajumma's car," Namjoon shrugs. He doesn't give a shit about imports. They're all weak in comparison to the homegrown beauties he likes to drive. Jungkook could argue for days that he's wrong, but Namjoon simply wouldn't bother to listen - so what was the point? "Anyways," he continues, snapping another chocolate coated stick. It's about now that Jungkook wishes Peperos would have sharp ends so that he could stick them in his ears. "Either the fucker who drives it comes out now, or he says inside and carries on railing the sket until the sun comes up. Doesn't matter which. We've got a car to keep tabs on."

"You don't know he's fucking her-"

"We've both seen her," Namjoon scoffs, mouth half full, a little biscuit dust puffing out from his plump lips. "He's screwing the absolute fuck out of her."

"What does that even mean?" Jungkook's nose really is upturned, now. "You're just being vulgar for the sake-"

"Oh, give over. What was the first thing you said about her?"

"I-"

"Prissy bitch," Namjoon imitates. "Stick up her ass - pretty good ass though."

It almost makes Jungkook laugh, because while his former self isn't wrong (he thinks your ass is a gift from the Gods), he knows that it's your tits he could worship all day long.

If it were him in your apartment, he knows he'd be doing just that. Praising you; Worshipping, devoting, revering. He's never believed in God, not really. Never prays, never looks to the sky and mumbles words of desperation; but when he's beneath you, he finds himself beseeching. Imploring the man in the sky to let him feel the way that he feels when he's inside of you forever. Sometimes he wonders if you must be what heaven feels like. Knows he'd sacrafice himself for it. For you.

In theory, at least. Fears if he tells Namjoon this, he'll have to experience it in practise. He's not ready to, not yet. Just in case he's wrong, and he really does lose the closest thing to heaven that he's ever known.

"I just think we're going to an awful lot of effort for this," he deflects. "The more we know about this girl, the more variables we have to consider, and the less likely it is that we can actually get this shit done."

"We knew less last time," Namjoon says without skipping a beat. He knows this game better than most. Knows that it's imperative that they resolve the mess they made in the gas station as quickly as possible. "And look at where that got us - beating up some fuckin' dude who didn't have a clue what was going on."

"You didn't have to go so hard on him."

"I did. You know I did."

Silence resumes, and remains that way until Namjoon whacks Jungkook on his chest with the back of his hand a few hours later. His attention is diverted from his phone, which drops to his laps as his neck almost snaps to look in the direction of your apartment.

You're laughing as you walk down the stairs from your entryway. Jungkook thinks he can hear you.

He can't. He just remembers. Know the way it almost sounds like you're hiccuping when you start struggling to draw more air into your lungs, too happy to focus on keeping yourself alive.

Your body leans into the guy you're with, and there's an ease to the way you are together, one that has Jungkook feeling all uneasy. He adjusts in his seat - earns himself a hiss from Namjoon for being 'distracting' - and tries to focus on anything but the way you pull the guy in for a hug. It's not necessarily anything more than platonic, but it's not the hug of a stranger, either.

"It's him," Namjoon's voice is low, barely a vibration between his lips. "Guy from the gas station. Sket is shitting where she eats." He laughs. "Un-fucking-believable."

Jungkook says nothing. It's a little hard to speak with the weight of the world crashing down on your lungs, though.

Instead he simply nods, and reaches for his phone.

꾹: i gotta see you.

꾹: think i'm going crazy without you.

You don't reply until you're inside, clearing up the remains of the food you'd shared with Yoongi.

You: i'm not a therapist :/

꾹: please.

You: my place or yours?

꾹: mine.

When Namjoon asks who Jungkook is texting, he lies.

"Just Jin. Says if we have a visual on the driver, we're good to go."

"Good to go?" The question is asked an octave or so higher than Namjoon's usual deep drawl, surprised at such an instruction. "Thought we had to tail?"

Jungkook shrugs. "Change of plan. Says Kang ain't around to report to, so it doesn't matter what we do."

His lies will catch up with him eventually, but not today.

Today, Jungkook gets to pretend like everything is okay for just a little while longer. He's lucky that Jin trusts him enough to get the job done. He won't ask questions, will just know that whatever reason Jungkook had to lie will be worth it in the long run. He's a good worker, part of the team. He'd never intentionally sabotage them.

Or at least, he was a good worker. Was part of the team. Was never one to sabotage. Was one to play by the rules, and always win.

But Jungkook is playing games with trick dice, now. Rolling doubles every single time. He's gonna be the first to reach the exit line, but he's gonna reach it alone.

"Alright," Namjoon sighs, starting the engine up. The lights from his headlamps flare in front of the vehicle, flooding the desolate road. It's always quiet around these parts after it hits midnight.

A little off the beaten track, your place is on the backstreets; somewhere inconspicuous. Somewhere easily hidden. Concealed. The daughter of a politician disguised in breadline poverty.

Jungkook kind of hates that he knows where you live.

Not because he doesn't want to know, but because you haven't shown him. You've always gone back to his. He wouldn't suggest anything else, for fear of being caught without reason down around your side of town. There are only so many times he can lie about late-night boxing sessions without someone catching on.

"What a waste of an evening," Namjoon huffs a little more. He's a smart guy, smarter than Jungkook and probably every other fucker who congregates at Old Kang's place, but he's credulous to an absolute fault when it comes to the fuckers he runs the streets with. Would never betray a single one of them - not even Jungkook.

"It was past your bedtime, like, three hours ago. Consider yourself lucky that you got to stay out and play for this long," Jungkook ribs.

See, Namjoon's partner doesn't like him staying out so late. They worry. Blow up his phone, not to control, but out of concern. They've seen the dark side of the business that the boys are caught up in, and don't want that darkness to stain the colours of the man they love.

It's a mean jibe, and between close friends, it would have been funny -but the pair of them haven't laughed together in weeks.

Not since Jungkook fucked Namjoon's younger sister.

He hadn't meant for it to go as far as it had, but she was keen and he was horny. What's a boy to do?

They'd been in the same year group at school, so it's not like it was the most absurd pairing in the world. Never been friends, not really, but knew each other well enough that they always managed to strike up a conversation after a few drinks.

She was always hanging around the bars the boy went to, and Jungkook had been letting his hair down; one last night of freedom before he had to knuckle down and start the job Kang was assigning them.

He'll never admit it, but your assumptions about him on the first night you met were right. The KNJ on his phone was a FWB turned far too clingy: Kim Naejeon.

Needless to say, Namjoon hasn't exactly been Jungkook's biggest fan since he found out. Such is life.

Jungkook's phone buzzes in his lap, and he's relieved to see two little c's on the screen where the message ID is.

You: time?

꾹: just on my way home.

꾹: lemme send a taxi to yours.

Sat on your floor again, laptop open with your last search - jungkook, daegu, pony - on screen, you find yourself deafened by the chime in your stomach. It rings like the theme to a studio ghibli film, all pompous and ridiculous, and warm and lovely.

You sound like a banshee, squeaking with badly handled excitement. The shrill noise that escapes your lips as you throw your phone onto the sofa is borderline psychotic.

You never get like this over a boy.

You don't actually think you've ever squealed over a boy before, but one small act of chivalry - the bare minimum - has you doing somersaults.

It's funny, because it's not like he's the first guy to ever suggest sending a taxi your way. Unlike all of Yoongi's offers, though, you accept. You play it all cool and coy by simply sending him through your address, not like he needs it.

꾹: on its way.

꾹: i can't wait to see you.

You're not really sure how to deal with such a declaration. It's needy and pathetic and if it were any other boy, it would have you throwing up in your mouth - but it's not just any boy. It's him.

You: someone's a little desperate.

You don't have it in you to play nice, even if your grin is wider than the river behind your apartment block. Jungkook doesn't expect any less. In fact, he smiles when the message comes through - and quickly stiffens his cheeks again, not wanting Namjoon to make a comment.

꾹: desperate?

꾹: i'm not sure this is a game you want to play, CC.

Oh, how wrong he is.

You: i love games.

The double-entendre isn't lost on him, but any ability to not let you affect him is. Blood pumps around his body faster. Harder. It rushes, almost, with a single destination in mind. Makes him adjust ever so slightly in his seat, his spare hand coming to rest between his legs. He used to think he had self-control, but you're constantly surprising him.

He's learnt more about himself since he met you than he has in years. Realised that he isn't maybe who he thinks he is. Doesn't dwell on it, though, 'cause he enjoys the way it feels when the crotch of his trousers gets tighter.

꾹: i only like them when i win.

You: i only ever win.

꾹:we'll see about that tonight.

You: oh?

꾹: see who really is the desperate one.

You: its you :) x

The taxi arrives far faster than you expect, but Jungkook is pleased when he checks the app and sees the car en-route to his. He takes a note of the number plate and the registered driver. Doesn't trust the drivers around here. They're too fast without enough skill, he always thinks. Has lost count of the number of busses he's seen rear-end asshole taxi drivers. Luckily the roads are dead at this time of night, but he'll be damned if anything happens to you.

꾹: sure about that?

꾹: i know a few ways to get you a little desperate.

You: you don't know shit.

꾹: i know you get a little desperate when my hand is round your throat.

You: bullshit.

꾹: i know you get incredibly desperate when my fingers are in your mouth.

You: your fingers have never been in my mouth.

It's a lie. Of course it is. It's kinda become rare for the two of you to fuck without them being in your mouth at some point or another, whether it's to clean them off or just to give him a visual of just how devoted you look when he does it. He loves it and so do you.

꾹: no?

Jungkook almost ignores Namjoon as he asks, "what are you smiling at?", only to tell him that it's none of his business, lowering the brightness of his screen and clicking through into his camera roll.

He's a visual guy. Likes the things he can see. Tangible stuff. The photo that comes through to your phone has you flustered.

It's just the lower half of your face, and Jungkook's distinctive, tattooed hands in your mouth. There's a sheen to your lips. His fingers, too.

It's alarming how quickly you've become so comfortable with him. You barely know the guy. Shame that the alarm bells are always muted by the chime in your stomach.

You: must be some other girl ;)

꾹: told you already, CC.

꾹: i'm not interested in any other girls.

꾹: i only wanna see you.

When a picture of your legs, crossed and poised prettily in the back of the taxi, comes through to his phone, he's pleased. You're wearing tights. It's one of his favourite things a girl can wear - though he's not really sure why. He just loves how soft they are, how smooth they feel against his skin. Has him thinking about running his hands up and down them, and the way he knows you'll be looking all smug when he does so.

You: i'll see u soon x

You: desperate ;)

Jungkook thinks about locking his phone. Thinks about leaving you hanging. Thinks about the fact it will probably put you on edge a little if he doesn't reply - but he's weak. Knows that not replying will just put him on edge instead.

꾹: will it make you feel better if i admit it?

You: yes.

꾹: fine.

꾹: been thinking about you since the moment you left my apartment last.

꾹: impossible not to when my fucking pillows smell like you.

꾹: think about you when i smell gasoline at kangs.

꾹: think about you when i stop at red lights.

꾹: also think about how fucking wet you were the last time we stopped at one.

꾹: i'm at a red light right now.

꾹: god, i gotta fuck you.

You: told you you were desperate :)

꾹: i am.

You: how do you want me tonight?

꾹: naked.

You: that goes without saying, no?

꾹: naked and begging.

You: i don't beg.

You: not for any man.

꾹: c'mon, CC. a little reciprocation goes a long way.

꾹: you got me on my metaphorical knees.

꾹: be nice of you to get on yours.

You roll your eyes as the taxi rolls to a stop downtown, just by Jungkooks place. It parks on the wrong side of the street, but you pay it no notice. Chalk it up to a GPS error on the app.

You: i'm pulling up to yours now. you home yet?

꾹: not yet. be about 5. let yourself in. code is 0901.

There's a casual intimacy to the way in which Jungkook trusts you with his door code. It's an act of convenience, not anything to read too much into, but you're a creature of habit. Assumptions are your bread and butter. If there are conclusions to be jumped to, you're getting your pole vault out. Setting a new PB. Going for the world record.

So no, it doesn't have to mean anything. You know it probably doesn't - but you indulge in the 'what if' just for the hell of it.

His apartment is cold, the ondol off, one of the windows cracked open ever so slightly to let the air out. Winters are dry round these parts, and Jungkook has an odd paranoia around developing black mould in his apartment. It's not unwarranted - he's pretty sure his last place made him sick because of it. Knows for certain that it made his mother weaker before she passed. Refuses to let history ever repeat itself.

You're unaware of this, though, and slide the window shut. It's the height of winter, and he knows damn well if he's gonna get lucky tonight that it's gotta be a little bit warmer in his apartment.

You take a moment to refamiliarise yourself with his place. There's not much. A little furniture, some prints you recognise from the market downtown up on his wall. There are no personal artifacts, though. No more clues as to who Jungkook really is. You'll have him naked tonight, granted, but you won't have him naked. He won't be vulnerable; laid bare.

But you're not exactly gonna complain when you have him bare in the other sense.

In fact, you think you much prefer it this way. It'll be easier to let him go when the time inevitably comes.

You toss your coat on his desk chair and your shoes are kicked beneath it, not caring much for neatness. The rest of your clothes follow suit, and then you're waiting, all desperate and pliant, just like he asked for.

Though you're not one to beg, you're aware of how nicely he had requested - and how hot and bothered he had gotten you en-route to his place.

There's a thrum in your chest, and it beats to the same harmonious melody that the chime in your stomach produces.

Back straight, feathers smoothed, you're a songbird waiting for someone to hear your call. It only takes a few moments, the beep of Jungkook's keypad echoing through the door as he punches in the code adding a new layer to your song.

"Hey," he calls through, his voice muffled slightly through the sliding partition doors. The glass is frosted, but you can make out his silhouette as he kicks his shoes off by the door. "Just been on a job. Emergency at an office building downtown. Some bad wires. Tripped."

The lies roll off his tongue like butter in a hot pan. They sizzle. Spit. Burn you and scar you with the portrayal of a man who isn't who he pretends to be.

Thing is, Jungkook is exactly who he pretends to be.

He really does get too hot in the night, and genuinely does find videos of kids falling over far funnier than he knows he should. His hair sticks up on end when he wakes up, and he loves his car more than life itself. The way he winces after taking shots, and his dimples, which form in moments of contemplation beneath his cheeks, are entirely natural to him.

None of it - none of him - is a lie. At his core, Jungkook is the idea in your head; the yellow of midafternoon sun before it sets.

He's the amber light that flashes before fading into red.

That's his issue, though. Inevitably, he will always, unavoidably, turn red.

Jungkook likes to tell himself he's not a bad person. He just does bad things, occasionally. But don't we all?

Yeah, the voice in his head would rationalise. But bad things are sneakily not paying for plastic carrier bags at supermarket self-checkouts, or failing to tell a friend they have food stuck in their teeth. Not petty violent crimes and conspiracy to-

"Took your time," you flirt.

It takes him longer than he'd like to get from his kitchen and to where you are, his laces proving to be a bit of a bitch when he's in a hurry. He's dressed down, a pair of light wash jeans clinging to his thighs for dear life, a baggy grey sweater hiding that itty bitty waist of his.

You find yourself smiling, his presence bringing more than just the promise of satisfied desire.

It's dangerous how you can't hear anything other than the chime in your stomach whenever you see him. Might deafen you one day. Or maybe you'll hear it so often that it will just fade into white noise. Not a favourable outcome, not by any stretch of the imagination.

"Holy fuckin' shit."

You tilt your head and feign confusion, as if you don't know why he's salivating like a dog being offered a bone. You're on your knees, as requested, palms flat on the tops of your thighs; not naked, but you may as well be. A lace red set leaves little to the imagination, one of his flannel shirts draped over your shoulders to keep you warm - but also 'cause he seems like the kind of guy to eat that shit up.

So while you're right where he wanted you, as he struggles to form a coherent sentence, he's exactly where you wanted him.

Finally, he finds a few words.

"Desperation looks good on you, CC."

Arrogant son of a bitch, you think, but there's a grin on your lips that you just can't hide.

"Mmm," you flirt, not caring to drag things out. You want him so badly that hard to get seems like a dumb idea. "Maybe - but I think you'll find I look better on your dick."

His shoulders pull up towards his ears, head dropping as a small laugh vibrates in his throat at the boldness of such a statement.

"You're not wrong - but I like this," he says, closing the space between you. His voice is soft, as one of his hands cups your cheek and angles your jaw upwards so that you're looking directly at him. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and - almost like you've been conditioned - your lips part for it to rest on your tongue. "I like this a lot."

Your lips close around it, tongue massaging his thumb as you slowly suck on it.

It's gentle, and warm, and - fuck - he's spent so long thinking about the way your mouth feels but it never compares to actually experiencing it. Your lips vibrate as you hum, satisfied with the effect you seem to be having on him.

His lips are parted, eyes void of all thoughts, as if you've bewitched him. Maybe you have. He wouldn't put it past you. There's something dark behind your eyes, something he doesn't quite understand. Something he knows better than to let himself study for too long.

Jungkook's room is dark, the glow of his fairy lights dousing him in soft reservoirs of gold. The light from his kitchen pours in behind him, his back to the clouded screen door, a halo circling around his darling blonde waves. Your eyes must be betraying you, you think, 'cause there's no way a man this heavenly exists. It's impossible.

"Bet you're wet, aren't you?" he toys, voice low, a teasing grin on those pretty pink lips of his. He may look like an angel, but there's a pair of horns hidden beneath his curls.

There's no hesitation as you nod, vocalisations cut short thanks to his thumb remaining snug between your lips. Why lie? He wants you desperate, so he's getting exactly that. You think he deserves it. Think he always makes you feel good, so why not indulge him in this little fantasy? You can play desperate, if he really wants.

"Show me," he says so quietly it's almost a whisper; almost as if he doesn't believe he's asking you to do such a thing for him. It's not like it would be the most outlandish exchange the pair of you have had together, but the vulnerability is never easy.

Never easy to ask for, never easy to give. Especially not when Jungkook is harbouring secrets that he knows would shatter the fortress walls he's built up around the pair of you.

You're unaware of this as your hand creeps between your thighs, to where a mess is pooling in your panties.

It annoys you just how eager you are for him. You wish you weren't; wish he had to work for it. The tips of your fingers push against your entrance, but it's all just for show - you've been wet since the moment he first messaged you that evening.

You let your eyes fall to his crotch. It's strained, the pale denim doing an awful job at hiding how hard he is. He's been plump the entire journey home, but now that he's here - now that you're looking like that - he's solid.

He watches you, the way you move, the slight heave of your chest, and knows that you're down just as bad as he is. You wouldn't be on your knees if you weren't. In fact, you wouldn't be here, full stop.

You reach for his belt and set about getting to work immediately. His jeans are pushed to midway down his thighs, boxers following suit. The way his cock springs out of them, all fat and proud, has you salivating.

And so it's only fair that you take it in your mouth as soon as you can.

He reaches behind you and tweaks at the clasp of your bra. It loosens almost instantly, and you hum in approval of how easily he managed to do that. You let the straps slide down your arms, his cock still in your mouth as you toss it to the side.

"Between them," he instructs.

It's tempting to just do as he says. Irresistible, almost. You want him between your tits just as much as he wants to be there, but you want him more vocal. Want him begging. It's his own fault for getting you into such a submissive position. It's a flaw, the way you need to level the playing field, but one that he never fails to deliver on.

"C'mon, CC," he whispers, voice dulcet, trapped in his throat as he suppresses a moan. "Put my cock between your tits."

Your hands fall from the backs of his thighs to play with your breasts, your nipples hard and eager for him. Vibrating around his mouth as you moan, you're pleased with the grip he has on your hair. It tightens, and when he speaks, you're convinced his voice could make you cum alone, "I'm not gonna ask you again."

His cock takes a few more strokes of your hot mouth before you withdraw, stiff and flushed in front of you. He encourages you up so that you're sat on your knees, ass up instead of resting on your ankles as it had been. There's a string of your slick running from your heels to your pussy, the mess desperately seeping from you. Jungkook can't see it, isn't aware of it, so before you do anything, you dip two of your fingers between your folds to gather it up. He watches with laboured breaths.

You don't drop contact with his eyes, not even when they're trained on your fingers. He watches as you hold them up, glittering from the reflection of his fairy lights, before your tongue licks them clean. His cock jerks, the visual stimulation building his need to come undone by tenfold.

There's a little bit of your slickness still on your fingers when you pump his cock, once, twice, three times.

"Sorry, baby," you toy with the term of endearment, the groan he exhales when you say it confirming that you need to call him sweet nothings more often. "Where did you want your cock, again?"

He's been avoiding touching your chest, not wanting to take control of the situation, but your shoulders roll back just a little, your soft mounds his for the taking. His grip drops from your hair, the tips of his fingers ghosting your chest. He runs them delicately across your stiff nipples, his touch so minimal that you feel yourself leak, pussy throbbing, desperate for more.

Resting perfectly between his index finger and thumb, your nipples are pulled ever so slightly, before he finally indulges himself and cups your tits like he so desperately wants to. He holds them together and wobbles them, obsessed with how soft they are. He edges closer, the tip of his cock nudging against your cleavage. There's a small trail of precum leaking from his tip, the sheen now coating your skin. "Right there."

Spit gathers and pools in your mouth, lips pouting as you let it drip onto your tits. Jungkook groans, his hips pushing his cock further onto your chest. You hold your tits apart, his leaking crown kissing your sternum before you angle him upwards. The soft, pillowy cushions press around his thick shaft, keeping him firmly in place.

"That's it, baby," he mewls as you spit again, this time onto the head of his cock. You drop your gaze and lower your head, tongue flat as it licks the tip, spreading your spit. His hips are jerking against you, his foreskin nestled in place, cock tugging against itself.

"Look at me," he says quietly, as dulcet as the atmosphere in his room. Your eyes meet his, as your hands firmly jiggle your cleavage. His mouth hangs ajar, brows knotted in such a way you think he looks like his mind is all tangled up. You're not wrong - he can't think straight like this. All he can think about is how much he wants to fuck you in every single capacity he can. "That's it."

You grin, but try to hide it. "You like my tits, huh?"

Jungkook wants to roll his eyes, and almost does - but then you spit again, the pace of your jiggling hands quickening, and he finds himself doubling over.

"Fuck," he whines, completely undignified. Any strong, stable demeanour he has feigned is lost as his cock gets slippery, covered in your spit, being massaged by your tits. "Spit."

The momentum is retained, but it's getting sloppier. There's limited friction, your spit acting as the perfect lube for him to fuck your tits. He doesn't really know what to do with himself, how to withhold himself from spilling onto your chest, but he's all hot and bothered. He isn't gonna last long.

"Bed," he husks, pulling away from you, not even registering the fact he's helping you up. He just kind of does it, his mind entirely on where he wants to be. "On your back."

You do as you're told, your bare back hitting his freshly laundered duvet as your head nestles into his mountain of pillows. His legs straddle either side of your chest, movements frantic as he traps his cock between your tits once more. He's in control, the pace entirely set by him, his large hands gripping the flesh of your chest like he normally does your waist.

"Shit," he hisses. "Fuckin' love your tits."

Your hands grip his ass, encouraging his movements, before one of them roams to toy with your clit. The change in your moans is noticed by Jungkook, who glances back to check you're doing what he thinks you are. Suspicions confirmed, he laughs. "Dirty bitch," he keens. "Love being owned by my cock, don't you?"

You pause, and Jungkook notices a look in your eyes. It's one he knows well; one he enjoys. Nonetheless, one that panics him when he's in such a compromising position, because it looks like you've just been challenged.

With a pathetic, pouty mewl, you push your fingers into yourself. It's quick, your fingers pumping frantically to build enough slickness on them to wipe the smirk off Jungkooks face.

The hand that's still on his ass squeezes, your nails indenting him ever so slightly. He hisses, a lopsided grin on his lips as he continues to fuck your chest - until the feeling of your soaked fingers stroking his taint has him stuttering.

You apply a little pressure, the pump of his cock slow between your tits. His breaths are laboured. It almost sounds like he gasping for air, unable to concentrate on anything but the sensation of you.

Brows furrowed, eyes wide, you pout. "Thought I was being owned by your cock, baby?" You tease him, and are met with him cursing you out, a saccharine smile on his lips.

"Fucking hate you," he laughs, abs shuddering as your fingers trails further up. They're stroking, caressing, toying - and they don't stop. Not until they reach the tight muscle of his that you're just dying to penetrate. He's silent now. Doesn't want to tell you that he wants it, but fuck it, he does. He pulls back, eyes on yours. There's a hint of a nod, but you're not gonna do anything too daring unless he explicitly asks for it.

Your soaked finger presses against him, cautious not to take it too far. You're still learning each other; what you both like, and you aren't sure where his limits lie.

"Yes? No?" you question, eyes earnest. His ass has never been explicitly discussed between the pair of you, but he also never ruled it out, either.

He's quiet, but smiles when he shakes his head. "Not yet, C. Another time, though."

"I'll hold you to that," you tease, curious about his desires. You wanna know all the ways you can get him off, and you think you'll be willing to do almost anything. In fact, you know you will. All he has to do is say the word, and your tongue will be wherever he wants it.

His eyes roll back, and so do his hips. "And I'll hold you to the offer."

It's a rarity, he's found, for girls to be so bold. He's always had to be the one to initiate his own pleasure, or to just finish quicker than he'd like because his partner was already done. He likes this about you. Likes that you like to fuck. Likes that you apparently, for whatever reason, seem to especially like fucking him.

It's thoughts like these - something about luck, fate - that plague his mind as he pushes his cock between your tits again. It's fast, and it's sloppy, and it's wet, and soon enough, he isn't thinking at all. All he can do is feel - your warmth, your softness - and then all he can feel is how fucking good it is to be with you.

When he comes, he comes hard. It hits your throat, coating you in everything he is. A moan catches in his throat, eyes closed, hands pushing your tits so tight together that it fucking hurts - but he's shaking, and you know that his orgasm has him unable to realise just how strong his grip is.

It's not till he looks down at you, all breathless and blushed that he realises. There's a sheen on your chest, and he knows better than to dirty you all over again - but he's a creature of habit. His grip loosens, chest heaving as his hands begin to stroke at your tits. They fill his palms, overspill blooming between his spread fingers as he gently remedies them of his strength. It's unintentional, though not minded, how he spreads his cum as he does so.

You try and keep a straight face, but it's impossible, and then you're both laughing. It echoes around his room like the missing instrument to the song in your stomach. You aren't really sure why you're laughing. Nor is he. You're just happy. The pair of you remain this way for a moment or so, casually enamoured with how easy things are; how easy they could be.

"C'mon, CC," he speaks fondly, but spanks your titty for the fun of it regardless. "Let's get you cleaned up."

There's a tender nature to the way Jungkook moves your body. So docile, he's a world away from the version of himself that you'd just had in his bed.

This Jungkook - the one gently pulling your hair back so it doesn't get too wet while you wait for the shower to fully heat up - is so well mannered that you couldn't imagine him cursing, let alone calling you a bitch during sex.

Something about it, about him, has you feeling far more infatuated than you should be at this stage.

You're not ready for all this. Not prepared for the way you're feeling. It scares you. Gets you wanting to grab the towel and make a swift exit - but then he kisses your neck, hands on your hips, chest pressed into your back, and you realise that there's no place you'd rather be.

He reaches out to check the temperature of the water that's steaming into his bathroom, and decides it's just right. It's not that the water is particularly hot, just that his bathroom is bloody freezing.

Your reflection in his mirror is a vision of beauty; eyes trained on him, skin tainted by what would have been his legacy. Part of him doesn't want to wash it away. Just wants to marvel at you. Study the way your skin dimples and bumps when you're cold; then remembers that you can't cum when you're cold, so you probably aren't enjoying this as much as he is. He lifts the showerhead from its holder, and lets the water pour over you, and you alone.

The warmth has your shoulders easing almost instantly, and Jungkook feels a little guilty for having kept you cold so selfishly.

He's quiet as he rinses himself from you, contemplative dimples perching themselves beneath his cheeks. He barely utters a word for the entire shower; just peppers your shoulders in kisses.

It's not till you turn to face him, taking the showerhead from his hand and begin rinsing his body that he finally speaks up.

He takes a moment to study you first; watch the way your eyes glaze over his body, following the trajectory of the water, making sure you don't miss a single inch of his skin. Your lashes are dark, hiding your eyes from him, and he doesn't like it. Instinctively, his hands cup your jaw, bringing your eyes to his.

"Thank you."

His lips are on yours, soft, no pressure - and then they're not. They're trailing down your neck instead, as if he can't decide which part of you he wants to devour.

'All of you' is the correct answer, but he eats for pleasure, not for sustenance.

Easily, he could have you for everything that you are within a few seconds - but he wants to savour you. Wants to hear the way your breath hitches as his tongue flicks against your earlobe; feel your fingers dig into his scalp as he paws at your round ass. He wants the memory of your body in his hands, 'cause he fears you're like sand, and that his grasp won't be able to keep hold of you forever.

His bathroom is cramped, more like a wetroom, and the same grey tiles are on the walls that are on the floor. Shower attached to the sink, it's the standard for one-room apartments around these parts.

Yours is the same - but you do have the added luxury of boujie conditioners and loofas to soften the blow.

Jungkook has a 2-in-1 body wash and shampoo combo, and doesn't see the point in fancy scrubs when the labour of his job leaves his hands all rough anyway.

In your right mind, you'd moan about it. Tell him that he's such a boy, or that next time, he's coming to yours for a shower - but you're distracted by the hardness of his cock against your stomach and his hands cupping at your chest while he kisses you. The stream of water makes it borderline impossible to open your eyes, so you revel in the way it feels to be overwhelmed by everything he is.

"Again?" You mumble into his lips, to which you're met with a nod.

You slip your rings off and hear them clink against the porcelain of his sink, praying that your aim is correct and they won't end up down the drain. He hums a small purr of confusion, questioning your actions, and then groans an 'oh' into your mouth when your hand clasps around the base of his cock.

"Gentle," he reminds you, still sensitive but desperate for you once more.

His lips leave yours, head tilting back as he revels in your touch. Neither of you speak, but there's really not much to say. You'd just be making noise for the sake of it.

Regardless, there's a weight in your chest, clamping down on your lungs, that makes talking seem impossible. Might be trepidation. Might be nothing at all - but it sure does feel like something.

You marvel at the column of his thick neck as it stretches back, and think how pretty it would look covered in purple and pink, the bruise of your intimacy staining his skin just like it has done your heart.

Your movements pause when you realise you're thinking about your fucking heart. You're not sappy. You don't attribute sex to love, and the idea of even falling in love has you wanting to run for the hills.

It's been said before that the heart is just a muscle. It has no real bearing on your emotions, nor your amatory exploits.

But when the thoughts of your feelings cloud your mind with dainty pink vapours, all sparkly and strawberry scented, you can't help but feel like you're in danger.

In your chest, you can feel your heart ache.

So yeah, it is just a muscle, but muscles get worn out.

Jungkook notices your hesitation. He casts his eyes down to check you're okay. His crown rests against the wet tiles, water-saturated hair stuck to his face, lashes damp and lips all pouty. The man is a vision. Naked, bare, vulnerable. Yours for the taking, or so it seems. His eyes are heavy-lidded, deep brown; sweet as chocolate, sinful as straight whisky.

"You good?" He asks quietly, only for you to nod and pick the pace up again. His eyes stay on yours as a laboured grunt escapes his lips, brows pinching together. The way you feel around him is so good. Not too tight, just the way he likes it. Fingers all dainty, nails painted red, it's a sight he thinks about when he's alone more than he cares to admit. He's thick and hot in your grasp, working his foreskin up and down his shaft.

There are goosebumps on your skin, body positioned just out of the shower stream because you wanted to look at him; watch as you wound him up, just to make him unravel again. He pulls you closer, hands cupping your jaw as he kisses you, until you're beneath the water again.

His tongue is in your mouth as his hand drops to meet yours. So much larger than your own, his fingers clasp around yours and joins the effort, speeding up. He doesn't say anything else, but he's struggling to kiss you, now. His lips are ajar, resting against yours, little purrs of satisfaction finding a home on your tongue.

"Yeah?" You encourage a little breathlessly, as if you're the one moments away from ruin. "That's it, Kook."

He nods, as the hand that isn't on yours tangles in the back of your hair to keep you close. His hand works to increase the pace, making it a little rougher. There's a wetness between your legs that isn't from the shower, but you're too focused on him - on making him feel good, on being what he needs - to bother doing anything about it. He'll return the favour later, you're sure. He always does.

His grip on your hand loosens, leaving it up to you to finish the job. It only takes a second or two, and then you're milking him, thick white cum desecrating your hand and spurting into your stomach. There's not much, most of it spent on your chest earlier. He shudders, one of his legs a little more so than the other, his moans lost in the pitter-patter of the shower until they become nothing more than hot, heavy breaths.

And then, because quite frankly he doesn't know how to articulate how good, how fucking precious, how god damn infuriatingly beautiful you are, he kisses you again. Though his tongue is soft as it strokes against yours, his piercing is hard - much like his cock which is still firm against your stomach. He encourages your arms up and around his neck, hugging tightly. Your chest presses to his, nipples hard, tits pillowy and soft, and Jungkook swears he'll risk it all for you.

Thinks it would be worth it.

He'd do this wherever with you; in his crappy apartment, in a hotel he'll pay far too much for, in a derelict motel that hides you both when it inevitably becomes time to run.

Thing is, he knows you now. Knows you'll never run with him. Knows that when you find out, he'll never get to do this ever again. It makes him want to cry. Makes him wanna get on his knees and beg for forgiveness before you even know you're mad at him.

You don't forgive. You don't forget, either. You wouldn't be working in a shitty GS25 if you did. He knows this. Knows that as soon as the truth is out, so is he.

And so Jungkook lies. "Come to Busan with me."

Your noses are nestled together, and you can feel his words against your lips. The shower keeps on pouring, but it won't cleanse him of his sins. The water still runs red, even if you can't see it.

"Busan?"

He nods, steals a kiss, and begins to build upon the weak foundations he's formed. "I gotta go visit home. Been putting it off. Think it'll be more bearable with you there."

You kiss him back. Partially because you want to, but mainly because you don't know what the fuck to say. Your heart rate has doubled. Trebled. In fact, you're not sure it's beating anymore.

Family isn't a subject either of you has divulged in, not really. You fear that him opening up requires reciprocation, and that's just not something you're willing to give. Not to him, nor anyone else for that matter.

"When?" You finally murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling away to slip your rings back onto your fingers.

He doesn't want you to meet his family. Doesn't want you anywhere near them - but when the time comes, he needs you to know why he ended up here. Needs you to know that everything he's done, rightfully or wrongfully, has been for them.

Doing right by them means doing wrong by you, but he didn't know you when all this started.

Didn't know that you're the type to point out every trash cat you see, or that you make up little songs to soundtrack almost everything you do (regardless of the fact you're tone-deaf). He didn't know that you drank peach tea like it's water, or that you'd somehow taste a little bit like it too. He didn't know that you'd become his favourite flavour, or that the scent of your perfume would have him hugging his fucking pillows for days after you slept over.

He didn't know.

Didn't fuckin' know.

And now he does. And it's tearing him apart.

He's a good liar, though, so you don't notice just how cut up he is when he shrugs and twists the shower tap off. He reaches around for the towel and begins to wrap you up when he says, "Next weekend?"

When he's like this - voice soft, skin bare, tucking the top of the towel over against your chest - it's like you've got the upper hand. There's no battle being fought between the pair of you, and yet you don't feel like equals. Feels like the balls in your court. You just don't realise you're playing different games.

There's pitter-patter beneath your feet and a chime in your stomach. You shuffle between his feet, his arms wrapped around you, lips pressing a kiss against your hair.

"I'll have to check the rota," you say, but you know you'll just ask Yoongi to swap shifts if you are scheduled on. "But I haven't been to Busan in a while. I'd like to come."

His eyes are hot as he presses them shut, chin resting on your head. You think the stutter in his chest is just a hiccup, so you smile. Without the sound of the shower, he can hear his phone buzzing, vibrating on his desk in the next room over.

"Gotta get that," he says, squeezing you before loosening his grip and reaching for a small towel that barely covers his ass. The air is cold against his skin as he opens the bathroom door. Steam gushes out of the room, and so does the hazy, cum-drunk atmosphere the pair of you had created. You miss it the second your skin begins to pebble, goosebumps chilling you, the hair on your arms stood up on end. Almost like someone's walking over your grave.

Maybe just leading you to an early one. Either, or.

You hear him as he mumbles on the phone - "Jin. Yeah? What's up? Cool, can do." - but ignore it. Steam has fogged up the mirror, creating a cloudy canvas for you to do your worst upon. It's childish, yes, but nothing stops you from drawing a little something on there to remind him of you next time he showers.

An uneasy weight sits on your chest when you look at what you've done. It's nothing bad, but part of you thinks you'll regret it - but that part of you is silent when he calls through for you.

When you emerge a few moments later, you're casual as you ask him who was on the other end of the line. He says 'a friend,' and then clarifies that it's 'one of the boys' because he doesn't want you to think the worst. It's an answer you accept.

Dropping the towel, you're unbothered by his eyes as you spend a few moments naked. You're just reaching for his shirt, but the way you move, how your muscles flex above your bones, but the soft flesh of your curves moves without your control has him feeling all kinds of fucked up. He's never wanted anyone more; never known that it was possible to feel such a way.

He tells himself it's just hormones. He's fucking empty, entirely spent on you. That's gotta be the reason. Some kind of primal desire type thing.

Even he's shocked when he begins to talk.

"You can't ever leave."

It's barely a whisper, his voice small, though the weight of his words is so incredibly large.

"Need you here forever."

It's the way that Jungkook talks in such certain terms that has the chime in your stomach ringing again.

You're sure he must have broken a thousand hearts with words like that. You wonder if there are still girls across the city pining after him, thinking about the way his breath feels on their skin as he fucks himself into them. Wonder if the fondness in his eyes is because of you, or because he's just riding a post-climax endorphin high.

"You don't mean that," you tell him, because you don't believe he does.

He shakes his head. Senses the challenge in your voice, and smiles. "You think I'm lying?"

"Think you haven't reached post-nut clarity, yet."

"You'll have to fuck me again, then. Third time lucky."

The third time comes in the morning.

It's still dark outside, Jungkook waking you with dainty kisses along your shoulders, his hands pawing at your tits.

"Morning," he husks into your neck when your hand goes to join his on your chest. "Dreamt about you."

"You are so full of shit," you laugh.

Truth be told, he didn't really sleep. Looked at you for far too long. It's borderline creepy, he thinks, how utterly obsessed he is. Part of him doesn't understand it, but the rest of him does.

You're forbidden.

He can't help but want you.

Jungkook may be Adam, but you're no Eve. You're that damn snake. Or maybe you're the fruit. He doesn't know at this point; just knows that he's eaten it, and he's pretty sure it's poisonous.

"Am not," he grins, riding that poison high. "What did you dream about?"

He's repulsed he's even asking such a thing.

"Can't remember," you pout, turning to face him. Dreams always elude you. It's frustrating, but at least you're not having nightmares. "What about you? What were we doing? Where did we go?"

Just like him, the fact you're asking him questions like that has you wanting to die.

"Busan."

It's not a lie this time. He isn't looking at you, though, so you half think it is.

He's just focused on the hand of his that's toying with your hair, pushing strands away from your face. The only reason he isn't looking at you is because he's embarrassed.

"Busan?" You ask, reminded of his proposition from the night before.

"Mhmm," he nods, his hair no doubt tangling against the pillow. "You 'n' me."

Again, you don't know if it's a lie, but oh what a beautiful one it would be.

"We were on the beach," he continues. "Not really doing much. Just sort of existing."

You laugh, eyes fond but away from his. You're looking at his hair now, too, playing with it. Mirroring his actions. Reciprocating. "Existing?"

"Existing," he says, refusing to clarify. You're distracted when you notice the way his smile brightens. No longer contemplative, he's got a dimple that only comes out when he's beaming all big and bashfully. "I like existing with you."

And so exist you do, in his bed for the next hour and a half. There's no talk of any substance and yet you're chattering for the entire time. He barely even kisses you. Just wants to hear you talk. Wants to hear your perspective on the world, and all the assumptions you make about it.

Jungkook's duvet is shitty quality. The heat it traps is minimal, but you'd take a morning beneath his sheets in the height of winter over being back at your place any day.

It's thoughts like these that make your feet itchy. Makes you wanna run. Bolt. Head for the hills and never look back - but you're locked in place by his arm over your torso. Faint light pours in through the clouded glass of his window panes, curtains apparently too much of a luxury despite the holes in the wall where a rail once sat, and you study the dark ink marking his skin.

There's a story to be told from reading his arms, but you haven't figured that out yet. No google search of his name could ever match the lore embedded in his skin. The tips of your glossy red nails trace the lines in awe, wondering how many people have had this luxury before you.

You wonder who sat by his side during the tattoo appointments, and who laughed with fondness as he winced in pain. Whose hand did he hold? Whose suggestions did he listen to for placements? It plagues your mind like a disease, turning the rubies in your veins to emeralds.

Who are you, you think to yourself. And why am I feeling like this?

It's only a matter of a time - a few languid movements and a couple affirmations later - until he's fucking himself into you again. Predictable, really. Money would be wasted on a fortune teller, and yet you want to go and see one anyway just to confirm whether or not you get to keep him forever.

Lazy and slow, the sex is just an accompaniment to the way he's kissing you. His cock is thick and deep as it fills you, but his hips are sluggish and tepid.

It's almost laughable that the sex is an afterthought.

By its basic definition Jungkook is fucking you - but he's fucked you enough times for you to know how likes to conduct his lays. Quick, fast, to the point. Finish line in his sights.

This doesn't feel like that.

It doesn't feel like that at all.

Even the way his kisses you as his cock stiffens and pulses, unloading itself into you isn't familiar. It's short, his stamina not back up to his usual performance, but it's so deep you think it might be fatal. Any chance you had of getting your heart out of this alive? Yeah. Good luck.

He groans into your mouth, tells you how good you feel, and presses his lips so tightly shut that it's almost as if he's scared he'll never kiss you again.

It's interesting, the way that Jungkook doesn't make you cum. Sure, the sex is good. You've enjoyed it all - but you're currently on 3-0. You chalk it up to a lack of realisation. Innocent inconsideration.

See, his words may betray him, but he's trying to be better. Trying not to drag you further into the web of lies he's woven around the pair of you. Issue is, you've mistaken it for silk. You're comfortable. Enjoy where you are.

He thinks it doesn't count; thinks that if he's the only one who finishes, then you won't be falling for him in the way that he hears girls do. Jimin had ribbed him for it after he'd fucked Naejeon; told him that the reason she was so into him was to do with the oxytocin cocktail that had flooded her bloodstream. It's not like it was news to Jungkook. He'd always known it was a thing, he'd just never really seen the impact of it quite so severely.

The way he see's it, the less you cum, the less you care. It's flawed logic, and it leaves him feeling guilty, which is why he blurts out dumb shit about wanting you around forever. Might be true, might not be. Maybe he's the one confusing hormones for heartfelt honesty.

But as you watch him tear himself away from the bed and head towards the shower, you realise that none of it matters.

You've been hearing bells since the moment you met him.

They're so loud they drown out the bullshit.

"You coming, C?" He calls through, as the shower begins to splutter into action in the next room over. He appears in the doorway, a tattooed hand cupping his balls and covering his modesty. His eyes are soft, grin lopsided as the sun rises.

It's beyond your choice as you move towards the sound of his voice, like he's some kind of pied piper.

You know he's taken over you.

Yet still, you follow the sound of the pipe.

And whether you like it or not, you know you'll let him drag you to the river, just for him to watch you drown.

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minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

272 notes · View notes

fastlikealambo · 5 months

Text

Connubium.|| Coriolanus Snow x Black Fem Reader Chapter Six

table of contents.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Summary: Stealing from The Capitol is a deadly offense, yet you’ve done it more times than you can count but when you do something you should not have done, Volumnia Gaul decides a fate for you that might just be worse than death.

Notes: This takes place post The Ballad of Songbirds And Snakes and Coryo is in his last year at The University, studying under Dr. Gaul. This will not follow canon, I’m not an expert on all the lore so I apologize if I get things wrong.

Disclaimer: You know Coriolanus is a POS, I know Coriolanus is a POS, please don’t yell at me because this is just a fun little story, something for thee hotties, and if you feel that strongly against President Snow, please let me know if you’d like me to sign you up for tessarae.

Warnings: injuries, some smut, pinv, death

18+ only

Thanks for the love and messages on chapter five! If you want to see chapter seven, comment or reblog, feedback makes me want to continue!

There was a blizzard within Coriolanus, sharp and cutting.

From the crown of his head to the sole of his feet, rage pricked at him, a thorn in his flesh with each look at your bruised flesh and bloody knuckles. There was a buzzing sound in his ears, loud enough to drown out your sobs temporarily and transport him to an entirely different universe where he could destroy anything and anyone at his leisure with the snap of his fingers.

It was not that he believed that no one was allowed to touch what he had once cradled, you belonged to yourself and yourself alone, but the fact that filth masquerading as a human being had touched you without your permission made him positively furious. The blood beneath your nails told Coryo that you had fought for your life and even if you had not and simply said no, someone had done this.

Yet he released his clenched fists, letting the blood rush back into his hands to rub your back with one hand and keep you steady on his lap while Tigris finished tending to the injuries he couldn’t while you were shaking.

There was no angle here, there was nothing to profit from, just unfortunate evidence that the dark days of Panem were still happening, and those who could not be controlled under Ravenstill’s pathetic current regime had brought their evil to his doorstep, to the part of Coriolanus’ heart he did not know existed outside of his body.

That would simply not do.

When Tigris finished and multiple cups of tea were had, Coriolanus carried you to his bedroom, closing the blinds and door.

“Grandma’am will sleep for hours and Tigris has gone to work, we won’t be disturbed so you can rest.” Coriolanus said, sitting at his desk chair, studying you.

“I don’t want to rest, I don’t think I can.” You said, voice quiet, running your hands over his sheets.

Coriolanus crawled into bed beside you, gently settling your head on his chest and settled the covers over both of you.

“How about now?”

“Perfect but I’m not ready to close my eyes to it all just yet. There’s something I’d much rather do than sleep.” You said softly, sitting up in Coriolanus’s arms.

Coriolanus sat up as well and cupped your non bruised cheek with a soft hand.

“Is this what you truly want right now? You’re hurt.” He asked, direct and serious, searching your eyes for any shred of doubt.

“It’s what I want. Can you give me what I need, Coriolanus?” You asked, your lips meeting his and for the second time in a row, you took Coryo’s breath away.

He kissed you, oh how he kissed you until your lips were raw and then he traveled further down, carefully pulling your nightgown down to introduce his mouth to your nipples, sweetly sucking at the all too tender flesh.

Your hand slipped beneath the waist of his pants and took his cock in your hand stroking with just enough pressure to make him harden beneath your fingertips. Coriolanus whimpered in your ear, losing his pants and quickly rolling on a condom before disappearing beneath the covers and reappearing between your legs.

“Eyes on me, darling.” He instructed, kissing your inner thighs before finding your clit with his tongue. Coriolanus did not just eat you out, he feasted. With each flick of his tongue, he began to cry, not in woe, but in anticipation.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You begged and gripped the back of his head, fingers coiled around the sweat trenched curls.

When he could feast no longer, Coriolanus put your weary legs on his shoulders and ever so gently slid his cock into you, thrusting deeply.

“I don’t want to hear you scream, I want to make you whisper. Can you do that for me?” He asked, increasing in speed and taking your bowed back and damn near inaudible whimpers as a yes.

“Coriolanus.” You whispered.

“Good girl.” He praised.

On the count of three, you switched with Coryo and returned the favor, the rhythm of your pussy precise, riding him hard until he shuttered beneath you shaking hands on your hips, sheets soaked with the result of all your hard work.

With a biting kiss on his lips, you breathlessly dismounted him and he pulled you close, littering your jaw with kisses.

“Well Mr. Snow, I think I’ve found something else you are very, very good at.” You said, wrapping the sheets around you as Coriolanus stood on trembling legs to retrieve a towel. Tenderly, he cleaned you up and himself, sliding back in bed once more.

You laid there for a bit, studying each other, Coriolanus softly stroking your arm, watching you get sleepier by the second.

As your eyes fluttered close, Coryo once again traced each and every bruise on your body with his fingertips. You would tell him who did this to you when you were ready and not a second sooner.

But Coriolanus had made a decision the moment you stumbled into his home, terrified.

Panem was out of order.

Coriolanus needed order, he craved order.

He wasn’t going to work for President Ravinstill after graduation.

He was going to run against him.

And win.

With you at his side, there was no way he could lose.

As the future president of Panem began to plot, a scream put a stop to it and another sent him scrambling for his pants and racing for the door when he realized it was Tigris.

Following the screams, he sprinted out the open balcony door, skidding to a stop besides his cousin. Before he could utter a word, Coriolanus saw what made her scream.

Grandma’am was face down in a bed of roses.

That’s Chapter 6! As usual if you’d like to see Chapter 7, please comment or reblog! Thank you for reading.

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x black!reader #moodboard was just not mooadboarding today idk

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theredofoctober · 10 months

Text

MANNA FIC— CHAPTER ONE: PAPRIKA

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham fic, TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense).

Chronologically this is the first chapter in the series.

Keep reading after the cut

Later, when you reflect on your first meeting with Dr. Hannibal Lecter, you will marvel at the Sybilan apprehension that had wreathed the merest detail of that night: the oppressive colours of his office, grey and vermillion from window to wall, the very choice to have you see him at an evening appointment, penning you in by way of the darkness.

Yet, as you sit across from Hannibal in a low leather chair, you contain only a spiteful rancour, one foot jouncing testily as the doctor attempts to extract answers from you beyond a penchant for grudging monosyllables.

“I understand that you have seen therapists in the past,” he says, in a neutral tone.

You stare at the curtains in their dissected oblongs of red and ash, like bloodied teeth against the wall: anything but meet the eyes that seem to have already picked you apart in the mere minutes you have been before him.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “A couple of times. CBT stuff. I hated it. Doesn’t work for me.”

Dr. Lecter offers you a smile so imperceptible that he might not have moved at all.

“Understandable. Cognitive behavioural therapy is a better fit for anxiety and negative thinking— it has its place, but for patients with deeper trauma, their illness may prove too complex for it to be effective. Dialectical behavioural therapy would perhaps be more suitable, in your case.”

Shrugging curtly, you do not ask him to elaborate. There is no therapy in the book that you would warm to; you had set out tonight only to put an end to familial begging, in its absence of dignity.

You resent the nakedness of your secrets before this stranger, before anyone, your suffering made public domain. Like a brow-beaten captive, you are moved to defend your self abuse against all those who seek to extract it from you.

Hannibal watches you with a dry intensity, his gaze rarely straying from your face. He is a lean, polished figure in an impeccable red check suit, dark hair swept back from a face of meticulous and rather interesting beauty.

His brows are low, almost invisible, his eyes small, and as dark as tree flux, the nose—straight, and as debonair as the rest of him—leading down from two furrows that suggest an earnest and curious whimsy.

His air, thus far, has been both tactful and polite, unperturbed by your close-mouthed unwillingness to yield to quizzing in even the most inoffensive line. You should like him, you suppose, yet you have already branded him an enemy.

He is a man; how could you ever be expected to open up to him?

“How long have you struggled with your eating disorder?” asks Hannibal.

You cross your arms over your chest, barring him out, a theological defence against the vampire of such dreaded questioning.

“You’ve read my records. You already know.”

“Certainly, but I would like to hear your experience in your own words. Such documents may represent only the most objective truths, and reveal very little of you, or what you are feeling at any given moment. Besides, they are as fallible as the professionals that create them. If there are any inaccuracies, your answers will bring them to light.”

The implication that you may share, with him, an honesty that you have refused previous therapists bears a quiet arrogance that might have won you over, were you not set so resolutely in your hatred.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ve had it since I was a kid.”

‘IT’; the word may as well be in baleful capitals, the introduction to some eponymous beast. You will give your ailment no other name aloud, have never done so, except in clandestine internet entry, forcing the thorn further beneath the nail.

Dr. Lecter digests your simple answer, finding flavour in its enigma.

“You have no intentions of recovery without intervention. What served you in your formative years, you will continue to savour.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get better,” you retort. “It’ll always be there, so what’s the point?”

The question had shaken previous professionals into stumbling objection; not so Hannibal Lecter, whose ambiguous calm nevertheless bears the same imperceptible threat as the night.

“Would you say the same to an alcoholic?” he asks. “Many live out their lives through a succession of losses and victories, and likewise, many emerge fulfilled and content in having struck out on the path of self-betterment. Yet, by your logic, you would condemn them all in their relationship to illness.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you object; your foot bounces so violently over the arm of the chair that Hannibal glances at it, his focus unbalanced by the distraction. “It’s different for me, okay?”

“In what regard? What prevents you from regarding your own struggles with the same grace?”

“It’s... it's not the same. I don't want to talk about it.”

Panic makes you feel almost buoyant in the room, a kite with your string cut, to be devoured by the wind.

“You have not yet reached the point that recovery seems possible, or even desirable to you,” says Hannibal, across your distress. “That is quite normal. For many individuals with eating disorders, recovery can take up to ten years to achieve— a long and difficult road, yet while there is no permanent cure, there is still reward in that destination.”

This you have heard before, in other iterations; he loses you a little, a mistake that he seems to catch in your reply.

“You don’t understand.”

“If you mean that I cannot directly empathise, that is true,” says Dr. Lecter. “I do not share your struggles. Food is a great pleasure to me. Still, I comprehend the crux of your illness— that you once seized a handhold in a rock when you were falling, and still refuse to let it go when there is earth to hold you.”

You continue to jiggle your shoe in a pattern of agitation.

“You’ll never be able to hold me.”

Hannibal leans forward and places a hand upon your foot, guiding it soundly still again.

“That remains to be seen.”

Your breath peters in your throat. It apalls you that he has touched you without asking, that his hand—so warm through the leather of your sneaker—makes you imagine it within the wet turncoat of your cunt.

Suddenly you’re standing from your seat without acknowledging the motion that led you there, like a frame scratched from an old tape.

“I’m leaving,” you say, abruptly. “I’m sorry. This just isn’t for me.”

Hannibal looks up at you, and the still, smooth planes of his features alarm you in their lack of urgency.

“Please,” he says. “Sit down. You will not be leaving here today.”

He is so slim and unassuming in his tailored suit that you feel yourself the red-capped girl of fairy tale, entering an elder’s cabin to the appetites of a wolf.

“What are you talking about?” you whisper.

Dr. Lecter leans forward, speaking with a low and graceful regret.

“I must inform you that your parents have signed a written agreement for you to enter inpatient care, overseen by myself and a colleague.”

Betrayal breaks across you in a death bed sweat: how could they? What have they done?

“No!” you say. “You're lying.”

Dr. Lecter pats a folder resting on the arm of his chair.

“I would be willing to show you the paperwork, if you insist upon it.”

“I don’t care,” you say, your voice a shrill of indignation. “They can’t just send me away without my permission! It’s illegal!”

“As guardians to a vulnerable adult, it is entirely so.”

You don’t believe him, although your parents evidently did, pressed by their earnest desperation to reverse the agonies of time.

“Whatever,” you say, coldly. “I’m not staying.”

Hannibal tilts his head at an angle of frosty amusement, and suddenly you grasp that this is no ordinary intervention, but incarceration, for reasons yet unknown.

Terror snarls through you like thunder, and you run for the door, wrenching at the handle to find it locked against you.

“What the fuck?” you cry, though you had known in your most basic, animal senses that this man—this room—would be your undoing.

Dr. Lecter has gotten up from his seat and is striding towards you, seizing your arms at the wrists, as firmly as a father; you turn your head in a feral reflex and attempt to bite him, stalled by the wool of his jacket in your teeth. He turns your writhing figure towards him, your skirt bunched up to your waist in the struggle, his palm a blacksmith’s tool on your bare skin, a scarring heat.

His expression is scarcely altered by the struggle, his breathing slow, even. You are no threat to him; he has surely restrained patients like this before, a necessary training.

You will not go quietly, as perhaps others have, before you. You bring your knee into his groin until you hear him grunt in the desired pain, but he does not lose his grip upon you, only drives you back against the door, his eyes churning with a wild satisfaction.

“You will learn not to disobey, little one,” he says, and before you can absorb the threat there is a needle at your neck, and chemical night.

You half-wake some hours later to the voices of two men, one of them Hannibal, the other unfamiliar, speaking in a curt and cautious rhythm.

“This is her?” asks the unknown man— through fluttering eyelids you see him, all rumpled hair and scowling good looks, an image from some obscure Brontë novel. “The patient you talked about on the phone? What have you given her? She looks out of it.”

“A mild sedative,” Hannibal replies, “with some additional compounds. It’s alright, Will. She will revive soon, likely in a confused state. This will pass.”

Will hangs back, his mouth an angle of uncertainty.

“Forgive me, Dr. Lecter, but I’m a little confused as to what I’m doing here.”

“Your role will be paramount to the healing process,” says Hannibal, touching a hand to his colleague’s flannel sleeve with familiar tenderness. “Together, we will each be whatever our subject requires from one moment to the next. A healer, a father, a lover, a friend—”

“All while crossing the boundaries of what could be considered valid treatment into an inappropriate relationship,” Will cuts in, sharply. “Surely that’s only going to make things worse.”

Dr. Lecter approaches you, adjusting a pillow behind your head; you are too out of it to object, unsure whether it is a chair or a bed you occupy in your prone state.

“What is appropriate is not always the most effective method of healing,” says Hannibal. “This patient requires complex support. Decisions to be made for her that other professionals would not be comfortable making.”

Will shakes his head, grimly amused.

“And you are.”

“Certainly. Over the years I have seen results from the most unorthodox approaches. I have an interest in observing how she will respond to mine.”

You watch the two men exchange glances, and blearily wonder if they are merely friends, or something more.

“Dr. Lecter, I have no idea how to connect with her,” says Will. “And frankly the idea of trying isn’t something I’m particularly enthusiastic about.”

“Your discinclination to be involved may work to her benefit,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “While my part is to provide gentle guidance and compassion, you will offer the firm hand required to leash the chaos of her disturbed mind and behaviours.”

Will scoffs in disbelief.

“The good cop, bad cop routine? That seems a little obvious for you, doctor.”

“And yet it may be precisely what she craves. Stability. Discipline.”

At this, there is a certain change in the air of the room; one day, you will know it as hunger, so many appetites contained between two men.

“Well, which one is going to come first?” asks Will, relenting. “Stability, or discipline?”

“When she is fully awake, we will know," say Hannibal. "And we will deliver it.”

#ao3 writer #dark fic #manna fic #dark!fic #hannibal lecter x reader #dark hannibal lecter #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere will graham #will graham x reader #tw eating disorders #tw noncon

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creepzkilla · 10 months

Text

[BRIAN THOMAS, TOBY ROGERS, TIMOTHY WRIGHT x FEM! READER]

chapter warning. gore, death, mutilation, maggots, talk of killing an animal, gutting an animal.

wc. 7860

authors note. this fic gonna be long asf so buckle up. sorry its lowkey boring up yk its building suspense. any questions about the fic or concerns please submit an ask!

important, read. even though this is implied to be a female reader that has she/her pronouns, I suggest downloading this extension for Microsoft edge to replace [Y/N] as your name and to replace she/her with your preferred pronouns to make you feel more comfortable if you do not identify as a female.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏: 𝐇𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐀 𝐒𝐘𝐑𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄

meaning. a mushroom that grows over decaying bodies

As the sun rose above the eastern horizon, casting its golden hues across the land, a lone car ventured forth on the winding roads leading to Grove, Oklahoma. The engine purred softly, its rhythmic hum blending harmoniously with the melody of nature. With the sounds of soft rock and country preoccupying the silence that the car held in its void. The silence was filled with the songs of Linda Ronstadt, and Deana Carter; two maestros of musical storytelling, graced the airwaves, serenading the passenger with a poignant repertoire of cherished memories. The tunes resounded with the recollections of sun-drenched summers spent in the Western fields, where her mother's berry farm unfurled its emerald charm.

[Y/N]’s mind wandered back to the days when the weathered white barn stood as a sentinel, and the family's nearly antique truck nestled alongside, an endearing relic from bygone eras. Each note carried her back to the sight of verdant paint curling and surrendering to the passage of time, revealing glimpses of raw metal beneath. She vividly recalled the delicate act of running her nails over the lifted layers of paint, peeling them away one by one, as if uncovering the hidden stories embedded within the truck's weathered facade.

In nothing but her nightgown, [Y/N] ventured out, her bare feet delicately dangling just beyond the worn-out Ford logo adorning the truck bed. Wandering through the fields, she traversed the rough terrain, her feet bearing the brunt of her barefoot journey. The berry saplings, a recurring sight in spring and summer, had now blossomed, displaying their succulent fruits as late summer approached. Yet before their transformation, the bushes stood tall, their leaves pointed and vigorous. Her path, confined to the Western fields, beckoned her toward the barn. Basking in abundant sunlight, the western expanse fostered accelerated growth, causing the saplings there to sprout thorns at a rapid pace. As a consequence, the girl’s feet endured the accumulation of mud and crusty blood, an undeniable testament to her traversing the formidable fields.

With dirtied feet and a stained nightgown, she embarked on her ritual every morning, just before the sun's radiant glow graced the sky. Ascending the antique truck, she found her perch, eagerly awaiting the mesmerizing spectacle of the sun's rays stretching across the vast expanse of land. Yet, amidst this ethereal beauty, her heart danced with anticipation for a different kind of awakening.

As the first glimmers of light began to peek over the horizon, a familiar melody filled the airwaves, heralding the start of a brand new day. Soft country tunes, like those sung by Tanya Tucker and The Judds, tenderly embraced her senses. However, her ears strained for one particular tune, a treasure she yearned for each morning at 8 AM.

And then it happened—John Denver's timeless classic, "Take Me Home, Country Roads," resounded through the airwaves, soothing her soul with its heartfelt lyrics. Sitting atop her vantage point, she became a symphony of joy, her voice bursting forth despite its imperfections. With every note, she poured her heart into the song, her little lungs valiantly attempting to reach every high and low.

Though [Y/N]’s singing may have lacked finesse, it mattered not, for her spirit soared with unbridled enthusiasm. Without pausing for breath, she sang the entire composition, as if on a sacred mission to carry its melody across the rolling hills and valleys. In those precious moments, the world was her stage, and she, the star of her own enchanting performance.

Queens ensemble of trumpets and brass instruments harmoniously faded into a gentle hum, merging with the engine's subtle vibrations. With every turn of the wheel, a captivating journey unfolded, transporting her to an enchanting realm where time lost its urgency, and the world transformed into a vibrant symphony of colors.

[Y/N]’s grip on the steering wheel remained relaxed, a testament to her confidence in navigating the road ahead. However, the weight of exhaustion was evident beneath her eyes, concealed by bags that hung like heavy burdens. Her gaze alternated between the winding road and the small, blaring red text of the clock on her car monitor: 7:59 A.M.

Anxiously, her fingers drummed against the supple leather steering wheel, mirroring the racing beat of her heart. Her eyes darted back and forth, desperately seeking confirmation of the fleeting minutes. As the hum of the engine threatened to engulf her senses, its dominance was suddenly overpowered by the opening notes of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads."

In that moment, her attention was captivated by the red letters once more, and they revealed the time: 8:00 A.M. A gentle hum escaped her lips, akin to a sigh of relief, as she muttered along with the song's lyrics, embracing them with unwavering devotion. Without pausing to catch her breath, she sang along, infusing her voice with the song's nostalgic melodies.

The road stretched out like an asphalt ribbon, carving its way through sprawling meadows and rolling hills. Fields of emerald green extended as far as the eye could see, adorned with delicate wildflowers that danced in the gentle breeze. The air, crisp and invigorating, carried with it the scent of earth and the promise of new beginnings.

As the car glided forward, the scenery unfolded like pages in a vivid tapestry.Towering trees lined the roadside, their branches stretching toward the heavens like ancient sentinels. Leaves shimmered with a kaleidoscope of autumnal shades, painting the landscape with fiery reds, burnt oranges, and golden yellows. The trees seemed to whisper secrets to one another, their rustling leaves creating a symphony of nature's own design.

The road wound its way up and down gentle slopes, revealing panoramic vistas that stole the breath away. Mountain ranges stood majestically in the distance, their peaks kissed by the wisps of ethereal clouds. They stood as guardians of the landscape, their stony faces etched with the stories of ages gone by. But nothing could compare to Grand Lake.

The bridge, spanning what felt like endless miles, gracefully arched over the water, its reflection shimmering in the gentle waves. As if in a dance, a multitude of boats navigated the water's expanse, trailing wakes that glistened in the crystalline depths, mirroring the celestial azure above and the passing cars on the bridge. The radiant spectacle transformed the water into an irrefutably luminous spectacle. It seemed as though liquid silver veins intricately intertwined with the land, carrying the harmonious melodies of life and the captivating tales of the creatures that resided within its mysterious depths. Geese gracefully etched invisible patterns against the vast canvas of the heavens, casting a mesmerizing spell on the onlookers below.

The scratching of gears wound up, blending into the symphony of sound, as the window glass slowly rolled down. The mechanical protest produced a terrible screeching sound, reminiscent of an animal's anguished cry, piercing the air and capturing her attention. Her eyes widened, captivated by the scene that unfolded before her.

Inhaling deeply, she savored the dewy summer air that gracefully entered her lungs, infusing her with an ardent fervor. Each breath became an embrace of life itself. The atmosphere, cool and revitalizing, carried a tangible energy, blending the essence of earth with the promise of new beginnings. The aroma of raindrops and freshly cut grass intermingled, filling her senses with a harmonious fragrance that evoked a sense of contentment. As she exhaled, a sigh of satisfaction escaped her lips, releasing any lingering tension—contentment.

The car engine purred in agreement at the sight of landscape, the tranquility of and complete beauty was simply enchanting.

In a graceful display of poise and determination, she effortlessly steered the sleek vehicle away from the confines of the bustling main road, opting instead for a captivating detour onto a secluded single-lane path. As the tires glided over the uneven terrain, the verdant canopy of lush green forests enveloped the winding road.

Along this path, a humble dirt road emerged, veering away from the well-trodden route. Its weathered surface, pockmarked and rough, dictated a slower pace, Each jolt and tremor sent ripples of anticipation coursing through her veins, heightening her senses as she pressed on with unwavering resolve.

Gradually, the path unveiled a breathtaking vista, an opening that seemed to materialize from the very fabric of a storybook. A small pond, its crystalline waters shimmering under the gentle caress of the sunlight, beckoned with an irresistible allure. Nestled harmoniously by its side, a resplendent cabin emerged, a captivating testament to rustic beauty.

The cabin, although once a haven of tranquility, now appeared as a relic of forgotten memories, as if time itself had woven a shroud of neglect around its weathered exterior. Weeds triumphantly sprawled across the surroundings, their emerald tendrils dancing in the wind, while determined vines conquered the cabin's weathered facade, gracefully ascending its walls in a seemingly eternal embrace with nature itself.

In this serene tableau, the intrepid traveler found herself drawn to the essence of this forgotten refuge. Its dilapidated state only served to enhance the mystique, inviting her to uncover the tales that lay dormant within its timeworn walls. She sensed that beneath the encroaching foliage and the fading echoes of life, whispers of untold stories and echoes of forgotten laughter still resonated within, yearning for someone to listen, to breathe new life into their cherished existence.

As the shadows danced amidst the rustling leaves, she stepped out of her vehicle, her footsteps cautious yet filled with reverence as the gravel beneath her crunched. The air seemed to hold its breath in anticipation, as if the surroundings acknowledged her arrival, recognizing the significance of this encounter.

As her boots pressed against the gravel roadway, their crunch merged seamlessly with the harmonious of natural sounds that enveloped the picturesque surroundings. Advancing towards the cabin, each step resonated through the ancient floorboards of the front porch, releasing a melancholic creak as if the timeworn planks were exhaling with a subtle sigh. Weathered by countless footsteps, the wooden planks bore the indelible marks of their enduring journey, their once vibrant hue now transformed into a rich, dark oak shade. Inhaling deeply, she absorbed the essence of the place, her hand gravitating toward the doorknob of the screen door. For a fleeting moment, her gaze caught the old rocking chair, swaying gently in response to the playful caress of the breeze that meandered through the air. Finally, [Y/N]’s turned the the doorknob as the screen door creaked open—exhaling.

She inhaled, the sharp fragrance of pine and bleach wove its way into her senses, its pungency tugging at her nostrils. Their potent combination was not without consequence, for it provoked a reaction within her, eliciting a gentle scrunching of her nose.

The house exuded an eerie aura of both familiarity and enigma. She found herself standing in an expansive, open area cabin, devoid of hallways, which seemed to beckon her further inside. With each step, the immaculate cleanliness of the interior revealed itself, creating an almost surreal ambiance.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to the second floor, with its single set of stairs ascending like a mysterious gateway to another realm. On the ground floor, to her right, lay a quaint and compact kitchen, an intimate space that appeared to have witnessed the preparation of countless meals and conversations with its worn down appliances.

To her left, the living room stretched before her like a tapestry of memories. A comfortable couch adorned the space, an inviting haven where the occupants must have spent many hours engrossed in captivating tales or deep contemplation. In front of the couch, the heart of the room resided—a grand fireplace. Its flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, seemingly whispering forgotten secrets.

Perched atop the fireplace, an old flat screen TV served as a window to the past, where characters from era that might have come alive came alive, momentarily escaping their scripted confines. The juxtaposition of the antiquated screen and the modernity it once represented painted a vivid portrait of the house's intriguing history.

Yet, despite all the intriguing elements that adorned the room, her gaze eventually shifted downward to the very foundation of the space. The wooden floor bore the weight of countless footsteps and stories, its grainy texture inviting her to feel the past as she walked upon it.

In the realm of her consciousness, she possessed an intimate knowledge of the house's history. In the era preceding her own, her beloved grandparents had entrusted its care to a man of enigmatic nature, one by the name of Willard Tucker. The townsfolk, adorned with tales and whispers, had deemed him a peculiar figure, cloaked in the shadows of perceived insanity. Yet, the precise details eluded her, veiled behind a shroud of uncertainty. All that remained were fragments of narratives whispered through the winds of time—stories suggesting that the man, his heart shattered by the loss of his wife, had departed for the fertile lands of West Virginia, seeking solace within the embrace of family ties, all while taking up farming.

She had guessed that Willard was the reason for the foul smell of cleaning products. Cleaning and scrubbing off residue so as to not leave it behind for the next tenant. That being her—a girl from small town Kansas in the depths of the west. However, she secretly cursed Willard for using so much of the cleaning product.

Upstairs and to the left, In the midst of simplicity, her bedroom exuded a quiet charm. Nestled against the wall, a regal queen-sized bed commanded the center stage, flanked by two modest nightstands. On the left, a generous window framed the wall, revealing a glimpse of the wooden sanctuary beyond.

As she gazed through the window's translucent pane, a tingle of anticipation caressed her being. It was as if the wistful tendrils of nature, woven into the fabric of the scene, beckoned her. The sheer simplicity of the room was deceptive, for within its unassuming boundaries. A shiver traced its delicate fingers along her spine, electrifying the air with a gentle chill.

She shook it off as paranoia.

As she ventured into the confines of the bathroom, her delicate fingers gently placed the small pills of respite into the trinity of mirrors ensconced within the cabinet. Ambien, a faithful companion in her torment against insomnia, found solace in this sanctuary. The affliction had haunted her since the early years of her high school debut when a merciless onslaught of ghastly nightmares infiltrated her slumber. Rarely, she could sleep without nightmares, rarely she could sleep at all. Not through a full night at least. In a valiant attempt to retain her grasp on reality, she adorned her abode with vibrant beacons of guidance, neon yellow sticky notes that served as simple reminders.

Before she placed the pills in their place, with meticulous care, she tenderly appraised the contents of each vial, her discerning gaze fixed upon the pills nested within. Twelve, she confirms. Retrieving a vibrant yellow sticky note from her pocket from her linen jacket, her blue pen danced across the note, etching the numbers upon the labels of both bottles with blue ink.

Nestled gently beside the cabin lies a quaint garden, albeit a modest one, marred by a profusion of resilient weeds. Throughout her family’s lineage, they had cultivated a bounteous farm teeming with an abundance of blossoms, nourishing produce, and succulent fruits. This trio, her mother, father, and herself, helmed a "berry utopia"—an expanse of verdant fields, stretching across countless acres, brimming with an assortment of fruit: blueberries, blackberries, vibrant raspberries, strawberries, and cranberries—each variety harvested with unyielding dedication.

As her gaze fell upon the garden, now overrun and wild, a surge of nostalgia washed over her like a familiar melody from a song. The sight evoked memories of her home, where there were fields upon fields of saplings of fresh berries. Determination welled up within her, fueled by a profound sense of connection. With resolute certainty, she understood that this hallowed ground deserved to be restored to its former glory. And then this became her mission.

With a hum, she nestled into the plush embrace into the seat of her car, releasing a wearied sigh that spoke volumes about her exhaustion. The weight of countless sleepless nights seemed to settle beneath her eyes, casting shadowy hues that deepened with each passing moment. Her gaze drifted toward the console, where a vibrant neon yellow sticky note had found a temporary perch upon the sleek gear shift. Delicately scripted upon its surface were two simple yet poignant words: "Call Mom."

A flicker of recollection sparked within her. Reminding her of the promise she had made to her worry-laden mother. A call was expected, an assurance of her safe arrival. Jane, her mother, possessed a peculiar knack for turning fret into an art form, yet in her own idiosyncratic way, her daughter desired nothing more than the act of vanishing without a trace.

In the tender embrace of Jane’s watchful care, her protective nature has forever been her daughters steadfast companion. Jane ardently desired for [Y/N] to remain by her side, nestled within the sanctuary of her love, tending to the bountiful fields of the farm until the end of days. Undoubtedly, affection for her only child knows no bounds, yet an undeniable sense of confinement subtly gnawed at her being.

Since the untimely demise of [Y/N]’s beloved father, a transformative shift enveloped her mother's being. Like a shadow cast by the moon's gentle glow, she became an ever-watchful sentinel, closely monitoring her daughter's every step with unwavering dedication. Her love took on an armor of protection, shielding [Y/N] from the world's perils with an intensity that left her in awe. The mere notion of forging friendships seemed inconceivable, friends were near to few, yet she made it through.

As she embarked on her journey to the store, a fleeting thought of reaching out to her beloved mother danced in her mind, promising to materialize into a heartfelt conversation once she fulfilled her immediate errands. Before delving into the realm of garden essentials, a trusty blue ballpoint pen found its place in her hand, etching a list: a delightful assortment of blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries. A sudden mishap tainted the pristine clarity of the yellow paper, as her thumb inadvertently collided with the wet ink, obfuscating the very last word with an smudge, rendering it a mere blur, without her noticing

The jingle reverberating through the air above the door was no delightful melody, but rather a haunting creak that sent shivers down one's spine. As the door swung shut, it unleashed a piercing screech, its brass hinges groaning under the weight of accumulated rust. In that moment, it seemed as though a flurry of white paint chips had erupted into the air, propelled by the force with which the door had slammed shut. She was consumed by a wave of embarrassment, cast her gaze around, desperately seeking an opportunity to offer a timid apology to the cashier. Regrettably, the name tag affixed to the cashier's uniform bore the name "Ranae Reeds," yet the older woman remained oblivious to the commotion, deeply engrossed in the captivating narrative of her newspaper, so captivated that she spared not even a passing glance.

The quaint little store exuded an ambiance both intimate and grundgy. Its petite dimensions were adorned with luminous streams of yellow light, gently cascading overhead, a mesmerizing sight that lured a vibrant array of insects, their presence immortalized by a delicate layer of expired life at the base of the ceiling fixtures. Amidst this glow, a second source of illumination emerged from the rear of the store, emanating from the flickering glow of the freezers, whose contents contained nothing but dairy products.

Four rows stood in perfect formation, each aisle beckoning with an irresistible allure. Yet, it was the initial 3rd island that caught her attention. Like echoes from her college days, these rows overflowed with an abundance of budget-friendly delights, an ensemble of delectable junk food.

On the 4th and final row, she found what she needed; seeds. She picked up a variety of packets of seeds, holding the small packets between her fingers. Blueberry, Raspberries, and strawberries—She was missing one thing

She nestled her hands into the cozy refuge of her coat pocket, avidly searching for that elusive neon yellow sticky note. Days of inadequate slumber had exacted their toll, leaving her mental acuity adrift in a sea of drowsiness, a constant companion to her weary mind.

The yellow paper must have slipped out somewhere.

As she turned to retrace her steps, her gaze fell upon a figure standing a few feet away. Dressed in a dark hoodie that seemed to swallow his form, he was an enigmatic presence amidst the mundane shopping atmosphere. His face was partially concealed by a dark yellow hood, casting intriguing shadows upon his features.

She hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should approach him. But something compelled her to step forward, her curiosity overpowering any apprehension she might have felt. With a nervous yet determined smile, she approached the figure.

"’scuse me," she began, her voice tentative but polite with a southern accent slipping through her lips. "I seem to have dropped something, and was wonderin if you happened to see a yellow sticky note?"

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers through the darkness of the hood. His gaze was intense, as if trying to unravel the secrets hidden behind her words. Without a word, he bent down and picked up the stray yellow sticky note from the floor, holding it out to her.

Relief washed over her as she accepted the note, feeling a strange connection form in that brief exchange. "Thank you lots," she said, her gratitude evident in her voice. "I wouldve been lost without this."

As she looked up to thank him, her eyes widened in surprise. The hood that had previously obscured his face had fallen back, revealing his features in full. His brown hair was unkempt, falling across his forehead in a disheveled manner, matching the roughness of his beard. There was a weariness etched into his face, as if he carried the weight of a world unseen.

His eyes, though tired, possessed an unmistakable glimmer of something deep and complex. They held a mix of vulnerability and strength, as if he had seen things that most could never comprehend. The lines around his eyes spoke of experiences that had left their mark, making him seem older than his years.

He was quite handsome, [Y/N] thought.

A ghost of a smile played upon his lips as he nodded in response to her thanks, acknowledging her gratitude. “Ain't no trouble.," he replied, his voice a low rumble that held a hint of grave and southern twang. "Happy to lend a hand."

Silence hung in the air for a moment, as if both of them were caught in a suspended moment, each waiting for the other to break the spell. It seemed like the man found himself unable to tear his gaze away.

‘Dude, fucking break eye contact, this is getting weird’, She thought as an awkward frown formed on her face.

Her eyes flickered to the red gallon he held in his hand, the word gasoline emblazoned across it. Questions formed in her mind, but she hesitated, deciding against asking him directly. There was an unspoken understanding that some things were better left unsaid.

Instead, she mustered a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, thanks again," she said, her voice warm with sincerity. "It was nice of ya to help me out."

His lips curled into a slightly deeper smile, a tooth gap evident, a hint of something genuine breaking through his stoic demeanor. "No worries," he replied, his voice tinged with a quiet appreciation, before going back to looking at the seeds.

The way his lips curled into a grin, sent shivers down the curve of her spine. Though his smile, expansive and brimming with teeth, held a peculiar detachment within the depths of his eyes, a dissonance that left her unsettled. His lips, etched into a smile, never reached his eyes. Like an emotionless facaque. He had something of a crooked grin, skewed in its authenticity, that just didn't seem right Deep within her core, an unsettling awareness resonated, silently cautioning her about the man before her. Still, an irresistible force tugged at her very being, pulling her closer to his presence.

She glanced down at her yellow sticky note for the last item, only for the blue writing to be smudged.

“Fuck.”

The man couldn’t help but notice the frustration on her face as she stared at the yellow sticky note in her hand. The item she had written on it was smudged, rendering it illegible. He cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them in the garden aisle at the back of the store.

"Hey again, uh... , 'scuse me for interrupting but aah couldn't help but notice yer frustration. Do you still need a hand?" The man had asked, his voice gentle and concerned.

Startled by his sudden address, she looked up, her eyes meeting his. She blinked a few times, trying to regain her composure. "Oh, hey. uh... i was just trying to remember what i needed to buy," she stammered, a hint of embarrassment displayed on her face.

He nodded, understanding the struggle of forgetfulness. His gaze fell upon a rack of seed packets nearby. "Well, if yer open to suggestions, there's this type of berry seed that might do the trick. They're strong and grow plenty. Might just be what ya searchin for.”

She hummed, her eyes widening as she turned her attention to the seed packets he indicated. She scanned them, reading the descriptions and imagining the bountiful berries that could grow from them. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Imma give em’ a try," [Y/N] replied, grateful for the suggestion,"Thank you."

He reached out, plucked a seed packet from the rack, and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed briefly, a fleeting connection that sent a shiver down her spine. She accepted the packet, feeling the weight of the possibilities it held.

"Yer welcome," He had said with a genuine smile that still didn't reach his eyes. "Aah sure hope they bring you a fruitful harvest." he laughs.

As she held the seed packet in her hand, she couldn't help but be struck by a sudden curiosity. "Do you gotta a garden?" [Y/N] laughed, “You sure seemed to know lots bout’ plants and whatnot.”

His smile faltered slightly, and he glanced away for a moment. "Well, I used to have one," he replied softly. "But things shifted ‘round, and aah had to leave it behind… but ah’m fixin’ to start a new’un.” He drawled out with a smile.

Understanding flickered in her eyes, and she nodded in sympathy. Sometimes life forces people to leave behind things they hold dear. It reminded her of something, but she just couldnt put her finger on it. Before she could delve further into the subject, his phone buzzed loudly, interrupting their conversation.

He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. A serious expression settled on his face as he answered the call. His voice was barely audible, and he moved away from her, creating a physical distance between them.

She watched him, a mixture of caution and curiosity mingling within her. His hushed conversation gave away little, leaving her to wonder about the nature of the call.

As the call ended, He turned back to face her, his eyes filled with a mixture of apology and urgency. He didn't say a word but mouthed a goodbye, his hand waving gently in farewell. Without another word, he swiftly made his way out of the garden aisle, leaving her standing there, holding the seed packet in her hand.

“I wish i would’ve at least gotten his name.” [Y/N] hummed, rubbing the packet in her hand. She really hopes that the man was right about this seed packet.

She read the packet again, more carefully. The packet read Boysenberry. A cross between a raspberry, blackberry, dewberry, and loganberry. She could make this work. The picture showed something like a blackberry , yet it was enlongated and a deep red, almost black color. The description read that when freshly picked, it tasted like a sweet blueberry with a tangy aftertaste.

[Y/N] grabbed a few more more things: 2 bags of fertilizer, Top Soil, and Green gloves

She sighed, walking towards the front desk, flashing a soft smile towards the cashier, Ranae Reeds, she recalled. The woman’s name tag was worn around the edges, with her name partially faded. Much like the name tag, Ranae was a little worn around the edges. With her gray roots, her deep smile lines told tales of a younger, happier her.

Ranae Reeds delicately placed her magazine, adorned with the captivating headline, "Infamous Serial Killer, Jeffery Woods caught," on the polished surface before her. [Y/N]’s eyes beheld the image of a man whose countenance bore the unmistakable evidence of two hauntingly deep gashes etched into his cheeks, and a profound sensation seized her being. The spectacle unfolded before her like an eerie tableau—an unsettling tableau that seemed to suspend the very breath in her throat. Its sheer grotesqueness sent tremors coursing through her, causing the hairs on the nape of her neck to rise in response.

Ranae cashier merely looked at the younger girl, almost with sympathy.

The cashier took the seed packets with a shaky hand, her golden bracelet jingling as she scanned the packets of seeds with a ding of the scanner, “I ain’t neva seen ya round’ before.” Ranae spoke with assertiveness and confidence, surprisingly, as her stature was rather petite and she seemed to be soft-spoken. But that was in fact not the case.

[Y/N] was taken aback by her sudden curiosity, she blinked and said, “I just got ere’ this morning, moved in today.” She rocked back and forth on her toes and heels, eagerly wanting to leave already.

Ranae looked at her up and down with a bored expression on her face and asked, “Where yer from girl?” Her lips never moved from the straight line that almost seemed to be formed. Her freckled hands grabbed the fertilizer as she scraped the bag of pellets across the scanner, never taking her eyes off of [Y/N].

DING.

“Oh, aah’m from Kansas. Born n’ raised.” [Y/N] didn't have a Southern dialect—well, not anymore. It only slips out on occasion, particularly when talking to someone else with a southern twang. Her momma and daddy always had a thick southern voice, as they were both from Texas and moved to Kansas.

Kansasans don’t exactly have an accent, besides not pronouncing the “R” in words. Yet, they got a way of speaking that you can clearly tell their from somewhere in the West. If you went south, close to the Oklahoma border, the accent would get thicker as you went.

Ranae hummed, almost like she had something to say, yet she bit her tongue. She scanned the items slowly, like she was purposely taking her time.

[Y/N] shook her leg rapidly, impatience growing within her as she watched Ranae struggle to bag the items in a brown paper bag.

DING.

“My PawPaw and MawMaw died recently, so I inherited their cabin down by Grand Lake,” She said in attempt to fill the silence that annoyed her so much, in hope to pass the time. [Y/N] has always been rather extroverted, starting conversations with strangers she didn't mind, it was this silence that ate at her. The silence was bugs crawling underneath her skin, like roaches gnawing at her veins as they swam in her blood.

Ranae merely hummed again, scanning an item, completely uninterested in the conversation at hand, letting silence fall over the conversation once more. The silence was only broken by tapping of [Y/N]’s leather boots, which were worn out and needed replacement.

“A man named Willard Tucker used to live there—“

DING.

“Ya best be careful round that house,” Ranae suddenly spoke up, her brown eyes boring into the girls, a serious expression took over her features,“There been rumors bout’ some folks down by those parts doing god knows what.” The woman's veiny hands wandered through the bag of fertilizer in search of the bar code.

[Y/N] stiffened at her sudden demeanor. “I see,” She watched intensively as Ranae scanned the last item before bagging it into a brown bag and pushing it towards [Y/N].

Y/N smiles, “I’Il be sure to be careful—“

“And ya best be careful round that man that was in ere’ earlier. Aah’ve seen him do some suspicious things with those little friends of his.” Ranae cut her off once again, except her loud and apprehensive nature was no more; instead, it was quiet, and she was talking merely above a whisper.

“He’s up to no good, girl.” Ranae’s eyes once again, bore into [Y/N]’s with a sense of urgency and protection. Ranae reminded [Y/N] of her mother, Jane. From the way, she spoke with a protectiveness of a mother to her veiny freckled hands that trembled constantly.

DING.

[Y/N] hummed, taking the brown bags underneath her arms hastily, “I will don't worry.” She reassured Ranae with a tight-lipped smile, before pushing through the door that opened with a groan.

The smell of summer once again hit her, and she inhaled the sweet, tangy air. It was humid as well, the weather was hot and sticky. [Y/N] was used to it from being on a farm for all of her life, yet she never really enjoyed it. Her dad, Steve, enjoyed the heat, he loved it. He would always drag her out of the house when it was well into the 90’s.

She really misses her dad.

[Y/N] threw the brown bags in the tail bed of her 1995 Ford 150. She slid into the plush fabric of her seat, shutting the car door behind her as she slumped against the leather steering wheel.

“Why in the hell is it so damn hot?”

She peeled herself off of the steering wheel, her head heavy as drowsiness took over. partly from the lack of sleep, and the warm sun that scattered it’s light against her face.

She shoves the old, almost rusty, key into the ignition, turning it to start the car. The car sputtered, before failing to start. [Y/N] sighed, before trying again, turning the key in the ignition. Yet again, it groaned and sputtered with a metallic scratching noise that sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

It was an old truck, a gift for her 16th birthday. Painted a dark red that rusted around its silver rims, the truck was a relic, almost like a family heirloom that her family passed down from one generation to the next. It was frequent that the truck wouldn't start, constantly breaking down from a plethora of problems. It wasn't just one problem with the truck, but everything. The engine, the ground cables, the filter, overheating-- the truck almost had every problem in the book.

“I swear to fucking god,” She turns it for the third time, Please, god, start.” She pleaded as the engine sputtered once more, before roaring to life with fever.

[Y/N] slumped her head on her steering wheel once more and said, “Thank you,” She kissed the leather steering wheel, thankful that the universe had answered her pleas.

With the roar of the engine [Y/N] peeled out of the small parking lot of the Grocery Store.

Within the forgotten garden, an eerie silence lingered, broken only by the faint rustle of weeds that thrived unchecked. Like rebellious tendrils, the vibrant greens stretched beyond the confines of the patch of tilled earth, entwining their wiry strands with the blades of grass and any unsuspecting object within reach. Mushrooms and fungi covered the garden like a blanket, growing in mass abundance. This unruly congregation of vegetation and fungi seemed to possess a will of its own, reclaiming its dominion over a forsaken realm. Amongst the overgrown foliage, unseen insects and arachnids sought refuge, their presence betrayed only by an occasional scuttle or a shimmer of silken threads. Camouflaged amidst the verdant chaos, they patiently awaited their next unsuspecting prey, ready to seize upon any who ventured too close.

As the sun descended in the western sky, its golden rays extended through the dense foliage of towering oak trees, painting a mesmerizing tapestry of light and shadow. The ethereal dance of illumination and obscurity enveloped the scene, amplifying the eeriness that permeated the air. The songs of robins and mourning doves serenaded the somber landscape, their delicate melodies contrasting with the ominous backdrop. Amidst the rustling leaves and trilling birds, She heard the distant grunt of a white-tailed deer. And as the final rays of sunlight retreated beyond the horizon, they bathed the discovery in a soft, eerie glow, accentuating the unsettling sight before the witness's eyes.

[Y/N] glanced at her phone, which glowed an illuminating white. She looked at the white numbers that read: 6:00 PM.

She stretched her limps as they ached from hours of being hunched over digging to completely remove the wild grass and herbs that grew. Her arms gave a satisfying crack, just as her back did in response. She had napped for a satisfying 7 hours,only waking a few times. [Y/N] was suprised that she was able to nap in general. She was content and fully recharged. On the downside, she probably won’t be able to get any rest tonight.

At least she'll be able to stay awake binging Netflix.

With a determined grip, she thrust her green gloves into the yielding earth, their fabric sinking into the damp soil as she uprooted the herbs with a swift, purposeful tug. As she pulled, the tips of her gloves absorbed the essence of the earth, their vibrant hue now tainted by the stubborn remnants of the earth's bounty. The once-pristine fingers of her gloves were adorned with a telltale shade of brown, evidence of their close association with the soil. And beneath the surface, her nails bore the weight of the garden's secrets, caked with a fine layer of dirt that clung tenaciously to the thin, porous material.

[Y/N]’s mind wandered as she aimlessly dug through the soil, ripping the herbs from their roots like tendrils. Until her hands gripped something that squished beneath her fingers.

She gazed down, her eyes widening in pure horror, as a gut-wrenching sight unfolded before her. In her trembling hands, a writhing mass of maggots squirmed with repulsive vigor, their pale bodies contorting and intertwining in an unsettling dance. The pungent stench of decay wafted through the air, assaulting her senses and threatening to overpower her resolve. As her grip tightened involuntarily, the soft flesh of the larvae ruptured, smearing her trembling hands with a sickening mixture of viscera and fluids. The once-innocent soil beneath her feet became a graveyard for crushed worms, their slimy remnants mingling with her fingers, an unholy stain that marked her as both witness and participant in this grotesque scene.

[Y/N] let out a blood churdling scream as she stumbled backwards from her squatting position, landing on her backside. She frantically swiped her hands together to get the maggots off as they fell into the grass beside her.

The squirming maggots, now a grotesque spectacle in the dew-kissed grass, seemed to writhe in agony. Their once pale, plump bodies were now stained crimson, their delicate flesh bearing the gruesome evidence of their fallen brethren. Each wriggling creature fought desperately, their tiny frames flayed violently as they were torn away from their decaying feast. The gore of destruction painted the once vibrant green blades of grass a haunting shade of red.

“What the actual fuck?”

Laying where [Y/N]’s gloved hand dug, was a mound of dirt that maggots swarmed, their white skin hiding beneath the dirt.

[Y/N]’s curiosity peaked exponentially as she moved closer to the mound, dirt staining her knees brown. Her gloves dug through the maggots filled mound, her stomach filling with uneasiness as they glided through the soil.

Suddenly, her hands struck a soft, pudgy, material. [Y/N] dug through the dirt to fully uncover the mound, and as maggots crawled anxiously around her hands, she recoiled in disgust. She was sure it must be a dead animal, and the land must have grown around it, right?

[Y/N] knew the stench of death, and didn't partially mind the sight of dead animals. Her father, Steve, was a frequent hunter of deer and other game, to which [Y/N] accompanied him. Steve had taught her from a young age how to field dress a deer. Hanging the deer up by its hooves to a tree, she remembers taking her father's hunting knife and running it down the belly of the animal-- very gently to not puncture the belly. Scooping the contents of the deer out, leaving the inside of the deer completely bare. That was the easy part. Now to field dress the deer, was a tedious and lengthy process, using the tip of her knife to slowly peel the hide off of the animal. Hours would pass in the blistering Kansas heat and wind. It was revolting, yet she grew accustomed to the sight.

For her 13th birthday, she was gifted an old 22. rifle from Steve—an old gun that needed to constantly be cleaned and scoped in. The bullets weren’t made for large game such as deer, but they did work on prairie dogs that plagued cow farmers' fields. Eventually, she got a .300 WIN MAG, which now sat below her bed.

She had guessed the rotting carcass of an anwinsle from the potent smell wafting through the air. An unmistakable and haunting odor tainted the air, suffusing every inhalation with a chilling foreboding. It was the stench of death, a macabre orchestra composed of decaying flesh and the ghostly remnants of blood.

As she slowly uncovered the mound, it became more and more apparent what the mound was. Her hands swiped away the last layer of dirt and maggots to reveal the form underneath the soil.

[Y/N]’s features contorted with sheer terror again, the lines of his face etched deep with despair. The pallor of her skin turned with goosebumps, a stark contrast to the clammy beads of perspiration that clung to her furrowed brow. Eyes wide, they became twin portals to the void, reflecting the depths of her fear—paralyzed.

A corpse, abandoned to the earth, lies in a state of advanced decomposition. Its once vibrant form is now a haunting testament to the inevitability of mortality. The body, stripped of life, is a pillar of grotesque transformations. The flesh has given way to a grotesque canvas, with patches of decomposed tissue revealing glimpses of bone beneath. The skin, mottled and discolored, hangs loosely, tattered and ravaged by relentless decay. Time etched deep crevices into the once-familiar countenance, obscuring any resemblance to the person it once was. Swarms of maggots and other scavengers feast upon the remains, their writhing presence further amplifying the scene's repulsive nature.

Bile crawled up through [Y/N]’s as she doubled over, vomiting into the grass next to her. Food chunks and liquid sprayed the green grass a vomit brown. A tremor coursed through her trembling frame, betraying her tenuous grasp on composure. It was in this harrowing moment that horror unfurled its chilling wings, casting an indelible veil upon her face—a blanket of anguish. The very air seemed to quiver in the presence of such raw, unadulterated fear, as if nature itself recoiled in silent reverence for the intensity of her terror.

She had torn off her gloves as she scrambled across the grass, grabbing her phone, in an attempt to distance herself as much as possible from the corpse. Her surroundings seemed to spin as the drum of her heart overtook her hearing as well as the sound of the dial tone. When did she call 911?

“This is 911, what’s your emergency?” A woman's voice came from the other side of the phone. Calm, and tender, her voice was comforting. Yet her voice was almost muffled as [Y/N]'s heartbeat filled her eardrums.

“I," [Y/N]'s breath was shaky, quiet as she spoke with a sense of urgency, "Would like to report a dead body."

tag, @rat-briccs-trauma, @strawberrie-fluff, @spookyravioli @darkovergrownforestnymph, @urmomisaqt420 @yipeeesstuff

.@qupiikaaa @fynnwolff

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revelisms · 7 days

Text

A big prosey ramble on Terzo, Omega, and messy love, because I haven't been able to get these two out of my head recently.

WC: 1k | Suggestive themes, complicated relationships, existentialism, dysfunctional family dynamics, hurt/comfort

There's a pact one signs, once the Gate has been handed what it's due:

When the old tongue has been spoken, and the dark psalms sung; the Devil's touch fishhooked through a human eye, and its Sight wrenched to nothing, a blinding everything, an All few could endure;

Once the lines of the Undead have marked them: sanctioned them as the Unholy, the Half-Living, the Above and Below: draped them in silks fit for kings and gloves for killers;

A prophecy so ancient one could choke on the dust off its words.

Their fate will devour their Will, like a shark waiting to feed—and chain any of scrap of agency left, like a dog.

Few would dare to deny it.

Terzo, though, has never been one to play by the rules.

Even now—with the Sight of what is yet to come thorned about his mind: every rut and stone he could walk known as well as the blood-bitter sting of his own spite.

It's why he twists crowds around the points of his fingers, for those scant hours of freeness; hunts for lovers' touches in hands his rooms will rarely welcome again; wanders the paths of his own head more than the gravel beneath his feet.

Why the sight of his brother's summoned Unnamed—the First and the Last, the End All-Be All, the One (his One)—had left him stuttering on his heels.

He could see it. Hell beneath, see this:

The two of them, trapped in the maws of a forest fire; in a promised somethingness.

A path veering off course like a runaway train.

A doomed light at the end of a self-made tunnel.

And this—

(Demon-claws at his waist, his shirt shucked to the floor, the chain at his neck clapping to his skin like a noose—)

This is a loophole. Legalese in a contract penned in his own blood. A selfish want fueled by a hunger to be seen, to be known:

To be shoved back wontedly, greedily, in a music room spidered with dying light, and feel the brand of those otherworldly hands on him—thighs and ribs and lungs, dragged through the hair that silks down his stomach, through the beat-beating valley that puffs beside his heart:

To let himself shiver and sigh and roll his head back, bite down the burr behind his teeth, beg—

"Cardinal—"

A voice like Hell itself. The keyboard clanging beneath his hips.

"Come here," he growls back.

They shouldn't be doing this.

He knows the superstitions. Growing up in these halls had spoonfed him with it: the crumbling of the Gate that had nearly been; the fear that even lesser ghouls, under the right circumstances, could usurp the Exalted's power.

It had happened, once before. The Bloodline only had so much demon-magick in it, after all.

This one knows it, too.

"Cardinal."

He doesn't care. He's lightheaded. He's lonely.

The chipped varnish of the piano's edge whines beneath his nails.

"Shh—shh. Not here, eh? Not—ah—not now."

He wants to peel back the point of that silvered mask; to drown in those eyes, blue as the tainted Heavens. Wants to feel his teeth on his neck.

"Not—"

His fingertips stipple over Omega's shirt—and tug.

A switch flipped. A permission devoured.

That clawed hand plummets. Melts his breath to liquid. Sparks an addiction without a goddamned cure.

The first line crossed of countless.

(Countless more, now, and countless still—until Nihil Nihil always Nihil—

Don't think I don't know what you're doing. All the mages can damnwell smell it on you.

Terzo, fox-grinned, steel in his eyes: And?)

And maybe that's all it had started as. All it had ever been.

A middle finger jabbed in the face of their All-Father's millennium-soaked paranoia.

A foolish, spiteful clinging to a promise he'd already stripped from himself.

(If nothing else—even if the world burns—you can still have me. And I can still have you.

I can still have you. Can't I?)

So he'd thought.

Papa, now—and the world's a stage, burning, purple-bleeding-black, a stranger's hands combing through sweat-dampened hair on sheets that don't smell like him, and he shouldn't want it to. Saints, he shouldn't want it to.

But he's tired. His head is spinning. He's lonely.

"Papa?"

He brushes a callused thumb over their temple. "Shh—shh. Not here, mh?" His fingertips glide over the glitter at their back: splay a slow touch between their shoulders. "Not right now," he rumbles, eyes closed. Their hair tickles his mouth. "Not..."

Sometimes, these curious souls press, prod. Try to dig beneath the points of his own mask: to look for the man tucked away in the corner, that doesn't want to speak, to open his eyes from the lull they've found themselves in. Not yet.

This one doesn't.

After a long moment, Terzo sighs: a buoy their body floats on, weighs down like a blanket of sunlight, like lead. "How are you feeling, darling?" The words come lazy and low, tucked into the soft space behind their ear.

The breath he's given in response is boneless, satiated. "Good," they whisper.

He hums. "Good." His thumb skims over their temple, again. "Very good."

Another performance due, soon. Another mass; another ritual. The robes shaken off the floor, the paints reapplied, the stage a handful of moments without deafened expectation.

(Why do you care what he thinks? Omega had snuffed at him once, lounged out like a god in their dressing room.

Terzo hadn't been able to say it, then. Still couldn't, now.

That one day, his father's passive threat of this ghoul's banishment would come to fruition—one day, his reign would fall—one day, the only ones left would be the rat, and Sister, that old, bullish bastard, and he—

Satan. He'd always loved him, hadn't he?

Why do you care?

The doomed light at the end of the tunnel.

He'd twitched a half-painted smile. Looked away. Don't you know?)

"Terzo?"

He blinks. Dredges himself out of the paths of his own mind: focuses instead on the moon-silvered river of this priestess's fringe. Heat is still beaded between them, tacky where their hands shift. There's a trace of perfumed oil on their neck.

He noses further into it, lays down a kiss. "Mnh?"

Their fingers slide unhurriedly through his hair. Weave a gentle knot—and tug.

A switch flipped. A permission devoured.

He lays down another kiss, and another. Their breath melts to liquid beneath his hands. Sparks an addiction without a cure.

"Please," they hush. "Don't leave yet, please—"

His lips catch at the veins that flutter through their throat. His palms lost in the valleys of their waist. "I won't."

The touch of their mouth feels like love, almost. A flicker of soft lashes, bumped noses, lungs haggard and starved.

Their fingers scrape at his shoulders. Cling, and claw, and beg.

Against their lips, he gravels it again. "I won't."

Another line crossed of countless.

#i listened to mitski on repeat and this happened #good afternoon to the terzomega angst #the band ghost #ghost band fanfic #cw: suggestive #papa emeritus iii #papa iii #papa terzo #terzo #omega ghoul #ficlet #prose #writing

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picturesofthegoneworlds · 6 months

Text

Restless

Imogen can't concentrate.

(standard procedure for up to a couple weeks ago, now it wears a different guise.)

She fidgets, sits with her legs crossed on her bedroll, backpack in her lap, removes, itemises, arranges its contents, huffs stray hairs out of her face, hands still twitchy, mind still scrambled, organises it all again. Repeats.

It's early, the fact given away by the low-lying sun and crisp smell on the air that has not yet been burned away by its sustained and blistering presence.

The blisters on her ankles, the friction of leather that is still not fully broken in. Imogen delays in pulling on and lacing up her boots, calves restless but exhausted, thrumming if they remain still too long (too long being only a moment).

She falls back heavily onto the bedroll.

Overhead, in the weave of vines and branches, birds sing. They're mocking her, surely, the awkward and bound to the ground sack of flesh and fat and bones that she is, hair frizzed and sticky from the humidity, her inner thigh chaffed and perspiring where the contact of her dagger's harness coils around it like a constricting snake.

She loosens it a few notches

The pathetic and inconsistent touch of it frustrates her more, so she buckles it tight like a tourniquet.

She exhales, deflates, heavy as she is, runs the back of her forearm over her brow, spreading the salt and sweat, breathes in, feels the connective tissue holding together all of her joints, exhales, arm to ground, along with every other limb, the back of her knees, her spine, her shoulders (there's a rock digging into one through the mat, did she sleep on that last night?), her neck, her ass, wishes they were all gelatin, that she could become one with the floor and not collide with every edge and corner and texture of it, stop being so reactive.

She inhales, skin pulling away, wishing it would continue, peel, lift, blanket, canopy (closer than the trees), shade, but it would drip with blood, hot and sizzling as it rained back onto her exposed bones.

Shadow, the dark tatters, the veil. Molasses of ichor. Dull, hazy, sharp, thorns. Don't touch, don't approach. Space. Wail, scream, chorus, silence. That would chase the birds away, feathers dislodged from sudden movement re-lodged into black tar, carried off, away, down sluggish stream, no contact. Barbed like a briar.

The thread of the bed roll is itchy, the weave of it too thick and open, rough spun from fibrous burlap, it splinters bare skin where it makes contact, nape of her neck, backs of her forearms, thighs, knees, and calves.

Delicate, cool, billowing lace that accommodated to the pads of Imogen's fingers, to her palm, fractured by magic, calloused and freshly wounded, it dulled even the rows of needle teeth beneath. Imogen imagines it her bedsheets, the ground would not matter - could be rivers of lava jutted by shattered glass, it would not matter, sure, cool billowing lace, Imogen would sleep well.

Easier to tell now, how restless her hands are. They pluck at the gauzy linen that makes her dress, the more rigid weave of her waistcoat, following stitching as if it were pathways, movement, roads to get her somewhere, them, skin to skin contact barriered like the rock digging into her shoulder. Her touch meanders to her chest, unintentional, she swears, in promise and obscenity, a winding path with sides towered by hedges and trees that block the horizon, a shock carried from the point of touch to manifest as an ache between her legs and a weightless haze in her head, body rolling, shoulders leaving the mat, leaving the rock that digs, a breath to a sigh to a gravelly moan, sends a bird or two scattering away, a leaf or two falling behind them.

Fuckin' birds. Relax. More touch. Touch is good? Barbed. Thorns. Restraint. Maybe she should grow her nails, maybe then the touch won't feel her own. Laudna - fuck, the name gets a reaction from her again, the jolt in her core as she feels the heat pool at the surface of her face, her neck, her chest, crimson damming, damning, acid rising to her throat carried by the guilt of it.

She kicks and squirms, side of a fist like hammer to nail on the bedroll beside her, other covering her face from the shame of it, it being the burn, the rolling simmer, the violent boil of want and guilt and acid and sting and she is so restless, boiling over, she can't concentrate, the contact of the ground and the fabrics and the atmosphere all feels wrong, scalding, now she knows what to compare it to, how it could feel, what she could be touching.

Could be death calling, alluring, maybe, how long she flirted with it. Cold with head empty, sounded nice, still does, though the delivery and means maybe different now. A face to an end, ends her, finishes, acid in her throat again, hand bunching the rough fabric under her hips.

It moves of its own accord to her thigh, takes a fistful of cuff and flesh and she sobs, eyes scrunching shut so tightly that she starts to see colours in the dark, blotches of crimson in a grey dream, her body in the butcher's cart.

Dreamlike, hazy, drunk (this must be how it feels), she moves without thought, groping herself through the crotch of her shorts, writhing, the floor is too hot against her back, sweat gathering at her hairline and salt beading down into her eyes, again, breath short, short, when did it get so shallow, dizzy. How long could she hold it (hold herself), heat, radiating into the cup of her hand, squirming, a worm under boot, squashed before it gets to dine on the corpse. She pushes firmer against herself, shudders, the feel of the floor leaving, rolls her hips onto the press of her fingers, barriered, dulled, not enough, as they fumble, clutch at the shorts and wrangle the inseam of them in frantic pulls against uncomfortably undulating heat, heat, damp forced through from the close contact onto the pads of her fingers and Gods she's gonna have to prestidigitate that, what the hells is she doing, Laudna could return from her morning forage or whatever it is any moment and

fuck the thought doesn't quell the need at all, her hips spasming and knees shaking as she holds them suspended and trembling, working herself up, frantic, frantic and desperate. How did she get here? she followed the woman at the market, the woman followed the yellow bird, the birdsong silenced for pathetic needy moans, her hips raised so high her shoulders are pushed further into the cut of the offensive rock, princesses and mattresses and beans or whatever that fairytale was Laudna had mentioned about ladies and their proper behaviour.

Proper, right, she should stop, get it over with, fumbles with the fastening of her shorts, hand making its way beneath fabric before it's fully undone, now registering coarse curls, then slicked, heat, heat, heat, hot, wet, eager, soaked, soft, the glide of her intensity, betrayal, soaking. fuck. Touch is not enough, hers, fuck. Not right, the feel of callouses and scars and heat and a barely registrable thrum shit what happens if she gets away from herself, gets too excited. magic fried uncontrollable she is out of control fuck the heat of the bedroll on her back and the push of the rock imbedding imbedded scars wrapping tangled suffocating sinew silvered skin nightmares burden and guilt guilt guilt storming-

Imogen rolls over onto her front, the rock through the bedroll pushing into her chest, against her sternum, aiding to evacuate the bile that has been suspended in her oesophagus but the guilt won't leave her thighs slicked and hot and tacky and uncomfortable and the chaffe of the itchy fabric of the mat burning them, restless, as she removes her fingers from between her legs, wipes the evidence of a pathetic and failed and just and just wrong attempt onto her shorts, prestidigitates it all clean as if she can wash herself of her impurities and intentions, dares to think of the occasions the purple glow has evaporated the rain from Laudna's clothes and skin, now a selfish act, was then too, maybe, always selfish.

#Imodna #Imogen Temult #Laudna #Critical Role #Fanfic #Emma writes #My first foray of writing in my notes app #Rainy morning thing #Imogen is managing just fine.#Seeing Laudna's form of dread for the first time didn't awaken anything in her not at all #M rated fic that links to an E rated collection

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whiskygoldwings · 1 month

Text

The Ballad of The Guard

Chapter One

Fox is proud when he is issued his posting. The Coruscant guard was an honour post. They were the ones who would come into closest contact with the nat-borns, the senators and those who could keep funnelling the Kaminoans money; only the very best would be allowed to get that close. The longnecks wanted the image they presented to be perfection, to persuade the good people of the Senate that their investment was well-placed. To have gotten the Marshall Commander post was recognition of his skills, his hard work and dedication. He was so, bloody, proud.

He was pleased as well to see Cody and the others get posted in sought-after positions as well. Their batch had persisted in excellence, thrown themselves into rising to the top of the scoreboards. It wasn’t entirely to promote themselves; being in a position of power meant they had the ability to cover those beneath them, defend those they had taken under their wing. Cody had fought tooth and nail to protect Rex, defective only in the colour of his hair, and Wolffe had wrangled Boost and Sinker into his employ as well. They stood proud as the trainers walked infront of them, calling out their battalions.

They managed only brief grasps of hands, snatches of foreheads pressed together in the chaos of departure. The Kaminoans and the trainers, headed by the Togrutan Jedi with peace in her eyes, directed them to individual Venators, ordering them to get settled into their ships and prepare to meet their Jedi.

Fox remained behind, hands held precisely at attention, feet exactly shoulder-width apart, and waited for his orders.

Alpha-17 approached him as the room cleared out, brothers going to collect their battalions and ready themselves for the battles ahead, and Fox found himself grinning as the alpha slammed his forehead into Fox’s own. “Well done, Foxling,” 17 whispered, teeth bared in a sharp grin, before pulling away. “You will be joining CC-2224 on his ship, along with the rest of those selected for the Guard. As you will be stationed on planet, there is no Venator set aside specifically for the Guard,” his fingers tap on Fox’s pauldron, a quick message of “good work” before he pushes roughly at Fox’s shoulder. “Go and collect your battalion CC-1010, report to hanger 17”. And Fox barely restrains the snort at Alpha 17’s smug face, knowing full well why they were assigned that dock, before saluting and marching smartly away.

His troops are waiting, the last of the battalions in Hanger 17 not already making their way to a ship. They salute crisply as he approaches, not a finger out of place, and Fox feels the pride swell in him. His command team are stood at the front, their numbers printed on their left breast, and Fox is pleased to see Thorn amongst them. He’s less aware of the others, but Thorn’s squad had worked closely with his own, and they had become friends over their training. He is not surprised to see him there, Thorn was brilliant, after all, but it is comforting to know he has a friend beside him.

He kicks his boot down to parade stop, standing infront of them all, and snaps his right hand into a smart salute. “Oya to the Corsucant Guard” he calls, pleased by the chorus of “Oyas!” that respond, before crisply moving into parade rest. The troops follow him, precise and beautiful, and he feels almost dizzy with the moment. “We travel with the 7th Sky to Coruscant. Collect your kit and assist the 7th Sky with prepping for departure. Dismissed!” The battallion salutes again, before dressing down and rushing off. His command squad remain with him, relaxing in posture now they have permission, and Thorn pulls off his helmet, exposing his blonde hair and grinning at Fox.

“Oya Marshall Commander Fox,” Thorn says cheerfully, walking over to knock his forehead into Fox’s the moment he removes his own helmet. “Never doubted you for a second!”

Fox laughs, and presses a hand to the back of Thorns’ head to keep their foreheads together a moment longer. “Never doubted you either,” he grins, before letting go and turning to greet the rest of his command team. They’ve removed their helmets as well, and all stand proud and pleased.

“CC-5869, Stone, sir,” the first says, leaning forward to press his forehead briefly against Fox’s own.

“CT-3009, Sergeant Hound, sir” was the next, with a cheeky smirk. “I head the Massif section.”

Fox blinked, “We have a Massif section?”

Hound laughed, a deep growl of a thing, and Fox wondered briefly just how much time he spent with the animals. “Specially selected and trained sir. We’re the only ones in the entire GAR, purpose made for Guard duty. I’ve heard of you, not so surprised you haven’t heard of us though.” He shrugs, clearly not bothered by the lack of awareness.

“How many have we got?”

“20 Massifs, along with 20 handlers. We’re also trained to breed them and raise the pups,” Hound grins. “The Kaminoans phrased it as ‘Asset propogation’. We like to think of it as Morale boosting.”

The group chuckle, then the final trooper steps forwards. “I’m your CMO sir, CC-7782, Bones.” Fox recognises him, has spoken to him a few times. The command class medics were assigned to the command class troopers in the medbay, so they’ve had a couple of run ins. Bones is already quirking an eyebrow at him, and Fox gives him a wry grin back. “I’m sure we’ll be working closely together in the future.”

Thorn chokes on a laugh while Hound bellows one of his own. Bones flashes him a sharp grin, and Fox can’t quite help ducking his head sheepishly. “I’ll endeavour to do my best to not keep you too busy, Bones.”

Bones rolls his eyes at him openly, before reaching an arm out which Fox clasps. “I’ll hold you to that sir.”

“Have you each been introduced to your teams?” Fox asks them.

Hound shrugs. “We’ve all trained together since we were selected sir, so I know all mine already. They’ll keep watch over the Massifs while on route, probably bunk with them where ever we set them up.”

Thorn steps in after him. “I’ve been introduced to my sergeants and support team. They’ve prepared datapads with details of every trooper and their specialties, scores etc. I’ve tasked Sergeant Finder with organising them for us to review while one route.”

Fox nods at him. “Good idea Thorn, thank you.”

“The medic team were partially selected by me,” Bones tells him, a hint of pride in his voice. “The Coruscant Guard is getting some excellent medics, including a couple of surgical specialists and physiotherapy class. So long as no one dodges the Medhall we’ll keep the Guard in top shape.” He throws a cheeky grin at Fox, who groans as Thorn snickers next to him.

“I’m really not that bad you know!” Fox protests.

“Tell that to the scar on your left calf,” Bones says smartly, and Fox flushes.

———

It takes a few hours to get them all proeprly situated on the Venator. There’s spare barracks on every ship, but even then the Guard are all crammed together in four of them while the battallion assigned to this ship are crammed in the others. Cody and he had worked together with their command teams to ensure everyone had enough space to at least have a sleeping spot of their own, but it’ll be a tight squeeze until they get there. They’ve worked out schedules for different teams to get the mess halls and exercise rooms, but the Guard are going to be cooling their heels for a few rotations while the 7th Sky settle in to the running of their ship.

Hound’s Massif squad are actually one of the better situated. They’ve carved out room in one of the cargo holds amongst crates of spare plastoid armour pieces and weapons parts, and dragged cots in for all the troopers to sleep with their charges. They’ve quickly made themselves popular with both battallions, walking round with the Massifs and letting troopers assist in their training and downtime. Hound is an absolute force-send in himself, easy-going and calm, mediating squabbles between the troopers handily. It’s clear early on why he was picked to work with the Massifs; he’s patient and gentle in a firm-handed manner, and Fox is already wondering if he can promote him past sergeant without removing him from the Massif section.

Thorn and Stone prove to be excellent commanders as well. They’re swift and efficient, getting things organised and pre-empting his requests with ease. They’d gathered information on all the troopers of the Guard, and during their trip to Coruscant to collect Cody’s Jedi and situate the Guard, spend time with Fox going through everyone’s files, working out teams and squads ahead of time based on skillsets and aptitudes. They all take time to talk with the troopers, making themselves available at various meal times. Fox delights in learning more about his troopers, learning names and quirks and developing relationships with the people he is going to be working with in the future.

He also spends time with Cody, who’s quietly excited for his first meeting with his Jedi. They had both been part of the battle on Geonosis, Cody having taken a nasty headwound that left him with a scrolling scar down the left side of his face. It had been utter chaos, troopers thrown together quickly, no clear squads, just whoever was easily and readily available when the Jedi Yoda had flown in and called for a rescue team.

They’d lost a lot of troopers in that battle. He’d pulled together his own squad out of the men, managed to pull the majority of them through. Two had fallen early on, rattled by the sheer intensity and desperation of a real fight. The first who fell had sent a ripple of horror through the troops he’d amassed, but the second had solidified something within them. They’d rallied grimly, fallen into the patterns and mindsets their training had instilled. He’d led them in sweeping over the arena, creating a perimeter around one of the Jedi, a Nautolan man who’d fought with a wicked grin on his face and quickly flowed into their attack patterns to deflect blaster fire away from them.

That was the one thing that disappointed Fox about his posting. They wouldn’t get their own Jedi. Working with General Fisto had felt like a thing of beauty. He’d admit to a quiet envy at the thought of his brethren getting to fight alongside them in the future. He’d checked the records to see which commander had been assigned to General Fisto and commed Monnk to let him know he was a lucky son of bitch.

Monnk had laughingly told him not to talk about his tube like that, before getting him to patch Cody in and showing them all the specialist equipment they were getting to be able to focus on underwater missions.

Theirs was not the only ship heading to Coruscant in order to pick up their Jedi Generals. The majority, in fact, were heading that way, while a few others headed to other systems to pick up Jedi who’d been deployed further afield. It meant hyperspace jumps were carefully co-ordinated between the fleets, usually getting a short time between jumps to exchange comms and catch up on gossip.

The most exciting of which, was when a battalion finally met up with their Jedi.

The first had been Commander Gree, who’d picked up General Luminara and Commander Offee from Bothawui. Everyone had been aware of when Commander Gree was going to rendevous with them, and they came out of hyperspace in a massive huddle in the first Guard barracks, Fox at the center with his commanders to share any information they received from Gree. The data dump seemed to load more slowly than normal, and the barracks was surprisingly quiet, the low sound of rustling and occasional excited whispers being the only real sound.

Gree’s first message is a simple “They’re kriffing cool!” which had sent the entire barracks into peels of laughter, and Fox sighed as he realised there were several more messages in the Command feed, all of which lasted a few seconds at most, and were clearly, more of the same. Thorn was sniggering beside him, scrolling through the text feed which was flooded with paragraphs of effusive updates on just what amazing things the Jedi had done today (which, considering Gree was still in transit, appeared to mostly be just existing...). He played some more of the voice messages for everyone to hear, which were indeed, variations of the same, before finding a longer one. In it, Gree detailed a session where the Jedi master and her padawan had conducted a training match with their lightsabers in one of the dojos in the barracks areas. There was a video attached, and Fox adjusted the comm to allow it to be projected high above for everyone to see.

There was silence as everyone watched in awe as the two Jedi fought. They moved like water, like rivers flowing together and clashing before racing apart, only to flow back together and around each other. People gasped and eyes glimmered in the light of the holo, and Fox found himself watching his brothers more than the spectacle. So many happy, excited faces, all eager for the future they’d been promised during the gruelling years on Kamino.

He already knew he’d do anything for them.

A shoulder pressed against his, and he turned to see Thorn looking out at the others as well, a soft expression on his face. He glanced at Fox, a smile curling his lips, and leant further over to whisper to him. “Guess this is what the Alphas felt huh?”

Fox grinned back, the feeling of Alpha’s forehead pressed against him own warm in his chest. “Guess so,” he murmured, and tilted his head to lean against Thorns.

——

Their arrival on Coruscant is met with much celebration and joy. The public are packed in around the Senate building, streamers and confetti flooding the air. They march in perfect formation, Cody’s battalion remaining on the ship while the Guard march through the streets and array themselves in neat, tight lines in front of the Chancellor on his podium. Fox feels his chin tilt up, his shoulders roll back; pride in every line of his body as the Chancellor smiles upon them, warm and welcoming. They form an impressive sight, all these gleaming suits of white armour, shining in the sun of Coruscant, buffed and polished to perfection. Fox kicks his heel and stamps to a stop, hand snapping up to salute at the senators stood on the steps above them.

“Presenting the Corsucant Guard sir!” he bellows, heart surging at the crescendo of “OYA!” behind him. He snaps his hand down to his side, and hears the click of a thousand plastoid pauldrons moving in unison with him. His Guard are stunning, and the vaguely awed faces of the senators before him pleases him.

The citizens of Coruscant roar and hollar in response, and the Chancellor gives them a moment to call out their appreciation, before raising his arms to bring silence. Fox’s brethren stand regulation still, and the Chancellor smiles again.

“And what a shining example of our GAR the Guard are!” The Chancellor begins, and Fox swears he couldn’t get any more proud, yet he does. “The citizens of Coruscant can sleep happily in their beds tonight, knowing that the finest soldiers of the GAR stand watch over them.” The crowd cheers again, and the Chancellor watches benevolently over them before raising a hand again. “You and your men show us hope, dear Commander. For with an army like this, how could the Republic ever lose!” The roar of the crowd is loudest at this, and the Chancellor moves away from the podium to approach Fox. He almost startles, not expecting the man to reach out a hand, but catches himself in time to clasp his forearm in greeting. The Chancellor grins at him, before turning them to where a group stand nearby, cameras at the ready. Fox is glad for his helmet, as they frantically take photos and shout indiscernable questions over each other. The Chancellor reaches up with his other hand to pat his shoulder and laughs kindly. “You get used to it my dear Commander. Now, shall we get you settled in to your new home?”

Fox isn’t really sure he’s had a home before. Kamino was always meant to be temporary, and the longnecks had done their very best to make sure the clones never became comfortable. He nods at the Chancellor, “Yes sir,” before letting go of the man’s arm and turning smartly to his men.

“Inspector Thwaites!” The Chancellor calls over to a man in Corsec uniform, crisp and neatly pressed, who salutes and strides over. “Could you kindly show our Guard to their barracks and assist them in getting set up?”

“Sir!” Inspector Thwaites barks, then turns to Fox. “Commander, if you and your men could follow me please?”

Fox nods and clicks his heels to attention again, knowing his troops are watching for his sign already. “Corsucant Guard!” He chants, “In close order, march!”

He doesn’t need to see them to know how impressive they look, the gasps and cheers tell him as he marches smartly after the Inspector.

——

The Corsec inspector relaxes the moment they’re out of sight. He’s more brusque with Fox now, more casual, yet stand off-ish. Fox isn’t terribly surprised; he’d discussed with Thorn and Stone how they were stepping in on CorSec’s territory, and it’d more than likely take some negotiations before they were comfortable with each others company. He does show them to the Guard complex, a building sunk below the surface of Coruscant, clearly not intended for it’s new use, and hastily emptied for them. It’s within sight of the Senate building, and Inspector Thwaites advises them is connected to the Senate itself via a series of tunnels to allow for ease of access for the Guard.

He’s a little dismayed at the tight corridors, small offices and rooms within the premises, but resolves himself to it. It’s not like they’d had much space on Kamino after all. He’d gotten a little spoiled by the sheer expanse of the Venator in the few rotations they’d spent within it. They’ll manage, and figure out any issues as they go. He’s a little surprised the Jedi hadn’t organised for a location for the Guard in advance, since they knew they would be stationed here, but perhaps there simply wasn’t the space. Coruscant is clearly an absolute rat warren after all, and he suspects there’ll be more than a few of his people frantically memorising plans of the different sectors over the next few days.

The Inspector leads them to a large canteen area, Thorn, Stone, Hound and Bones walking in with them. Thwaites advises Fox that the Chancellor would be looking to meet with him tomorrow in the Commander office in the Senate building, and that a Senate guard would arrive at 06.30 to lead him there. The man’s face is taut; he’s clearly not interested in speaking to them much further, and Fox thanks him for his time, telling him they’ve got it from there. Thwaites doesn’t hang around for any questions, and quickly makes his exit. Fox turns to his command team, pulling off his helmet and grinning at them as they follow his lead.

“It’s going to be a bit cramped in here,” Thorn says, voice wry.

Fox shrugs. “At least it’s not all white” and laughs along with his team.

——

They quickly get organised and settled in. Hound claims several of the rooms on the surface, citing the need for the Massifs to be able to get outside easily, which Fox is happy to agree to. They quickly find that they will have to have several people bunking in the same room to fit everyone in, including the commanders, and Fox settles on a room near to the tunnel closest to the Senate building for their bunks. He imagines they’ll need to be able get there quickly at times, and the centralised nature of it means any insurgents will have trouble getting to the command team without tripping alarms before they get.

On which note, Fox had been alarmed to discover there was no real security system in place in the building to speak of. He’d immediately ordered a splicing and engineering team together to set up cameras and early warning systems, which they leapt to eagerly. Hound and his team get to take the massifs out for their first real operation, walking the beasts through the building to check for anything that shouldn’t be there. Other than a couple of local rodents that Hound assures him Grizzer and the others thoroughly enjoyed, they thankfully find nothing.

They set up an airlock system at the surface entrance to the building, making up the front room as a reception area for any public that may need to speak to them. Stone takes charge of getting the public-facing aspects set up, and Fox is pleased to see that no one complains about having to clean, or paint, or fix up furniture left behind by the previus occupants. There’s a general feeling of excitement at setting up their new home and getting it ready for them to settle in properly.

It’s not finished that first day, but Fox goes to sleep that night in the company of his command team, pleasantly worn out from the events of the day.

——

The next morning arrives with Fox standing with his helmet clipped to his belt, waiting at the front entrance for the Senate guard to show him to the Chancellor. Hound is already out with the rest of the Massif squad, exercising the beasts in the small plot of land afforded to them on the surface for this purpose. Thorn and Stone are inside the building, directing the continuing efforts to get the building set up properly for them. He takes a deep breath, smiles wryly at the taste of pollution in the air, but glad of the sun on his face. Sure beats the constant rain of Kamino.

A man in the Senate Guard garb approaches, and Fox stands to attention. The man waves away his salute impatiently. “Commander Fox?”

“Yessir”

“Follow me.”

The guard turns and walks towards the Senate building. Fox brushes off the brusqueness of the man’s greeting and follows after him.

The guard doesn’t talk to him beyond pointing out different rooms he needs to know about. He indicates at the entrance where Fox needs to press his vambrace to the wall, so the security system can read his identity chip before he can gain access. Fox wishes he’d put his helmet on. The Senate building is beautiful inside, all rich golds and reds and lush carpetting where the floor isn’t polished wood. He’d like to have had the opportunity to look around wonderingly, but senses the guard wouldn’t be willing to slow down for him to have a proper look. Instead, he maintains a calm expression, following after the man and promising himself he’d get more opportunities to look around in the future.

The Senate guard shows him where the Chancellors office is, as well as showing him the room itself and the command codes for entry. He makes it clear that Fox is the only clone allowed to know these (and Fox is a little disappointed to hear the coldness that accompanies the word. He’d been hopeful not to hear that outside of the trainers and longnecks on Kamino), before finally showing him to the Coruscant Guard office, a level below the Chancellors. He instructs Fox to wait there until the Chancellor arrives, before leaving without another word.

Fox sighs. Guess he couldn’t expect all natborns to treat them with respect.

He quickly looks around the office, sweeping for any listening devices and happy to find none. There’s a few desks in the room, and datapads on each of them. Fox selects a desk near one of the windows, having checked the glass was heavily fortified. He allows himself a little bit of selfishness here and takes the desk with the best view; there has to be some perks to being the Marshall Commander after all. He sets his helmet down on the desk, and opens up the datapad, pleased to find it pre-loaded with maps of the site as well as several data packets on schedules and details of the Senate that he immediately begins reading through.

The sun has risen high in the sky by the time the Chancellor knocks on the door, and Fox has finished several data packets and eaten one of the ration bars in his pouches. He stands as the Chancellor enters, a Senate Guard behind him, while Fox can see another stood out in the corridor facing away. The Chancellor smiles at him and waves a hand in his direction.

“Please don’t feel the need to stand, Commander! Sit, sit! I thought I’d meet up with you and see how you’re settling in.”

“Very well, thank you sir,” Fox says, gesturing at the chair infront of his desk and waiting for the Chancellor to be seated before sitting down himself. “My troops have already set up a reception area and we’re working towards setting up all of the bunk rooms and internal areas currently.”

“Excellent! I do apologise for the state of the building when you arrived. We relocated Corsec in a bit of a hurry to make sure the Guard had room to get set up in. It sounds like you’re making the most of it though?”

Fox nods. “No apologies necessary sir, we’re happy to be here and to serve the Republic.”

“A most admirable attitude my dear Commander,” the Chancellor beams, clasping his hands in front of him. “I am sure the Guard will serve the Republic excellently in the time to come. Now, I wish to discuss the remit of the Guard if you wouldn’t mind?”

Fox frowns slightly. “Is it not as defined in the data packets you provided sir?”

The Chancellor grimaces. “It was, but I have been in discussion with CorSec over the last few days. They have expressed that the strain on their resources is significant currently, and have asked if the Guard would be able to assist in the policing of Coruscant. I believe it would serve the GAR well to have a public presence in more than just the Senate itself, so I would like to formally request that the Coruscant Guard liaise with CorSec and assist with the more local policing requirement as well if possible Commander?”

He’s not really sure why the Chancellor is asking. A request from him is as good as an order. “Of course sir, I am sure we could work out an agreement with CorSec to assist.”

“Fantastic my dear Commander!” The Chancellor smiles again, a wide, pleased thing, and leans forward conspiratorially. “The Kaminoans promised me they were sending their very best to Coruscant and I am most pleased to say that I can see they have not let the Republic down. You will find the CorSec Chief Constable comm details in your datapad and I have arranged a meeting between your command team and theirs for tomorrow at 10.00 if that is acceptable?”

Fox nods. “Yessir.”

The Chancellor claps his hands once, then stands, the Guard who had waited at the door opening it ready. “Most excellent my dear commander, I look forward to getting reports of your hard work in the days to come! I will leave you to it now. Would it be too much to expect patrols of the Senate building to begin in the morning?”

Fox blinks, but nods. “I’m sure we can arrange something by then Sir.” He hadn’t actually realised they would need to patrol the Senate building itself. It certainly wasn’t detailed in the tasking briefing. He’d thought that fell to the Senate Guard. It won’t be particularly difficult to sort something out though, and he decides he’ll discuss it with Thorn when he gets back.

“Wonderful! Then, I shall take my leave. Good luck and welcome to the Coruscant Commander!”

Fox salutes crisply with a “Sir!”, and maintains it until the Chancellor walks out the room.

The Senate guard does not close the door behind them.

——

“Senate patrols?” Thorn frowns.

Fox nods. “The Chancellor asked that we start them tomorrow morning. Is it something we can figure out by then?”

Thorn tilts his head thoughtfully. “Well we weren’t supposed to start anything until the day after, to give us a bit of time to get set up. But I’m sure we can get together a rota for tomorrow in the first and get something more permanent in place after that.”

Fox grins and claps him on the shoulder. “I didn’t doubt you for a second Thorn. I’m happy to take one of the shifts, makes sense to get to know the layout of the place a bit better. We’ve also got a meeting with the head of CorSec tomorrow at 10.00 if you could arrange my shift around that please.”

“Makes sense to get a working relationship in place,” Thorn nods, then frowns again when Fox shakes his head. “Fox?”

“Apparently CorSec are struggling, they’re asking if we could assist them in some areas.”

“Do we know what?”

“No, the Chancellor only said they needed some help in the policing of Coruscant, and it’d be a good opportunity for the public to see the GAR out and about.” Fox shrugs. “It makes sense in a way. An army settling on the planet must be pretty unnerving for a lot of people. Interacting with the citizens might help ease any tensions.”

Thorn’s still frowning, and Fox can understand why. “What about our own remit?”

“We haven’t been given that many taskings so far. Mainly security at the spaceports. It’ll give us something to keep people busy at least. No clone likes sitting around for too long.”

Thorn nods thoughtfully. “Fair point. I’ll comm Stone and we can get a plan sorted for tomorrow in the first. Late shift suit you in that case? I’ll probably give myself and Stone a shift as well.”

Fox smiles. “Sounds good to me Thorn, thank you.”

——

There’s messages in the command chat when Fox reviews his datapads that evening. Most fleets have their Jedi generals now, and several of the commanders are gushing about their Jedi performing inhuman feats of wonder. Fox can admit to himself he’s a little bit jealous. He relays his meeting with the chancellor, which the others are impressed with, asking what the man’s like. They make pleased comments when Fox says he seems kind and warm, but the conversation quickly shifts away to the far more exciting tales of force tricks and lightsaber training the others have to talk about.

Wolffe messages him privately, asking about how they’re settling in and whether Fox has gotten to try any natborn food yet. Fox laughingly tells him that he’s already got shifts lined up and meetings with various officials and honestly hadn’t even had the chance to consider exploring the city itself yet. Wolffe is gruffly disappointed on his behalf, and Fox asks him about his own Jedi instead.

He can feel the wary intrigue in Wolffe’s description of the Kel Dor Jedi, his comments about how General Koon had already insisted they simply call him “Plo”, and Wolffe had horrifiedly told him he couldn’t possibly disrespect him like that. Fox laughs when Wolffe just replies “No” to his suggestion he should give it a try. They talk a little bit longer, before Wolffe advises they’re due for a hyperspace jump shortly so he’ll be out of touch for a while. Fox sends him off with a good luck, and a promise to describe in lengthy and full detail any natborn food he gets the opportunity to try in the meantime.

——

They walk out of the meeting with the CorSec officials frustrated and confused. They’re professional, and don’t discuss it until they get back to the office, careful to give polite nods and greetings to anyone they pass. The moment the door closes behind them, Thorn pulls off his helmet. “What the hell was that?”

Fox pulls of his own helmet and runs a hand over his hair, frowning in confusion. “I’m honestly not entirely sure.”

Stone snorts. “Felt an awful lot like they were trying to get us to takeover the majority of their job quite frankly.”

Thorn nods, leaning his hip against his desk and pointing at Stone. “Exactly! I thought we’d maybe be asked to do some patrols, maybe some back up for dangerous operations. Not take on cases and investigations! We’re not exactly trained for that.”

Fox hums and goes to sit behind his own desk, grabbing a few datapads he remembers relate to their remit agreement. “No, we’re not. And they were weirdly insistent that the Chancellor would sign off on any requests they make of us. Surely he wouldn’t want us to take on roles we’re not designed for? It doesn’t make much sense.”

Stone shrugs. “Perhaps they didn’t tell him how much they were going to request of us?”

“Maybe,” Thorn says, but his expression is sceptical. “But he’s also got us doing the Senate patrols which we weren’t expecting either.”

“I’ll speak with the Chancellor,” Fox decides, standing up and grabbing his helmet. “It doesn’t make much sense for us to take over casework from CorSec, we’re not actually a police force.” Stone and Thorn glance at each other. Thorn’s clearly not convinced, while Stone appears calm and unflappable, in the way Fox is beginning to realise he just is. “In the meantime, we can certainly draw up some plans for patrol shifts and patterns at the least. Could I leave that with you two please?”

Thorn and Stone nod, already moving off to their own desks as Fox leaves the office, pulling his helmet back on and holding the datapads with their taskings against his hip.

The secretary at the desk outside the Chancellor’s office politely gives her name as “Enora”, before advising him that the Chancellor is currently in a meeting, but he is welcome to wait and she will see if the Chancellor can squeeze him in afterwards. Fox has a couple of hours before his late shift begins, and she assures him the meeting should only last a few minutes more, so he takes a seat on one of the chairs in the tasteful waiting area, and reviews the Coruscant guard briefing in the meantime. The briefing is very clear that they are there as a standing army, there in case the Separatist forces ever manage to make their way to Coruscant, and to deal with military affairs such as disciplinary matters and the movement of forces on and off planet. There’s a clause at the very end that advises the Chancellor may direct them in other tasks as necessary, and Fox gets the sinking feeling that this phrase is about to come back to bite them.

It’s not long before several people filter out of the Chancellor’s office, all talking happily amongst themselves, not appearing to notice the trooper stood at attention in the waiting area. They move off in clumps, a pleased air about them, as the secretary briefly pops into the office, before coming out and waving Fox in.

“Ah, my dear Commander! How is the Guard settling in, my boy?”

Fox marches to the desk and snaps a smart salute. “Sir! All troops are settled in and the base is nearly fully fortified. Sync has advised the security system will be complete in the next rotation.”

“Marvellous Commander, so efficiently done!” the Chancellor beams at him, and Fox feels pride in his siblings. “I am most pleased to hear the Guard are settling in so well! Now, is there something I can help you with my boy?”

Fox settles into parade rest, hands clasped around the datapads in the small of his back. “Sir, I wanted to confirm with yourself that you have been briefed on exactly what CorSec would like us to assist them with?”

The Chancellor blinks at him. “Whatever do you mean, Commander?”

“They have requested we assist with casefiles and investigations sir. While we can assist with these if required, we are not trained in policing investigations and filework. It seemed more prudent to offer our services in regards to patrols and back up if required sir.”

The Chancellor leans back in his chair, hands coming up to twist together under his chin. “I’m sure your men would be quite capable of assisting with whatever is requested of them Commander, is that not so?”

Fox is glad he has his helmet on, it covers the small expression of disappointment he wasn’t quite able to keep from his face. He’d truly thought CorSec were overreaching their request to the Chancellor, not that the Chancellor might have already agreed this course of action. He takes a second to think, then responds. “The troops will absolutely be capable of anything put to them sir, but wouldn’t it make more sense to use us in the areas we have been trained in, thus freeing up CorSec to focus on what they have been trained to do?”

The Chancellor’s eyes bore into his, even through the visor, and Fox finds himself wanting to shift nervously. The kind, warm expression on his face has chilled, something unyielding hardening the lines between his eyes now. “Commander, I am disappointed. I expected you to jump on this opportunity to prove the resourcefulness and ingenuity of your men. Are you saying you do not feel they are able to take on this task?”

There’s a trickle of sweat at the base of Fox’s neck, and the sound of a Kaminoan blandly labelling a clone defective in his ear. “No sir,” he answers, realising this is not a discussion, and he does not have an option here. “The Guard will rise to the challenge and exceed it sir.”

“Good! Good!” The Chancellor cries, clapping his hands once and beaming at Fox. The hostile chill in the air disappears at all once, and Fox finds himself struggling not to gasp. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me Commander! A moment of nervousness in your new role I imagine? Not to worry about it, being the Marshall Commander of the Coruscant guard is an important position after all!”

Fox nods, something curdling in his stomach. He’s unsettled, far more than he should be. He struggles to find his center again, in a way he’s never struggled before, and it takes a moment to drag his thoughts back together again. “Thank you for your understanding sir,” he manages to drag out, voice strangely hoarse. “May I ask that we have a week before we take on the CorSec duties.” He hastens to explain at the Chancellor’s raised eyebrow. “Only to allow the troopers selected for it to have time to study what’s required for the investigations and casework sir. I want them to be able to take over efficiently and competently sir.”

The Chancellor hums slightly, and Fox holds his breath for a second, before the man nods. “That seems most reasonable my dear Commander. I will advise CorSec to have the work ready for handover by Taungsday next week.”

Fox inclines his head gratefully. “Thank you sir, we will not let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t, my dear boy,” The Chancellor smiles at him benevolently. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I have another meeting in 10 minutes, but it has been a most productive and enlightening discussion Commander.”

Fox salutes with a “Sir!” and turns smartly on his heel to leave.

——

Thorn’s less than impressed, and is not shy about making it clear. “Does he not get that we’re soldiers? Not fucking police officers!”

Fox pinches the bridge of his nose, and Stone snorts beside him. Fox glares over at him and Stone shrugs. “He’s not wrong Fox.” Fox rolls his eyes as Stone smiles at him.

“Unfortunately, we’re going to have to figure out how to be. The Chancellor was very clear. It’ll be one of our duties from now on. Thorn, get together a plan of who may be best suited in the first and start them on whatever modules we can find on investigations and casework. Stone, liaise with CorSec and see if we can get a heads up on what cases they’re going to want us to take over. I’ll contact Kamino and see if there’s any flash-training they can offer us.”

Both Commanders salute smartly, before moving to their own desks. Fox turns to the last desk, fighting not to glare at Hound, who’s currently chuckling away while leaning back in his chair. “Something to add Hound?”

“Nah, just glad I only have to deal with being shat on by Massifs.”

Fox groans, as Thorn barks a laugh and Stone covers his smirk with his hand.

——

Alpha-17 is indignant on his behalf when he makes the request, but grudgingly admits there’s not much he can do when the Chancellor himself has dictated the work. It’s not like they can disobey, and Fox has already made his argument and been shot down. 17 agrees to speak to the Kaminoans and see if there’s any flash-training that can be sent their way urgently, and Fox is reassured by the man’s rolled eyes and comments that they’ll probably end up teaching CorSec a thing or two by the time they’re done.

Thorn has three squads put together to start the training, and has them working on it by the end of the day. He’s adjusted rotas for the various patrols and front door duties as well, making it so those squads can focus on getting up to speed as quickly as possible. Fox is more and more glad of Thorn’s assignment to the Guard every day. The man is efficient and brilliant, identifying issues and working to resolve them without any input at all. He can see why he was selected for the Guard, and is unsurprised when he looks through his file to see he scored exceptionally well on all modules.

Stone is also an excellent commander. He brings a certain calm and solidness to the role that balances both Fox and Thorn. Fox can see Alpha-17’s hand in his posting, and confirms it when chatting to his commanders one evening. Stone laughingly tells him 17 was a complete arsehole and wouldn’t stop working him to the bone at every possible second, but Fox can see the fond quirk to his grin, and suspects Stone was one of the Alpha’s favourites. He’s resilient and flexible, bending with the currents of the work, yet remaining firm in the face of any adversity.

Fox is glad to have them both beside him.

Hound is slightly more estranged from them at first. He’s focused on the Massif squad, and doesn’t really play into the running of the rest of the battallion. Fox knows he’d been working closely with Thorn on the rotas though, ensuring that any patrols have massif support, while also retaining a few at the base for any emergencies that came in. Fox briefly wonders if a divide may form between Hound and the other commanders, and considers what he might need to do to bridge it, but Hound quickly sweeps that notion away. He strides into the Commander’s office in the Senate one day in that first week, plonks himself down at the last desk in the room, and asks if they’d given any consideration to inter-team sessions to integrate everyone together. That leads into a long discussion, all of the commanders figuring out ways to train and work the different specialities together, and Hound has firmly planted himself in the Command team by the end of it.

Fox will admit to being glad of it, Hound brings his Massif, a slobbering, gleeful girl called Grizzer with him to meetings after that, and none of them can quite resist scratching her under her chin when she makes her rounds of the room.

The agreed upon week passes, and they begin to take on some of CorSec’s work. Fox had insisted on being part of the teams training to take over investigations, as well as being part of patrols. He fully believes that he should take part in anything he is asking his men to do, and sits right alongside them at the flashtraining machines to pound as much knowledge into his brain as quickly as possible. He enjoys it, to be fair, has always loved learning new things and challenging himself. Thorn is less thrilled with the sudden change in role, but does join them at times. He’s not put himself on the first wave, having taken on the role of rostering and planning and needing to focus on those in the first. But despite his grumbles about taking on work they aren’t designed for, Fox catches him avidly reading through a training package. He has a sneaking suspicion Thorn will wind up on the CorSec duties more often than any of the other commanders.

Bones just laughs at all of them, and organises his Infirmary to perfection. His medics are drilling on a daily basis, Bones keeping them on a strict schedule of training in various field and life-saving techniques. He’s also discussed with Fox about expanding their knowledge. They’re out from the immediate eye of Kamino now, and Bones has been doing research into the general populus of Coruscant. None of them had really known mental health aid had existed, beyond reconditioning if behaviour became too intolerable to the trainers. It’s a difficult discussion, all of them feeling uncomfortable with the premise, eyes darting about for cameras and freezing at any noise that might be a Kaminoan walking by. Bones continues blithely on through it all, making it clear that he will be looking into this, and if he can use it to prevent any reconditionings from happening, then all the better.

Fox is inordinately proud of all of them. Alpha-17 sends him a short message at the end of the first week, a simple “Exceeding performance expectations”, and all of them hoot and holler and knock heads together in the command bunkroom, full of excitement. Fox goes to sleep that night with warmth in his chest and hope in his head.

——

The first month goes smoothly. They’ve picked up the work from CorSec with ease, finding that all the training and enhancements from the Kaminoans have made them surprisingly suited for the roles of policing a population. Within the first two weeks, Fox and his investigation team are accepting commendations from the Chancellor for shutting down a spice gang that had settled into the underbelly of Coruscant. Rhys gets special recognition from the Chancellor, after having taken a blaster bolt to the left leg and still chasing after and catching one of the major nominals. Fox had stood proudly beside him, banging a fist to his chest when the Chancellor pinned the magnetised medal to Rhys’ chestplate.

They hold their own celebration in the base that night, telling stories of their feats and being embraced by brothers on all sides. The Senate have gifted them an alcoholic beverage called “beer”, and those not on duty quickly find themselves enjoying it. Fox sits, shoulders pressed against Rhy’s and Thorn’s, and smiles at every brother who meets his eyes.

He wakes the next morning with an aching head and a queezy stomach, but it’s totally worth it.

The day after that, the Chancellor has another gift delivered to their base. The crates come with a note, and Fox reads it as Grizzer sniffs around them, lead by an intrigued-looking Hound.

“For the men’s armour. Red to represent the Senate. My congratulations, and sincerest gratitude for all your efforts.”

Fox hands the note to Thorn, and goes to open one of the crates once Hound gives the all-clear. He has a sneaking suspicion as to what will be in the crates, has seen pictures in the command chat of Cody’s sunbeams, and Gree’s olive green stripes. He’s pleased to see he’s right when he opens the crate, tubs of paint and packets of paintbrushes stacked inside.

Thorn leans over next to him, and smacks a hand to Fox’s shoulder in delight. “There’s enough here for everyone to get creative and then some!”

Fox grins at him. “Bet half the brothers already have their designs picked out.”

Thorn laughs. “If you think it’s any less than all of them then you’re stupider than I thought Fox!” And promptly ducks out of the way of Fox’s mock-offended punch to his arm.

They make a celebration of it. As many people as can fit gather in the canteen, tables and benches shoved to the side as everyone finds themselves space on the floor. Paintbrushes and paint gets handed out, and the atmosphere is joyful as brothers get to painting. Fox, Stone, Thorn, Hound and Bones have all adjusted their work schedule to ensure they’re here for this first sitting. They’re all gathered together in a group in the middle. Rhys is nearby, as well as a few other brothers that have become close to the command team. Bones has a cheerful medic named Felix sat with him, the pair of them bent over their pauldrons together, carefully lining out the medic’s symbol and quietly talking. Hound has Lexie and Mass, who’d argued for his name to be Massif, and promptly found himself nicknamed Mass instead. They’re using a lot of jagged lines, and Fox wonders if their armour will look as intimidating as the Massif’s themselves when in work mode.

Thorn has a captain named Thire sat with him. Thire had barely been old enough for deployment when they’d left Kamino. Fox has carefully avoided looking at his file, as 17 had blithely ignored him when he’d mentioned Thire having not been in the training squads he’d seen. He and Thorn have become fast-friends, and Thire has been proving himself invaluable as a Captain. Fox has already started considering whether there may be scope for another command position, and how he can promote Thire into it. Thorn had glared at him when he’d mentioned the possibility of another command role in passing, and promptly told him that if he wasn’t considering Thire for it, that he and Fox would be having words. Fox had simply blinked at him, while Stone had snorted at his desk. Thorn had rolled his eyes at the pair of them and gone back to scheduling out the senatorial meetings for the week ahead.

Stone doesn’t have anyone specific, but there’s a whole horde of people who had moved to sit in his vicinity when he’d chosen his spot. Stone has no favourites, but everyone is fond of him. He’s turned to a couple of troopers next to him, complimenting them on their designs and discussing what they mean with them. Both troopers, Lyle and Brands, Fox notes, wear happy smiles and talk effusively with Stone.

Fox is quiet for a while, just observing, He’s yet to put paint to his own armour, too content to sit in the feeling of family around him right now. All these brothers, his brothers, sat together and painting their armour in designs of their choosing, smiling and laughing and talking together, none of them worrying about a trainer coming round the corner, a longneck spying them on the cameras, a punishment in the wings.

Fox breaths, and looking down, begins to paint the emblem of Corsucant on his left pauldron. It’s everything he’d hoped for, and more.

#star wars #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #commander fox #coruscant guard #my fanfiction #star wars prequels #star wars fanfiction #cc 1010

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blackkatmagic · 8 months

Note

So which blorbo is currently commanding your attention?

Feral is dead. He’s broken. And then he’s not.

He gasps back to life under the touch of a warm hand, an ache in his bones and a desperate sort of coldness threaded through his veins, nails scraping stone and head spinning. Above him, there's a shadow, gold, and a wash of red like a crimson sunrise that burns itself into his heart.

“Easy,” a voice says, rough but amused. “I only just fixed that.”

That is Feral’s throat. That is Feral’s spine, crushed under Savage’s hand, snapped like nothing of the past meant anything any longer, and Feral shudders, hands rising, pressing against cool skin. He’s so cold, cold like he’ll never get warm again, and half of that is fear, fear like a knot in his chest that tightens with each beat of his hearts.

Not all of it, though. Half of it is something else entirely.

The hand on his back is a brand, a beacon. Fingers slide up, curl around the back of his neck as he coughs, a brace, and the man says, “Just breathe slowly. You’re all right.”

Feral shouldn’t be. He was dead. Savage killed him.

“You—who are you?” he manages, pushing up. The hand lightens to let him, but it doesn’t move, and he looks up into gleaming gold, that burning red like a star so close it’s blinding.

The man is older, hair greying, eyes dark. Human, or something close, with lines in his face and worn scars, but—

The scars shine subtly gold, unsettling and eerie, and Feral goes still at the sight of them. Like facing a much larger predator out in the swamps, there’s a prickle down his spine, a wash of adrenaline that sharpens and settles the world, and he stares up at the man as he smiles.

Fingers slide into his horns, tug his head back. The man studies his throat like he’s surveying his work, assessing the repaired bone, and then he drags a finger over Feral’s skull, smile sinking into something dangerous.

“I'm the new Sith Emperor,” the man says. His eyes are drowning-dark, and Feral can't breathe beneath the weight of them, the press of intent and heavy power that makes Mother Talzin's feel like a bare shadow. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

Feral swallows. Sith Emperor, he thinks. That’s—alarming. There isn't a Sith Empire to be Emperor of, but—

The man looks like an emperor. He feels like it, heavy and burning in all of Feral’s senses, with a presence that takes up all the air around him. He’s carrying a lightsaber, too, a brilliant red blade that washes light through the twisted trees around them.

The Nightsisters must have dumped Feral’s body outside the temple, left him for the predators in the swamp. That’s what they always do with the men of the tribe. Only Nightsisters get burial in the Grave Thorns.

Feral shivers, pushes up. His bones hurt, burn with a cold that feels impossible given Dathomir’s heat, but he grits his teeth, and when the man offers him a hand, he pauses.

“It’s all right,” the man—the Emperor—says. “You're mine now. I'm not going to do anything to hurt you.”

Feral can't help but put a hand up, to where his neck was broken just a moment ago. He can still feel Savage’s hand there, but—there's something else, too. A single line of heat against the chill inside of him, like a shining fracture that’s sealed itself over with gold.

There's a sunburst on the man’s jacket, a patch right over his heart. It shines orange-gold, metallic and bright, and Feral can't seem to take his eyes off of it. He stares, hesitates—

When he slides his hand into the man’s, the man grips tightly, pulls him to his feet with ease. In the pre-dawn darkness, the curved scar around his left eye catches the light and shines in the same way as the sunburst, the same way as a dozen old scars littered across the man’s hands as he tugs Feral close, and there's nothing in Feral that has the will to pull away.

“Come on,” the Emperor says, and smiles. “I've been needing a knight of my own. You’ll do.”

#my writing #nothing gold can stay #codyferal

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songofthesibyl · 14 days

Text

The Rite of Spring

A Tamlin POV of his first Calan Mai as High Lord. Note that while there is nothing explicit, this does focus on the darker aspects of Calan Mai.

He had felt it increasing, for weeks. In a land, a Court, of ever-increase, it had seemed impossible. Instead of movement, everything was always in a sort of stasis, blossoms opening in suspended animation. When he had become High Lord, everything had been waning in the world, and there was a break, a tear in the fabric of the Court, he had run through in a kind of madness—he hardly remembered those first few weeks, but for the blood and dirt under his nails, in his mouth. He had not even known what he had hurt, who he had killed, after Rhys’ father. All the blood, all the skin, all the smoke, melded together, as all of his forms melded together into one Beast. His honed strength over the years rising above, a mighty oak. And his powerful jaws—he could bite through anything, tear through anything. His entire Court he had torn through.

You have to start slow, he had said. Worship them. Gentle caresses. And your tongue…

His new form was not meant for that. Violent, jerky movements, stomping across the earth, digging in with claws while the thorns bit back. Retracted, then sank in again.

The blood dripping from his mouth. He had torn out his throat. Then the smoke in his nose, dulling his senses. And a wild running through the wood. He had not thought he would do this. He had not thought he would ever have to do this. And the world had been waning, and so he had thought he could rest, and the height of it at Solstice, the great suspension low in the sky, but it was not the hibernation of animals—like the bat. As soon as it stopped it began—the rising, and the ever-increase, and he had felt it ever since, his temperature rising, and his heart beginning to race. Subtly at first, and unnoticeable in its increase, like the sun, but then in dramatic bursts, a palpitation. He had not noticed when a week passed, or a month. And he had observed Nynsar, and knew there were only six weeks left. And the increase got faster and faster, the suspended animation a sudden rush of blossoms, of rising stalks and unfurling petals, that he had thought he understood, but nothing like the thorns that had pierced his body and dragged him down and his heartbeat the pounding of his paws on the dirt, and breaking it up as he was dragged under. When he became a part of it forever. As it sucked the blood from him, that he could taste as he ran his tongue over his teeth, and the canines retracting, then lengthening, then retracting again.

Slow at first, he had said. And then you go faster.

Now his heart raced, and it was the height—the suspension again, but it was the quickening too, the ever-increasing, over and over. He had not been told it would be like this. No one had told him. Everyone’s couplings added to the increase, the energy multiplying, but he had not felt it before. He had stayed far away from the cave. He could hear the screams, he could hear her screams, he could not do it. He had stayed far away, in his bedroom, hands over his ears, and only the drums rattling the foundations beneath him. But he was not connected. It was all so far away then.

And now it was here. He looked out wildly, only a loincloth covering him, that he had insisted on, though there had been giggles, and Ianthe tut-tutting him. She had been so good in these first few months of his reign. He trusted her. But everything was starting to become shapeless, and vague. They had not said it started days before. They had not said it would be slow, and then fast, and that before he knew it, it would be here.

“Milady…he keeps shaking.”

Two priestesses held their brushes, in suspended animation, as the paint, slick and slimy and blue-black, was drying, caking like mud in matted fur. Smudging as the sweat poured from his body, as if willing the paint away, as if rejecting it, rejecting this.

“Tamlin,” Ianthe said, sighing. “We have been preparing for this day for weeks. Every step. It is…overwhelming, this magic. The magic that ties you to this land. I know you have struggled to adjust. My offer is still open…”

That she could be his first. So he would know.

“No…” He shook his head. “We’re…friends.”

“Which is exactly why I offer.”

“No.”

She nodded in acquiescence. “Very well.”

“He won’t stay still…”

“It is but one night. You do this for your land. Your people. Your magic binds you to this land…”

She kept on sermonizing. He had heard this many times. From her, in books. He knew everything about it that she might know. And more, that she would never understand.

“As High Lord, it is your obligation…”

Yes, he was bound to the land. As High Lord. Bound. They held him, their hands were on him, the brush against his skin. His eyes blazed. He had to hold in himself, who wanted to defend. He was predator, and prey.

Blue-black swirls on his skin.

“The land will wither….”

Every bit of energy to hold them in, his claws, and his fangs, and the fur to cover himself. He strained with the effort. And they kept coming at him, dabbing his forehead, around his eyes, using magic, soothing. Brushing over his skin like a glaze over a stuck pig.

“You won’t even be aware, mostly. You will enter the cave with your chosen—“

He suddenly became aware of himself. “My chosen?”

She pressed her lips together.

“The Maiden. She has chosen the regeneration, the abundance of the land, too. As I said, I am perfectly willing—“

“I said no.”

“Do not feel guilty. It is sweet of you to care. But this is the way it is, in every Court. Night as well…”

He glared at her, but she avoided his gaze.

“It is the way it has always been. The way it will always be.”

Until there was a head rolling on the ground, and brains leaking out of skulls, and blood in his mouth. Until there was a tearing in him, until he scattered in every direction, until the Cauldron broke in pieces, until the very foundations of the earth were torn asunder, and the seas flooded in.

They dabbed at his sweat, and reapplied. Ianthe sighed again.

And suddenly he became very still. He was naked, and crouched on the dirt, and his eyes were closed. And they all left him alone. And then her robe over him.

And Ianthe sighed again, with contentment this time, with relief. And he felt a coolness. And his skin was suddenly very far away from him. It was not his at all.

“You are a good male. You will be a good High Lord. You care for your people.”

“Yes.”

“In doing this you will reassure them, you will feed them, you will guarantee their livelihoods for the year to come.”

“Yes.”

“You show how you care for them.”

“Yes.”

“It is a good thing you are doing.”

“Yes.”

“And at the Tithe at the beginning of the year, they will return it to you. They will give thanks. It will be an exchange. You and your people.”

“Yes.”

Yes.

And the screaming. And how good it had felt, and how good he had made her feel.

It’s so easy to make you blush. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s all natural.

“And it won’t hurt her?”

She demurred. “It won’t be her completely. And it won’t be you.”

“You said I would be aware. I read—“

“Yes. To an extent. That’s how it takes your preference into account. To make sure it is as successful—as fruitful—as possible.

“Will I…impregnate her?”

“You impregnate the land, Tamlin. Remember? This is a magical act. This sacrifice. On both your parts. It regenerates the land.”

The priestesses wiped their own brows, standing back. He felt it drying. Someone’s skin, somewhere.

“Thank you,” she said. “That will be all.”

They curtsied to her, and left. She moved closer to him.

“Magnificent. You will make a fine Hunter.”

I don’t want you throwing your life away at those camps. You were meant for so much more.

“I…of course, cannot fully understand, I admit that. I’m sure it must feel…scary. But once you do it, that will be it for the year. You have felt it increasing, haven’t you?”

“…Yes.” He could not deny it.

“Over time, you will have control. It will not seem so daunting.”

Over years. Decades. Centuries. More. He could get used to anything, he was sure.

“I promise you, Tamlin. It will get easier. And then, you can rest. The ease of summer…but this is the Spring Court. The energies—even if they are in every Court. They are never as heightened as in their home.”

“Yes.”

She had arranged everything for him. He hadn’t known what to do. But there it was, outside, as the sun dipped below, and the fire spread, and his Court caught. He could smell it. The burning. She had shown him the preparations. He trusted her. He did. The pelt on the ground, and hawthorn branches and the oak, and the ivy. And feasting, and where they would line up on either side, waiting, watching, smelling, knowing the time. When it happened.

You won’t even know, she had said, in reassurance. It won’t be you walking into the cave. And you’ll be deep inside. They won’t be able to see. But they’ll know. And once it’s done, they can…add to the Rite. Strengthen it. And you can rest.

Ianthe stayed with him until the paint dried. And then left the room, waiting while he dressed himself. He couldn’t bear to look at his skin. At his hands, and what they would do.

My sweet boy.

You know I can’t just stay here, writing poems and playing the fiddle.

It was his punishment. He understood. An eternity of this, until they came for him. Until the end of time. He strapped on his bandolier. The last piece of himself remaining. And the reminder of why he was here, forever attached to him.

He set out, as he had that night. His heart began to slow. And he realized—it was not the height of life. Of fertility. He was dying. The drumbeats were his heart, straining against it, feeling it, resisting it. But he had long known he was only a killer. It had been revealed that night. And the wings burning.

No escape now.

An eternity of this.

The drums pounded in his head. Underneath his feet. It was the breaking up of the earth. It was the violence. He was its violence, incarnate. He understood that now.

They looked to him, and he looked back, the lights and sounds blurring. Ianthe sermonizing. One of them was the Maiden. And he would sink his claws in her, and it would all start over again.

But there was no stopping it now. The drums led him on, they beckoned, they commanded. Luring him, he realized.

As if in a trap. As if he were Hunter—and hunted.

His heart struggled fiercely. He was a deer, shot with an arrow. Struggling to get up on thin legs. Wobbly, straining, crying out helplessly. Until the struggle finally stopped. It was here, white, its antlers forever growing, piercing him, digging in, there was no escape.

It had felt good, when they had praised his fighting skills. How obedient, and hard-working he was at the camps. Humble. None of the airs of being a High Lord’s son. Not like his brothers. He had embraced it. Being one of them. It wasn’t the life he would have chosen. But he could live with it. And they laughed around the campfire, and he would make a good warrior some day. Ianthe’s father had been one of his training officers. Had marveled at his skill with the blades.

He had been instructed in everything to do.

And he took the knife, and easily slit the animal’s throat, as its antlers gored him. And he realized it was him who was bleeding, who was dying. The drums were far in the distance. He clutched at himself, but it was not his hand. This one was covered in paint, and it held a knife, while he was on knobby knees, shaking. Everything blurred. He could not feel the drumbeats against the earth anymore. He could not breathe. He fell to the earth, crouching in the dirt, as his heart slowed, and the sound of it got fainter in his ears. Until he could hear nothing, and see nothing, anymore. And he realized he was dead.

When he woke up, he was still hard.

Everything was sore, and his head ached, and heart raced, and his skin was covered in sweat. He had nothing on, he realized, and sat up, holding out his hands. The paint had smeared—he looked down at himself—it was smeared everywhere. Everything was swirling, his heart pounded—he got up, falling to the floor immediately in a heap of disconnected limbs, a baby calf. And threw up on the floor.

He felt an overwhelming sense of shame, and fear. At his hardness, at the paint smeared, at the vomit on the floor. At what his hands had done. At his nakedness. At everyone seeing what he was. He couldn’t imagine ever showing himself to his Court again.

But they would come for him, and they could not see him like this. He breathed in, and out. The magic, he realized, was still there. He still felt it inside him. He smacked his lips, and sucked on his tongue. His mouth was dry. He shivered for a moment. There were flashes, of blood running down a neck, the sensation of his fangs extending. A heartbeat that was not his own.

And screaming.

He wondered what had happened to the Maiden. If he had killed her. He was so strong.

There was a moment of panic, and his heart raced anew. He had killed once that night. He knew. There was blood under his fingernails. He didn’t recognize the taste in his mouth.

He forced himself up, finally seeing the fresh set of clothes laid out for him. He rolled his eyes. A white blouse, and green pants. Dressy, and casual, and festive. A sign that the day would be gentler now. Young females would collect dew upon the sun’s wakening, and weave flower crowns. Feast on honeycomb and lemon cakes. Drink strawberry wine. Have picnics on the grass. Celebrate everything that was Spring. When the girls grew up, they would be lining up at the cave too. He couldn’t picture who he had chosen—no. Not him. He stood still for a moment, leaning against the chest of drawers, trying to concentrate—but whenever he did, the effort made him nauseous again. He could feel him fighting against himself. And he let go, everything turning hazy again.

He realized he really didn’t want to remember.

It was a defeat, to cede that night to whatever had taken hold of him, to accept that it had. But it was all he could do. He covered the vomit with the blouse, and noticed in the bathroom that a bath had been drawn for him, kept heated. Ianthe knew he would want to be alone for a bit.

It still bothered him somewhat that he didn’t remember getting back. All the things he could have done along the way. He wondered if Ianthe had helped him back, if he had been too out of it.

He walked to the windows, the sunlight struggling to get in, and opened a curtain to allow in only a sliver. It was brilliantly sunny, and warm. He could feel the joy, and ease of his people across the rolling landscapes, and meadows, and glens. He could feel it in himself, too, as much as he hated to admit it. The sun shone too brightly in his eyes, and he hated it for imposing itself so boldly on his vision, exposing his nakedness, when he longed to remain hidden. But there was no denying what he was. And he could not help but feel relief at the caress of the warmth against his skin, entering through his hand as he placed it against the window.

The bath.

He remembered, letting go of the curtain, and went into the bathroom, closing the door and sliding into the tub. The warmth of the water enveloped him, and he let out a sigh of relief, his muscles loosening, melting. It was medicinal—he could smell the herbs—rosemary, lemon balm and mint, lavender and cedar. Rose petals floated on top, swimming around him.

He dipped his head underneath, wondering for a moment how long he could stay under—how long it would take for it all to stop. But some instinct—his own buoyancy—drew him back up. When his head emerged, he noticed the bath water—it had turned black, the blue tones almost completely obscured. He stood up, and looked at his body, his hair sticking to his neck and chest—all the paint was gone. He stepped out—not a speck of paint was on him. The healing, purifying magic of the bath had done its work. The night had been washed from him. He shook the water from his hair, and dried his body, and put on his usual tunic and pants. He fumbled around for his bandolier, momentarily panicking until he found it again and put it on. No knives, though.

He looked around the room. The paint remained on the floor, his bed. It could never be removed completely, the stain from him. But it was over, and he felt the relief anew as he left his room. The pull of the earth had lessened somewhat. It would soon ease into the slow days of summer. But there would never be a longer time until he would have to endure another night like Fire Night, than today. And he stepped more lightly—almost with a sort of happiness, or whatever approaching it he imagined he could feel now—into the halls, down to the dining room. Ianthe was waiting, standing as he entered. And the shame was oily-slick on the back of his neck again, as if that was the one place the bath didn’t reach. He rubbed it with his hand, hailing her with a grunt.

“Tamlin,” she said warmly, smiling.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. I know you have to return to the Temple.” He realized he was avoiding her eyes.

“Not at all. I’m here for you.”

“It’s almost noon, though.”

“You had a long night. Sit. Eat something.”

He was hungry. He looked down at the feast laid out before him—breads and cakes, eggs and bacon, berries with cream, fresh greens—disinterestedly, though, and only nibbled on some dandelion salad as she spoke.

“How are you feeling?”

“The bath you drew for me was nice. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“My room—“

“It will be taken care of, Tamlin. Don’t worry. We are all here for you.”

“What about…” He hesitated. “The female…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“She is back home. We will honor her at the Temple later today.”

“Is she…”

“She had no complaints.” She grinned. The look he gave her made her stifle it, though, and she cleared her throat. “You were good to her. She told me you asked if she was alright after. If it hurt. I thought that was very sweet.”

“I…I don’t remember saying that. I thought I was…it wasn’t me.”

“As I said, there is some awareness. In time, you may be able to retain more.”

He didn’t think he’d want to. The lightness of a moment ago began to fade in her presence. He was sinking down again.

“I don’t remember getting back here.”

“You walked. You wouldn’t let anyone help you.”

He had been naked when he woke up. He shivered. All the warmth had left him.

“Here.” She got up, and poured him a cup of tea. It seemed so fragile in his hand. He couldn’t imagine that he hadn’t hurt the female. He didn’t even think about what she had done to him, where she had touched. The paint was smeared everywhere. But his body wasn’t his own. Not anymore. He had to remember that.

“Tamlin,” she repeated gently, and he looked at her. “You have done your duty. Now you can spend the day relaxing, knowing your people will be fed for another year.”

And it would be returned in the Tithe. It was an exchange, you see. A give and take. You and the land. Your people and you.

She had no complaints.

“Over time,” she went on. “You will find your mate. I am sure of it. Your perfect match. Your equal in every way.”

He grabbed a honey cake, biting into it, letting the sweetness fill his mouth before he swallowed it.

“…And then you won’t have to worry about who the Maiden will be. It will be your mate. Just as it was with your father.”

“Yes,” he said, staring blankly at the abundance of food laid out before them. “Just like my father.”

@tamlinweek 2024 Day Four: Calan Mai

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin #acotar

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justanotherrpmeme · 7 months

Text

Hatred starters

"Every time they speak, it's like nails on a chalkboard."

"I've never met someone so infuriating."

"I don't understand how you can hate them so much."

"Trust me, if you knew what they've done, you'd hate them too."

"I can't believe we're stuck dealing with them again."

"Just the thought of being in their presence makes my blood boil."

"I can't even look at them without feeling rage."

"They've caused so much pain, it's hard not to feel the hatred."

"I've never hated someone as much as I hate them."

"They bring out the worst in everyone."

"I try to avoid them at all costs. I can't bear their company."

"Spending time with them is a torture in itself."

"I hate how they act like they're better than everyone else."

"It's all a facade. Deep down, they're just as flawed as the rest of us."

"I wish I could erase them from my life completely."

"They're a constant thorn in my side."

"They bring out the worst in me. I can't control my anger around them."

"Don't let their presence consume you. Rise above their toxicity."

"It's hard to believe they're capable of any goodness."

"I've seen their true colors. Beneath that façade lies pure malice."

"I hate that they have so much power over us."

"Remember, we have the power to rise above and not let their hatred consume us."

"I despise everything they stand for."

"Their values are twisted. It's no wonder we clash with them at every turn."

"I can't even stand the sight of their face."

"They're a constant reminder of everything wrong with the world."

"I never thought I could hate someone so intensely."

#rp starter #sentence meme #starter meme #inbox meme #sentence starters

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smolvenger · 6 months

Text

A Court of Mischief and Purpose Chapter Nine (Loki x fem! Reader Series, A Court of Thorns and Roses Hiddlesverse AU)

Series Summary: Sarah J Maas's A Court of Thorns and Roses series reimagined with Tom Hiddleston's various characters- Especially the events in the second book: A Court of Mist and Fury. England. 1885. You are dying of tuberculosis right before your upcoming wedding to the Lusty Vicar of Aldwinter, Will Ransome. As you lay on what could be your deathbed, the god of mischief Loki appears before you with a deal. He will heal you in time for the wedding...if you spend a week of every month with him.

Chapter Summary: The Weaver strikes. And a signal is given from Jonathan...as Stella enters the world of Asgard with you. Then, finally, the circle moves to Vanaheim to begin to locate the spellbook.

Chapter Word Count: 7K

Chapter Warnings: Discussions of kidnapping and attempted sexual assault and harassment, but no actual attack, and the victim gets saved. Violence and some blood. Thirst, but no smut. Jealousy. And we get some cameos from of course Crimson Peak and the characters of the Loki show!

Series Masterlist

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69

You could have pissed yourself from the way her nose tilted towards you and smiled before she ran at you again. Like a hungry cat finding an injured mouse beneath a trap. She reached her hands forward, her nails seeming like claws. Screaming at last you dodged the attack again. You ran over to another place in the room. She was quick, listening to your every move. Her white nightgown making her look all the more ghostly. Beautiful and Terrible.

The Weaver charged at you. Her eyes, free of pupils, yet at you. Her smile was already so wide, teeth bared, ready to bite into you. You narrowly dodged her yet she landed on her feet. Perhaps you could use your fire magic? No! Not in a wooden cottage! You would burn this cottage down! Blast it!

“Delicious-delicious morsel,” she grinned at you. She turned around and in a heartbeat she grabbed your wrist and arm, twisting it.

“Thomas! Thomas help!” you cried. Not caring if she could hear you.

Thomas took a step forward as if to charge, to move. The Weaver’s ears perked. She sensed him and turned his way. Where his feet fell. Her voice became softer, but her grip was tighter on you.

“Thomas…Thomas…” the Weaver pleaded. Her face pitiful. She was an excellent actress.

The baronet kept blinking rapidly. He was shaking like a leaf. The Weaver raised a dark eyebrow of hers, her voice ringing and clear. Though she could not look at Thomas, there was no doubt she was speaking to him in her gently yet mocking tone. She grinned again, baring her teeth.

“Ah…never getting your soft hands dirty, Thomas…you had…such trouble standing up to her. What a pity...Not for me.”

You had no choice. You willed a little of your fire out of your hand onto hers. She let out a scream as you ran out, away. Free from her grasp. You turned towards the door. You were going to leave immediately and-

But wait! Where was the box?!! You couldn’t leave without it! You would have failed! But if you stayed here- you were dead! And Thomas was just standing there like a statue doing nothing! What on earth was going on with him? Did it have to be entirely you?

You went around to a corner, willing yourself still. Muscles tight. A hand over your mouth to keep from making a peep. So she couldn’t hear you as she searched around. Slowly-her long black hair fell over her face as her head turned around to look.

Yes… She was blind! You could use that to your advantage! What else could you do?

You looked over at the bookshelf right next to her. She passed by it. Hands out. Ready to grab. Devour.

“Fall over,” you asked it silently.

The Bookshelf beside her fell down. It crashed down with a thud as beams came apart and books tumbled to the floor. Dust came in a puff and you could have sworn a spider scurried from there to holes beneath The Weaver jumped. You made items fall around- she followed the sound. You had to create the illusion you were moving, fleeing. Leading her away from you. but you remained still- so she would hear the commotion at the other end of the room. Then she paused calmly.

Her hand reached out. Feeling the top of a certain box under a white blanket. In a second - so quick- she reached beneath it with a free hand. To your horror, she got a knife by its handle. It was raised up, the blade ready to carve you like a roast.

“This will be perfect…now another woman is going to die under these pretty hands…and Thomas again will do nothing to stop it,” she boasted.

She hurried forward with her knife. Picking up her pace, sensing. Her nostrils flaring quietly- to smell you.

You looked over and began to scramble on the floor. You got on all fours, looking around, Trying to be quiet. Where was the box, where was it?

You willed your magic, your senses to help you.

Your senses reached out. Finding, crawling everywhere and feeling the barely open door and Thomas shutting his eyes. a square shape. Glittering- like you could already see it! The same place by the fire! Keeping an eye on her as she searched, sensing for you. You crouched over. Your feet were wide as you crawled slowly. You saw it had indeed tumbled before the crackling fireplace. You reached your arms wide-grabbing it. The texture of its sparkle grazing your palm. You set a hand down to the floor. Ready to get up. Ready to run like hell.

Then the Weaver’s foot came down and crashed on your arm. You let out a scream in pain, Your fingers loosened and released the box.

The Weaver grabbed you by your shoulders. You tried to struggle. You then tried to crawl away on the floor-to the far corner. Test be damned. But she grabbed you by your feet, twisting you- turning you. Looking up, you saw her face. Serene, calm. But with that small smile of triumph-her pupilless blue eyes wide. She held you down.

Though her hand was red with burn marks, she could still use it. raising her knife. The blade right over where your heart was. You squirmed and kicked- but she was so strong, she held you down.

You grabbed her nightgown- willing your fire to go, to move. She only smiled, the flames going over her dress as if they were merely decorations. Her face showed no pain at all.

Dear lord, this was it! This was how you died! Your mind was scrambling. Replaying memories. Thinking of impossible ways out.

You awaited then for the blade to strike, for the pain, and oblivion, for death-when-

SHLICK!

A sword went through her stomach. She gasped her mouth wide in a breathy scream. The air already leaving her mouth, her lungs. The blade over your face. The fire stopped from your hands in surprise.

You saw Thomas behind, the sword he was given thrust forward. His knuckles popped out as he held the handle. Despite the tears in his eyes, he gritted his teeth in determination. He then retreated the sword back through. A giant stain of blood in her middle. Like a puddle. It dripped down, a few drops landing on your face.

You looked at the knife in her trembling hand. Threatening to drop with its blade still forward towards you. You willed it to move, It floated in the air and then you made it toss and skitter away. You freed yourself from the grip of the Weaver and scrambled away. She then leaned over, falling into a ball of pain. Tears in her eyes.

“Thomas…Thomas please…” she pleaded.

You saw the Baronet swallow. He was in pain, but he was going to focus now. His eyes were down and away from her as he leaned down and picked up the golden box, putting it in his pocket.

Thomas helped you up as you held onto the box with your other hand

“Hurry- let’s hurry now!” he pleaded.

As the Weaver went around searching for her knife, you kept sending the junk of the cottage around to barricade her. She got up, stumbling and weak. Wheezing, trying to regain her breath. Jars broke open- the pickled limbs littering everywhere and breaking glass into shards across the floor. She got up, struggling to stand. She stepped over one and screamed so high you jumped.

You and Thomas ran for the door.

The light there was so bright, so blaring, you welcomed it. In three seconds you were both out. You slammed the door shut. Would she escape? You didn’t want to find out. You both went out of the front porch and back into the forest, letting your hands go to increase your pace.

But out from the trees hurried Loki, a dagger wielded in one hand.

“Y/N! Thomas! What’s going on? There were screams!” he cried.

You both went up to meet him. Thomas retrieved the box from his pocket and showed it to him.

“We got lucky- we did it,” Thomas replied.

“Well then! I think our job here is done!” Loki said. There was another rattling scream from the cottage. You winced, but Loki only tightened his lips.

“Can she leave?” you asked.

“Let us not discover if she yet,” Loki said before wielding a flash of golden light and transporting all of you back to Asgard.

All of you landed safely in the heart of a hallway with tall columns everywhere. You had to catch your breath, your heart still racing. Still on the high. Processing that you were alive. Safe. Successful, even. Loki gestured for the golden box, which Thomas placed in his hand.

“All right, now let’s have a look,” you said.

Loki opened it up easily. The inside was lined with silk the color of cream. Like a jewelry box. Fitting, as one of the items tucked inside had a glittering green gem. The other one was grey and dull-made of steel. They were tucked into the silken insides like any piece of jewelry.

Loki got out the duller one- a gear. It shone in its steel as if new. Fresh from a factory. He handed it to Thomas.

“The Cottage must have known you are our clever inventor,” he said. “So the other one must be for our lady.”

The other was a ring. It was carved of gold for the finger. The gem on it was an emerald that shone so bright and beautiful it would make diamonds pale in comparison. You let out a soft gasp. Loki gave it to you. You took the ring and slipped it on your finger, it fit perfectly.

“They’re pretty…but I wonder why those items? Is there a purpose to them?” you said.

Loki shrugged.

“Well, who knows? But, yes, the ring is quite pretty. What about your gear?” he turned to Thomas.

The Baronet smoothed his thumb over it.

“I think I could use it,” he answered. Though his face was still pale and his voice had a quieter tone.

“Alright- now, my curiosity was peaked. What form did the Weaver take?” Loki asked.

“A woman. A woman with long, dark hair and pale skin,” you answered.

“Oh, Sif already!?” Loki asked.

“No, I didn’t know who,” you answered. Then you gestured to Thomas.

“He got her- he saved my life, Loki. She had me and was about to get me- he stabbed her. Probably killed her. And retrieved the box! He was a hero!”

“My! We will make a warrior out of our baronet yet!” Loki replied.

Thomas stepped forward, his shoulders raising up, clutching his gear like a child clutching a toy. Then he turned up, observing Thomas’s face. His eyes softened.

“I think…I might have a guess whose form she took…it was…” Loki wondered.

“Yes. Her.” Thomas answered.

The god put a hand on his shoulder. Thomas looked so shaken- hardly the picture of a triumphant hero. So the woman’s form was someone Thomas knew. And all those things the Weaver said to him…she knew something about Thomas and this lady, whoever she was. What happened with her and Thomas to make him react like that? But his lips were quivering. Thomas was not in a state to discuss what happened.

Suddenly, there was a sound like little chimes. Loki reached into the pockets of his pants. From the opening, there was a green light that glowed so bright it lit up his face. His eyebrows shot up and from his pocket, he retrieved a pocket watch, glowing green.

“Well then!” he said with a grin.

“What is it?” you asked.

“Jonathan gave us a signal-”

“For aid or success?” you pressed.

“I will find out. Get the others in case they are needed- I will be back, don’t miss me too much,” he said as he vanished in golden light.

Word spread around the others to the circle. Jonathan gave the signal, Jonathan gave the signal! All of you hurried to the meeting room. Thomas was moving, though he still looked pale as a ghost. Robert hurried out into the main meeting room, adjusting his grey suit jacket. Hal went out to see as well, groaning as he kept a cold towel pressed to his head.

“What if..what if we all need to fight? What if they outnumber us and we all die!?” you fretted out loud.

Robert looked around, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Then Loki will appear and no doubt take us all, I hope you have your weapons read-”

The Doctor never finished the sentence.

Loki’s magic fluttered in a golden light before you all. A portal opened up. Out hurried Loki. And right after him was Jonathan, and in Jonathan’s arms- Stella. A bundle in her blue dress. Her hands were bound together with rope as they positioned around Jonathan. Her bound feet dangling over the Night Manager's arms. She had stains of tears all over her face, and her dress had dirt stains, but she was fine. And alive.

You let out a cry and ran over to them first. Jonathan held her as easily as you once held your favorite doll in your arms when you were a child. He let Stella gently go to her feet. Loki raised his hand towards the rope bindings.

“Allow me, my dear,” he offered.

With a flick of his hand, the ropes that bound her hands and feet vanished, leaving red marks across her ankles and wrists. One hand went to clutch the blue beads she wore around her neck- charms for protection, for luck. It seemed maybe they worked this time.

“Oh gods, Stella!” you cried as you grabbed her shoulders, pulling her into a hug.

“YN! YN where-where am I?” she asked, letting go to look into your face. Her face seemed a little gaunt, drained, shrunk into herself.

“You’re in Asgard!” you explained. “The very place Loki lives in!”

Her eyes brimmed again with tears.

“YN I…I…” she babbled out.

She burst into crying.

“I was so scared!” Stella sobbed.

You hugged her again, both of you sobbing it out. Feeling her finally wash out her terror, her experience, trembling hard as she wrung out the crying. She clutched onto you. You let her. Once you felt your own tears ebb down, you began to smooth her hair and rub small circles on her back.

“It’s going to be fine- you’re safe now. You’re far away from Grendel. You’re here. Shhh-”

She looked up. Her face was red and twisted from crying. She wiped it off with her hands.

“You got the…the note?” she asked.

“We did. I got it. And we figured out it was a trap made for me. It was Jonathan and Loki who volunteered to help bring you to safety,” you explained.

She let go. She then turned to Jonathan. Then back to you.

"Yes…he was going to use me. Had me out by a tree. They tied me there. Put a gag in my mouth- and kept it in all the time. Waiting for you to arrive…so he could capture or kill you there and then. It was always changing which one it was, YN! And if not…if you never arrived…Grendel was going to…keep me there. He was going to have me be his…his…prize when he got back. Then he’d let his soldiers...take turns with me if they won battles for him…after he broke me in…” she explained, more hot tears falling down her face.

A cold, sudden dread hit your core at your words. You could have murdered them all, you could have. But that was only for later- now what mattered was her story, her pain, her experience needing a listening ear.

“Grendel left to meet with some others. They left me in that tent. Kept taunting me. Teasing how much I’d like his bed, their bed…talked about what they were going to do to me when Grendel was done….and then…he appeared- Mr. Pine appeared. He dressed like the other soldiers. He found my tent. Said he was here to help me. Then he just took me in his arms and ran out to the woods. They were chasing us but…but Loki appeared and…and then we were here…” she finished.

Jonathan nodded his head, still tight.

“Yes. Everything she said is true,” he confirmed.

Loki placed his hands on his hips, tilting his head.

“Why, you’re bleeding, Jon!” he cried.

There were a couple of cuts through the sleeve of his shirt. Fresh, bright blood spilled out. Stella went over and gestured to one, reaching a hand. Jonathan did not flinch away from the ghost of her touch.

“Will you be…alright, Mr. Pine?” she went to her skirt to tear up a bit for a bandage but he put a hand up to stop her.

“You don’t have to do that. It didn’t get anything vital, Miss Harris. There are healers here with plenty of bandages. Right now…you need to get some food and water and some rest after all that.” Jonathan told her.

She went up to Jonathan and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you,” Stella said.

The Night Manager turned bright pink and smiled at her in response. She went to Loki.

“Thank you too…I always sensed there was just a little bit of good in you…” she said.

The god smiled and made a theatrical bow like an actor.

“Please, the pleasure was mine,” he said.

Servants appeared towards your friend. A guest room was provided for Stella. It was quite dull and plain compared to the other grand rooms- white, grey walls and base furniture. But that didn’t matter now. Loki told the servants to find her a place to sit and to get her something to drink or a small plate of food. Stella was brought to sit on a chair and you knelt next to her, squeezing her hand. She was also cold as ice, Loki added that she needed a blanket. Perhaps a hot bath too to wash out the grime and dirt and the disgusting feeling of being in a disgusting place with such disgusting men.

When a healer arrived to check on Stella, she said other than the burns from the ropes and a few minor scrapes, she was fine. The healer brought out a pot of ointment that she put over Stella’s rope scars. A blanket and a platter of food were brought before her upon a tray set on the table. One maid began a fire for more warmth. Once he made sure everything was met, what wisdom Loki had made him leave. Giving you privacy to be with your friend.

“Did…did they…try to…to…you know. Did they actually…attack you?” you asked.

“It didn’t happen but…they said they were going to…I thought, feared that they would get impatient and- and-” Stella said, her voice breaking off.

Her eyes welled with tears.

“It’s alright. You are safe now- you can cry as much as you need to. Grendel won’t get here- won’t get you.”

Stella gulped down her water and devoured her food. You had never seen her so unladylike when she ate- they must have starved and dehydrated her to weaken her. Weake her resolve and lure you further, the bastards.

“I swear to you, it will never happen again! It won’t! But right now…this is why I’ve been staying here. I am learning how to fight. I just passed a test- I’m going to be considered a warrior. I told you about the training and magic- remember? It’s getting better every day, Stella! I’m becoming a warrior so I can help fight Grendel. Stop his invasion of all the realms. Bring him to justice.”

Stella wrapped the blanket further around her. Her plate and cup were empty. She stared into the fire. Then she spoke with a fierceness, a tone, an anger you had never heard from her since the start of your friendship.

“I hope he and his army burn in hell.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The next day, you checked on Stella once she woke up. She was still shaken. Still bursting into tears. Jumping at shadows. She heard a loud noise down the hall (perhaps Thor ambling down to practice his hammer) and she curled into a ball and cried. You had to assure her it wasn’t Grendel or his army. Making sure she ate her food. Reminding her Grendel wasn't here, not here to get her. As you walked Stella around Asgard, you showed her the library. She didn’t want to look at the books, saying she wasn’t in the mood to read. She only wanted to stare out the window onto the city. You brought your embroidery to work on as she sat and merely looked outside. To pass time in comfortable silence. To see her soothed in whatever way she needed.

There was a soft knock on the door, and you both turned. Loki appeared there. Stella said her hellos, then returned to staring out the window. Sad, blank. You could see in her face- she was safe now. But still shaken by what happened. By what almost happened.

“YN, I was thinking…we should return her home,” he suggested quietly.

“Return her? To get kidnapped again?! Didn’t you hear what they were going to do to her?” you hissed.

“Well, I did, but…”

He folded his arms, letting in a deep sigh at her.

“I don’t think she should be made prisoner. Trading one cage for another. She should decide for herself…” he offered.

He leaned against the wall, folding his arms as he watched the scene. You went over to the window and touched her arm. It broke her out of staring as she looked at you.

“Stella…what do you think? Would you like to stay here a little longer…or would you like to go back home?” you asked.

She looked at you.

“I…I’m not sure what I want…I just…I only want…I want not to be scared,” she confessed.

You placed a hand over hers. Loki walked forward, his voice vibrant, almost presentational.

“You are welcome as a guest here as long as you want. If not, Say the word, and I shall be glad to return you back to your home. We will at least need to tell your dear mother and father you are safe here,” he said.

“Could I see…more of the palace?” she asked.

“Oh yes- why don’t you both take a little turn about!” he offered with a smile.

He held the door gallantly open as you both walked out. Then Loki and you exchanged a look. He then smiled at you before he headed into the library.

Stella turned to you.

“Why do they all look and sound like…like…you know…him?” she asked.

“They’re all variants,” you answered. You then briefly explained the concept of variants and that these men were gathered from different timelines to help Loki stop Grendel. Stella asked no questions but only listened. Walking slowly beside you.

There was one hallway where the sunlight draped across from the wide, open windows. She looked up at the tall pillars, chin tilting. Your footsteps made echoes across the hallway. You saw she relaxed her shoulders more. She didn’t seem as jumpy or as teary. Servants came and went. Some eyeing the new mortal woman curiously. In no doubt, Thor would be barging in to meet her like an excited, overgrown puppy any minute.

“Y/N- what about you? Your parents have been so worried about you. They keep fretting about what is happening. I worry about you sometimes,” she asked.

“ I’ve cried my tears over my heartbreak- sometimes still do. I’ll be fine in time! Don’t worry about me!” you assured.

“I’ve noticed. You seem happy here. Happier here than you were at your own wedding,” she commented.

You gave her a smile.

“I…I’m growing more content. And not everything is easy…but…I have a purpose. All of my life, Stella, has been around my family, the people here, and then Will….”

You paused your steps, looking into her eyes.

“When…when I found out what he did, I wondered who I was without him. Then when I was brought here, I wondered who I was without my family. Without my friends. Or anyone back home. And here…I’m finding out exactly that. Finding out what I can do with no one to hold my hand. Finding out how far I can go and what I am capable of- and how it can potentially help so many others,” you said.

“I’m still not sure if I…want to stay here or not…” Stella mused softly.

As you walked out, you heard grunting from outside. Looking out the window, it was a sunny, cloudless, warm day in the courtyard. Both of you turned to look out to spy the source of the grunting from below.

Jonathan and Robert were sparring in the courtyard. Shirtless.

Muscles gleaming from the sweat. The only thing on their upper bodies were the fingerless gloves wrapped around their hands to guard them. You heard Stella’s breath hitch in her throat as she turned to look too.

How many abdominal muscles did they have between them? And their pectorals were so…so wide! And their biceps you were sure could crush steel easily. They let off grunts as they exchanged jabs and crosses. Robert kept a little smirk on his face, a bit of his hair coming undone. Jonathan’s eyes were still forward, determined. Not that you were staring too long at their faces, anyway. And was that…a little bit of hair on their chests? You couldn’t decide which one was better or more beautiful. Something inside you twinged, itched, ached. If they were variants…then did that mean that’s what…they all would look like beneath their clothes? Thomas? Hal? And… And that means…beneath his leathers that hid so much of his body…that’s what…what Loki would look like? You felt saliva gather in your mouth. That forbidden shiver running through you.

You both stared at them as they fought. Then as Robert beat Jonathan, he let out a small laugh. But Jonathan merely smiled. They shook hands and dried off with towels before heading to the shadows.

You and Stella looked back at each other.

“So yes, I’m staying here,” you said.

“I think I’d like to stay a little longer, too,” Stella said, her face bright red.

.─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you trained with Robert the next day, he had his shirt on. Unfortunately and fortunately. The intense exercise stifled your brief moment of lust yesterday. You kept focused on him and your movements.

“Now- think quick! Yes! Now Hook!” he had ordered.

You had been reminiscing over the recent events. It all bubbled up. The sting of Will’s betrayal-it’s memory. You thought it was done but…the visit brought it back. Your parents flat out saying you still should have married Will. To look over his wandering with a smile and say it was better he was happy. Then Stella’s abduction. What they would have done to her had Jonathan not interfered in time. That they were going to trap and kill you- or have you be kept to be a prize alongside your friend.

“Now- jab! Cross! Hook!” Robert instructed.

In the corner- you saw Loki again. He wore lighter training clothes. A bit damp with sweat. But he looked at you and smiled. It felt like a sting- a sweet sting and something inside you kept buzzing when he did that.

And Loki there- his smile. His bright eyes. And who knows what he looked like under those leathers, and if he looked like Robert and Jonathan did- Damn that look on his face! That stupid smirk! You hated yourself. Hated your attraction to him. Hated that you were so drawn to him even when you were dying in that sickbed! Damn Loki, so full of himself and effortlessly charming and beautiful and-

You gave a huge, solid hook to Robert into his right hand. It landed with such force, that it got his hand. He let out a cry of pain and jumped back. You froze.

“Are you alright!?” you asked.

“Oh! I am! Well, then- That was quite a punch!” he laughed.

You looked up at him.

“Sorry I…I got distracted and…and carried away…” you confessed.

“It’s funny…your anger made you punch a little harder, fight harder…I don’t see why you shouldn’t be carried away sometimes.” Robert grinned at you, clearly alright.

Loki applauded as he walked up from his corner.

“We could need you getting carried away, YN! Oh! Spread the word to the others! Meeting in an hour! So let’s review your hooks next and use a new combination…you’re going to use it,” the god announced before he waltzed out the door.

You nodded. Then punched away again. Any minute of training might make a difference. Make you better. And make you more ready for your first real task. Not test. Task.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

In an hour, everyone gathered in the meeting room. Loki was waiting, in his usual fine dark, green, and golden leathers. His arms crossed behind his back as if he was pacing all around. He turned and smiled.

“Well now! My dear little circle! Today we embark to retrieve the book. The spellbook is in Vanaheim as you all know. I paid the Prophet another little visit yesterday and he said that the book is in two parts and where they are kept. One is in the smaller Kved palace. And the other is located in the larger Nott palace.”

“So, we should split up. Find the halves. And return.” Jonathan suggested.

“Well, yes, but…”

Loki then looked at all of you.

“I’ve never been to the Kved Palace, but the Nott one I have visited several times. I must tell you…there are more variants of me that stay there,” he announced.

“Zounds, more?” Hal gasped, tilting his head.

The god let out a little laugh.

“Yes! And they all call themselves Lokis! Kved seems to be lighter. Fewer people in there- still guarded. I don’t know who. But…in the Nott palace, they’re guarded especially by two certain variants. A handsome face that looks much like yours truly who they call The President, and a woman variant- the only one.”

He gestured for all of you to gather around. His eyes were determined.

“Here is the plan. Hal, Jonathan, and Robert shall go to Kved to sleep the night. The rest of us shall go to Nott. We are all just visiting. Cause no trouble or suspicion. Figure out where the book halves are and who guards them. We must be ready- but not let them suspect anything. And there is one tactic I find especially effective- flirtation. Especially with our beautiful lady among us...”

He gestured to you. You lowered your jaw, placing a hand over your heart. Loki continued.

“Y/N, you must flirt with this variant of mine. They call him The President. He is rather…high on himself. And feeding his ego will only distract him more, especially with that pretty face. So charm him, seduce him if you must to disarm him.”

“I’ve never seduced anyone! I’m a decent woman!” you cried in objection.

“Well- then only as a last resort! To break his guard! Only if nothing else works! Just…mere flirtation! And the female variant who guards. I will flirt with her. They do not call me Silvertongue for nothing.”

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Now…any final questions between all of you? None! Well then- how ready are we!? Very!” he announced.

Everyone agreed. Loki conjured weapons to be discreetly hidden. Thomas, Jonathan, and Robert beneath their jackets. You had a white cotton day dress. To seem innocuous, sweet, even charming. But one dagger was hidden to be in the bustle of your skirt. Steel kept just inside the softness.

“Remember-violence is a last resort. And we do not know what obstacles await us to find the book,” Loki reminded all of you.

He conjured a portal and in there all of you walked- ready to search for the book halves and the first key for Grendel's defeat.

You weren’t sure what it would look like, but Vanaheim was mainly made of forests. Beautiful, peaceful forests. Nicer than the Weavers forests.

As all of you walked along the path, the air was cool and fresh. It cleared out revealing a lake as clear as a mirror. So long and wide it went down. Turning your head, it was led to a kingdom. It looked like the ones from storybooks.

The high walls easily let you inside from the smiling, armed guards who merely shrugged as they let you in. The kingdom was a rustic, medieval town compared to the more Romanesque Asgard. Hal looked like he fit right in as he practically strutted down with a smile on his handsome face.

The two palaces were far too tall to miss. A larger one in the center with a flag of the moon. A smaller one to the east waving a flag with a sun on it. Both were made of a cream-colored stone that made them shine like seashells. The Kved palace was almost tall and thin, like a tower. But the Nott palace was like a large rectangle with high, rectangle windows and what seemed to be statues of other Norse deities. None you could name.

“All right, we shall meet up here by this time, tomorrow,” Loki announced. “Though- if one needs more help…send one to the castle to announce it.

It was set and each of you split up into groups. Jonathan, Hal, and Robert headed for the Kved palace. Thomas, Loki, and you took strides toward the large Nott palace. You headed up the steps to the large, dark wooden doors with golden knockers. Thomas lifted one and had it knocked against it.

Who opened the door but an old man in a silly-looking costume. Like a replica of Loki’s- only bright and garish complete with yellow horns on his head and green pants.

“Ah! Dear Loki Good to see you!” he wished, wrapping the God of Mischief you knew into a hug.

“Oh-Classic Loki! I’ve missed you as well!” he wished with a smile.

And they were all called Loki as well! Oh, dear heavens- this was going to be dizzying! At least the variants you knew had different names! You were going to get very confused!

“Do come in! It’s been nothing but parties here lately with all of the variants!” the old man explained.

“What is the purpose of a Loki than to cause Mischief!” your familiar Loki replied.

They laughed and patted each other on the back. You all walked inside the entryway. The palace inside was downright ethereal. Ivory walls and laughter echoed. You swore you heard a harp playing.

“Here- they call me Classic Loki.” The old man introduced himself.

Thomas smiled and shook the old man’s hand.

“Sir Thomas Sharpe, esquire.” he introduced himself.

Loki swirled over to pat Thomas’s back

“He is another variant- isn’t he handsome? No doubt, because of his similarity to me, hm? Sir Thomas Sharpe is a Baronet, Inventor, and a natural dancer to name a mere few. And this here…”

He swept over to you.

“This is another companion of mine. A mortal lady from Midgard, but as warm and lovely as this Vanaheim itself- this is Miss Y/N,” he said.

Butterflies emerged in your stomach from his words. In a way, they never had before with his flowery statements. You swallowed it back. You made a curtsy, giving a smile to greet Classic Loki.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” you greeted. Classic Loki ebbed his head and acknowledged you.

“All of you-join us! You are in time for the vintage wine!” Classic Loki invited, waving all of you in.

Inside the palace were long wooden halls. Lamps that glowed golden. Art, vases full of flowers, and statues passed by- it felt almost like a nice museum.

He then turned and there was a ballroom. Tall windows, chandeliers, and light, bright walls that almost made your eyes water.

Though as nice as the palace was, so many of the Lokis in the large dining hall ranged from clean to dinghy. There was a scruffy little boy with long, brown hair stealing small cakes to stuff into his face. As you walked out there was a garden full of hydrangeas with a little fountain in the center. The fountains pool, much to your surprise, had a small alligator with little golden Loki horns on his head as a helmet floated about. It got out, passing by your feet-docile as a dog, friendly and harmless. It reached up at you, pawing lightly at your skirt.

“Please don’t bite me,” you whispered.

You leaned down to pet it, and it only smiled. Well, as nice as a crocodile could smile.

But ah, yes. The mission! You turned around, trying to find it. Thomas was already being poured a little glass of wine as he talked to a Loki who wore furs. The Loki was telling a story with a large, dramatic voice, and Thomas smiled at him and sipped. You walked back inside the ballroom. The laughter and the sound of an off-key piano from the corner. The chaotic conversations…that of course only a room full of Lokis could provide. There were tables full of refreshments of round, thick breads and creamy pies.

Thomas seemed focused. But where was…was…

Then you found your Loki…and the woman variant. For, of course, she stood out as the only woman here besides you. Short blonde hair and slender. The woman variant- one of two guards of the book.

There was a back corner where there was a large, clumsy, giant target set up on the wall. The woman had a little table with several knives.

He was leaning against the bar of the table. Close. He was smiling in a way that…that…that you didn’t like. She tested the weight of one and then turned to him. He kept smiling. You felt so stupid. You knew this would happen. Yet why...did you not like it?

She folded her arms. Guarding herself. Tilting her chin. Frowning. But he kept the dreamy look he would give. You could not make out what words he was saying but you knew Loki well enough to know that he was probably oozing with charm, compliments, and smooth words. Complete with that velvet, baritone voice in that tone he always liked to use with flattery and flirtation.

The lady was focused on a target. She kept throwing the daggers. It hit the target- or close to it. There were already at least five other small daggers near the center- never missing. She gave him a glare with one in her hand. Perhaps considering if her next target should be his face. Then kept throwing and hitting her marks perfectly as he waxed poetic to her.

There was a woman back home…

You felt something in your stomach drop and twist.

Another woman who had blonde hair.

A heavy lump gathered in your throat, your eyes feeling hot.

And who wore a grey coat…and when she went about she didn't wear her corset...

The nasty cruel voice in your head was running rampant.

A woman who had a smile on her face. Hid her past bruises with her scarves and collars...

A perfect woman. Another one. Never falling. So any man who ever showed interest in you would no longer as soon as she stepped into a room.

This variant was like…like…

Hot tears threatened to form in your eyes. The self-destructive impulses and thoughts and bitter memories spiraling.

“It’s always some woman, stronger, smarter, better than every other woman…and that’s who you will always lose to. There is always a Cora. Every time you even consider that…that…someone, a gentleman might like you…she will come along again, that bitch. Like a Gorgon growing another head when you think you’ve chopped it off. Y/N, Think of what happened moments before your own marriage…your almost marriage…it will always happen…you will never win, never be wanted, because there will always be someone better. What were you doing letting yourself melt a little to Loki’s charms?! He’s a trickster god! That’s what he does! Plays tricks!”

You forced your eyes away, trying to deepen your breathing. Forcing your eyes on the floor. The off-key music and laughter in your ears.

You then lifted your chin and began to walk away to the crowd. Scanning for this other variant.

Why should that matter? Loki was the kind to flirt to get what he wanted! This was a part of the mission! You hated the feeling of pettiness and jealousy in your stomach. You hated that you grew to like his compliments, his flirtation, for lack of a better word. They flattered you. And yes he was attractive…but nothing more. Yes, nothing more. It didn’t matter. You have plenty of new friends now. That was enough. Men became monsters when it came to matters of romance, and that included gods. And Loki was such a scoundrel and arrogant. Let him be in his environment.

He can flirt with whoever he pleases and I do not care one bit, you thought to yourself, holding your head high.

You continued on your merry way. Then you saw him- The President.

It was obvious- he was wearing a dark, slightly torn suit with buttons that read “PRESIDENT” in large letters. The bright eyes and dark curls and handsome smile.

Loki was doing his part, and now it was time to do yours.

You came up with a smile, as he noticed you. He looked and sounded exactly like Loki. Which was a curious thing- so many different Lokis who all looked different. But this one could be his twin. Even in his voice.

“Ah-now, who are you?” he asked.

“Take a guess,” you said.

He smiled, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Hmmm…perhaps…a beautiful lady who is a little bit bored with her home and has come here for a bit of danger…a bit of excitement…” he smiled.

“I don’t want to be in any danger,” you replied coyly.

He walked up to you. A smirk formed on his lips as he drank you in.

“Then why are you here?” he asked.

“I only wish to…enjoy myself,” you answered. Feigning bashfullness. A slight push to keep him wanting more.

“Then….no doubt I can provide that to you…excuse me, gentleman,” he said, dismissing the other Lokis behind him to see you. His smile having a hunger to it.

Good- now he was in the palm of your hand.

“You did forget the part about my name, good sir,” you said greeted with a little curtsy.

“Then-mystery woman. Relieve my curiosity. Tell me your name.” the president replied.

You gave him your name. He then took your hand and gave it a deep kiss on your knuckles- eyes never leaving. The happy, excited flutters went through your stomach

“It’s a pity you shouldn’t refresh yourself while you’re here- would you like some wine?” he asked.

“My! Quite gallant! Is that how you won so many votes?” you asked with a smile.

“Through some persuasion, campaigning, gaining trust…and a few hearts as well.”

He gave you a wink.

“Why, you’d have my vote!” you responded.

You burst into some giggles. He put you on his arm as he led you forward to the table where drinks were being poured and food served. Glowing in the attention that the President Variant was showering on you.

It seems like this is working. We should have it in no time, you thought.

As you glanced over, you saw Loki beside the woman concentrating on her dagger throwing. Loki looked at you with this copy of him in a tattered suit.

You glanced back into his eyes. This was the plan. Flirt with the variants. It was working extremely well on your end. This should lower the guard of the President at least to discover the location of the half of the spell book.

Yet Loki was not smiling.

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c-e-d-dreamer · 1 year

Text

Falling For Your Fools Gold: Chapter 12

A/N: 'Morning' won my little poll, so here we are! I guess all I can really say is sorry in advance? But also, this is me we're talking about. Y'all knew there was going to be angst ;) Only a few chapters of this fic to go! Hope everyone enjoys :)

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

The ringing hasn’t stopped in Nesta’s ears since she first laid eyes on that ship on the horizon. It's a constant buzzing gnawing and burrowing into her mind, an endless loop that leaves her feeling almost lightheaded. She tries to tune into the voices around her, tries to concentrate on Cassian's presence beside her, on Baz and Cormac's faces across the table, but their expressions seem to swim in and out of focus as they frown down at the map before them.

And that damned ringing.

It echoes in time with the pounding of Nesta's heart between her ribs, with every breath she tries to heave into her lungs. She squeezes her eyes shut and swallows hard, desperately grasping for all the mind-stilling trainings, but it all suddenly feels futile. Every breath in to let go just has the vines curling tighter around her already fraying nerves, thorns breaking the skin.

“We cut back west and we might be able to lose them,” Cassian's voice bleeds through the fog. “A ship that size won't have speed on its side the way we do.”

“What?” Nesta forces out, Cassian’s words slowly registering.

“Here,” Cassian continues as if she hadn't spoken, pointing down toward the map. “We know these reefs. We can maneuver through them expertly. It might allow us to put enough distance that—”

“You cannot be serious,” Nesta cuts in.

A muscle in Cassian’s jaw ticks, but still, he doesn’t even look at her. “You have your orders. Go.”

“Aye, Captain,” Baz and Cormac echo in unison. Only the first mate's gaze darts briefly to Nesta, but then both crew members are turning on their heels and leaving the great cabin.

The echo of the door closing behind them does nothing to shatter the suffocating silence of the room. It presses in from all sides, prickling along Nesta’s skin and digging in like nails. She expects Cassian to finally look at her, for them to finally talk about this, but he merely strides across the room toward the captain’s cabin.

Nesta feels untethered, feels like a rowboat left out in the swells of a raging sea. Gone at least is that ringing, that heavy cloud weighing her down and leaving her paralyzed. In its stead is confusion and… anger. It blazes red hot through her veins, and Nesta grabs hold of it with both hands, the burn a welcome relief after this reeling morning. Anger she can work with.

“Cassian,” Nesta clips, storming after him into the captain’s cabin. She watches as he steps over to the desk, grabbing a piece of parchment and scribbling across it. “What are you doing?”

“I know we won’t have time to make port, but maybe there will still be a way to get word to my brothers, and—”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Why are you running?”

Cassian pauses what he was doing, standing to his full height and finally turning to face her. “What?”

“You heard me,” Nesta snaps, stepping closer into his space and scowling up at him. “You’re meant to be the Lord of Bloodshed, this feared pirate captain, and you’re running?”

“And what would you have me do instead?”

“You can fight them.”

Cassian lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You’d have me fight the Royal Navy? With their arsenal, they’d sink us in minutes. We’d all end up on the seafloor.”

“Better than running away like a coward.”

“I will not risk you.”

He says the words with such conviction, such fire flaring beneath them, and yet Nesta doesn’t miss the slight tremble to his voice. Pain splinters and fissures in his eyes, dimming the brightness of those golds and greens, that gaze seeming to plead with her to understand. The sight of Cassian so anguished, so… afraid, is a sight Nesta never thought she’d see. She feels it like a crack echoing deep between her ribs, gaping wounds left behind by the claws. She has to swallow hard around the lump threatening to form in her throat, her lungs squeezing almost as tightly as her heart.

Nesta steps closer and closes that small remaining space between them. She reaches a hand up, cupping Cassian’s cheek and sliding her thumb soothingly across his skin. Cassian’s eyes flutter closed at her touch, his whole body seeming to shudder with a soft sigh, as he leans into her palm.

“I know,” Nesta tells him, keeping her voice quiet. Suddenly, this moment feels precarious, it feels precious. “I know that I’m safe with you.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Cassian promises, his own hand coming up and fingers curling around Nesta’s wrist. He leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together. “Whatever that means, I’m going to do it.”

“How do pirates get married?”

Cassian’s eyebrows pinch at the question, at the sudden change of topic, but his thumb continues to skitter across Nesta’s pulse. “Most do it the traditional way, a priestess when they make port. But some get married at sea too. A captain has the power to marry them.”

Nesta frowns at that, her eyes falling closed for a moment. She tries not to let disappointment swallow her whole, but it’s easier said than done. They’re nowhere near a port city for a priestess, and Cassian is the captain. She’s quite sure he can’t marry himself. Cassian squeezes her wrist gently, and Nesta blinks her eyes open, meeting his gaze once again. Those hazel eyes are burning now, swimming with such emotion that Nesta’s breath hitches, her heart twisting in her chest.

“You have my heart, Nesta Archeron. And you always will.”

Cassian seals their lips together and kisses her, and Nesta hates how much it feels like a goodbye.

~ * * * ~

The mood on the ship is anxious and sour over the next few days. Every member of the crew is on edge, going through the motions of their daily task in tense silence. Even Gwyn, Emerie, and Cresseida don’t have much to offer or say, not that Nesta minds. She spends every day standing along the railing, her eyes glued to the horizon and the ship chasing them down. She can’t take her eyes off it, can’t stop tracking the shrinking distance between them.

She stands there and stares until she physically can’t anymore, until the sun vanishes from the sky, cloaking the waves and that Royal Navy ship in darkness. When the stars twinkle to life overhead and the only sound is the soft slosh of water along the hull, Nesta can almost pretend that it’s only Cassian’s ship out here in the waters. She can almost pretend that fate isn’t hissing and nipping at her heels, claws sinking into her skin and ready to pull her under with each day that passes.

“Nes,” Cassian’s voice comes from her right, the backs of his fingers sliding gently down her cheek. “Come to bed.”

“This is my fault,” Nesta whispers, not taking her eyes off the inky waves. “I should have known I could never really escape my life from before. It was always going to return to drag me back to Adriata.”

“We don’t know for sure if that’s why we’ve caught their attention.”

It’s a lie, and they both know it.

They both know the coin and the time required for the Royal Navy to give chase at sea, both know that no one wants to pay that price when it comes to some lowly pirates. Even the Crown would rather just take away the safe haven port cities and round up when they can on land. It means that someone else is the benefactor. Someone with influence. Someone with wealth. Someone like a well off merchant whose eldest daughter has been missing.

With a soft sigh, Nesta finally turns away from the water and toward Cassian properly. His hand shifts to cradle her jaw, thumb tracing lines across her cheekbone.

“Come to bed,” Cassian repeats softly.

Nesta nods and allows Cassian to pull her away from the railing. She allows him to lead them both below deck and into the captain’s cabin. She allows him to coax her beneath the blankets and into his arms. Even though she knows she won’t be getting any sleep. Though she knows that once the sun rises again, it will just be more waiting. Waiting for everything to come crashing down around her. Waiting for the inevitable.

It takes only two more days before all the waiting finally comes to an end.

It’s the afternoon when Nesta steps onto the deck and realizes that the Royal Navy ship is closer than it’s ever been. Her steps stutter to a halt at the sight, stopping suddenly enough that Cassian practically runs into her, his hands settling on her hips to steady them both. Nesta barely notices, her eyes firmly glued on those looming sails, on the flag still waving proudly above the mast. Her breath stutters from her chest, her throat closing up so tightly that it hurts to squeeze air in.

“They’ll be on us in an hour,” Baz explains, stepping over to them. “If that.”

Nesta sinks her teeth into her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Her eyes sweep across the deck until she locates her friends, her Valkyries. She’s quick to walk over to them, Gwyn pulling her into a full body hug as soon as she’s within reach.

“I’m so sorry,” Nesta tells them, trying and failing to keep the emotion from her voice.

“Don’t you dare apologize, Nesta Archeron,” Emerie demands, but Nesta doesn’t miss the misty quality to her brown eyes. “No regrets for me, so there shouldn’t be any for you either.”

Nesta lets out a wet laugh, but she pulls Emerie into a hug. She hugs Cresseida next before finally stepping back, offering one last, sad smile to her friends. Cassian’s fingers curl around her own, wordlessly tugging her away and toward the steps that lead below deck. Nesta clings to his hand like a lifeline, trying to leech any of Cassian’s warmth that she can to fight off the icy dread crystallizing in her veins.

When they step inside the captain’s cabin, Cassian turns to face Nesta properly, both his hands coming up to frame her face. Nesta wishes she could wipe the mournful expression off his face. Wishes she could erase the dark circles clinging to his skin. Wishes she could make those hazel eyes spark again, make that cocksure smirk she loves to hate tug up his lips.

“Nesta…”

“Don’t.”

She doesn’t want to hear his confessions, and she certainly doesn’t want to hear his goodbyes. She doesn’t want final declarations, some dying promise of finding one another in the next life. Because she refuses to accept that this is truly it. All she cares about is staying right here, on this ship, in this moment.

“I should be up there with the rest of you,” Nesta tells him.

The comment pulls a soft albeit sad chuckle from him. “With your fighting skills, you’d certainly give all those soldiers a run for their money, but—”

“I know.”

They're here for her after all. Here to rescue her from the pirates who plucked her straight from her father's ship all those weeks ago. A lifetime ago. The best thing she can do for everyone is at least play the part. It will be their best bargaining chip in this whole mess.

Cassian leans forward, pressing a kiss to Nesta’s forehead. His lips linger there for a moment longer, and Nesta lets out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering closed at the contact. Her heart twists and squeezes between her ribs, dark vines wrapping too tight around her chest. She can feel the heat of tears prickling at the back of her eyes, but she refuses to give in, to let them fall.

Cassian finally pulls away, turning to leave. “Lock the door behind me.”

The sound of the door closing behind him echoes in the cabin like a death knell. Nesta lets out a shaky breath and squeezes her eyes shut tightly. She prays that when she opens them again, this will all have been some nightmare, that she’ll wake up to Cassian’s arms secure around her waist and he’ll softly murmur for her to go back to sleep, but when her eyes flash open, she’s still standing alone in the middle of the cabin.

One last deep breath to steady herself and Nesta walks over to the door, turning the lock and tossing the key aside. She steps over to the wardrobe next, yanking open the doors and rooting around in the back until she finds what she’s looking for. She tugs the garment out, holding it up and eying it. The dress she wore on that very first day.

Nesta pulls the current blouse and pants she’s wearing off, shoving them away back in the wardrobe. Instinctively, her fingers reach for a shift, but for a moment, she pauses, considers. She knows what’s coming for her, and whichever outcome ultimately wins out, no one would know either way. With a determined nod, Nesta grabs one of Cassian’s shirts instead, pulling it over her head. She tugs her dress on over top, and though it is a bit of an awkward fit, especially around the arms, it is at least a balm to soothe some of her jittery nerve endings.

And Nesta will take any peace she can find no matter how small right now, as she settles in to do nothing but go back to waiting.

And waiting.

When the first shouts, the first sounds of metal against metal, reach her, it shakes Nesta down to her core. She tries to listen closely, tries to differentiate the voices, to determine which member of the crew each sound might be, but when the first pained cry prickles her ears, she just feels sick to her stomach. Her gut twists and roils in time with the waves beneath her feet, bile rising in her throat. She tries to swallow it down, tries to push down the lump lodged firmly against her windpipe, but her whole chest feels too tight.

She hates this.

She hates that she’s the reason the Royal Navy is descending upon them. She hates that she’s here, locked away in this cabin, rather than up on the deck fighting and helping. She hates that this crew that has become her friends, her family, could be seriously hurt or worse because of her. She hates it all, and she prays to the Mother that it will all be over quickly.

“This way!” a voice calls out just outside the door.

The door handle jingles, and Nesta holds her breath, not daring to take her eyes off of it. Her hand moves to her hip out of instinct before her mind catches up with her. No sword this time.

“It’s locked, sir,” that same voice continues.

Nesta waits for them to bust open the door, tries to school her expression into the appropriate response they’ll be expecting, to calm her heart pounding between her ribs. She’s holding her body so tense that she really does jump when, surprisingly, someone knocks.

“Nesta? Are you in there? You’re safe now. Open the door.”

Nesta’s heart stutters to a painful, jolting stop. For a moment, that ringing in her ears returns, needling and burrowing into her mind until her jaw slackens. It couldn’t be…

Slowly, Nesta steps forward. She grabs the discarded key and slides into the lock, twisting and then pulling the door open. It’s with baited breath that she finally takes in the sight waiting for her on the other side. The golden buttons of his naval coat are clasped cleanly in a line down the white fabric, his hat sitting neatly atop his head of brown hair. Not a single part of him is unkempt or out of place, as if he hadn’t deemed to participate in the skirmish on the deck, too above such a thing.

“Tomas…”

“Nesta, I’m so glad that you’re safe,” Tomas tells her. He offers her a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, as cold and cruel as Nesta remembers it being. “Don’t worry. These pirates will never lay a finger on you again, and they will pay for their crimes, thinking they can kidnap a Commodore’s wi—”

“Commodore?”

Tomas frowns at being interrupted, his eyes flashing before he recovers. “That’s right. You do not yet know the good news. I’ve been promoted to Commodore. Your father was quite pleased when I informed him too. I went to visit him, you see, to ask for your hand.”

“My hand…” Nesta chokes out, her mind reeling as she tries to keep up with this conversation.

“He, of course, said yes. What a match, after all. Commodore and his eldest daughter. We were going to tell you when you arrived back in Adriata. Before these disgusting pirates raided your father’s ship and took you.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

It's not a lie. Nesta's still trying to wrap her mind around Tomas being here, standing in front of her, that she hasn't even begun to process the fact her father has all but given her away to this man without even asking her. Tomas with his cold eyes, with his cruel smiles, with his pawing and greedy hands away from everyone at parties. Of course, her father doesn't see the type of man he is. All he sees is the status and gold possibilities of being the Commodore's father-in-law.

“Come. Let’s get you onto my ship,” Tomas continues, holding his hand out expectantly. “Then we can finally send these criminals where they belong: the bottom of the sea.”

“No!” Nesta shouts before she can stop herself.

Tomas’ hand drops back down to his side, tilting his head slightly, a crease beginning to form between his eyebrows. Nesta swallows hard and prays her face doesn’t give her away, doesn’t reveal the true depths of the emotions raging a storm beneath her skin. She tries to draw on everything her mother taught her, everything her grandmother beat into her, everything Tomas expects her to be.

She tries to slip back into that role, that mask she donned when she was in Adriata. With a deep breath in and out, that final piece slides back into place. She clasps her hands neatly in front of her, tilting her chin down and peering up at Tomas through her eyelashes. A lady. Demure. Submissive.

“Please,” Nesta whispers, keeping her voice sweet. “Please spare them.”

“Nesta, these are pirates,” Tomas reminds her, speaking to her as if she’s a child. Despite the way his tone has her bristling, she ensures it doesn’t show. “They’re criminals. They kidnapped you.”

“I know, and you saved me,” Nesta assures him, reaching her hand up and sliding it sensually down Tomas’ arm. “But I have seen so much blood, more than any lady should, and I cannot handle seeing anymore spilled. My heart simply can’t take it.”

When Nesta’s fingers reach Tomas’ wrist, she curls them around it. She brings Tomas’ hand up and places it on her chest. She keeps her face soft, pleading, a lady appealing for her poor, womanly sensibilities, her heart. She doesn’t miss the way Tomas’ gaze drops to her breasts and where his hand is settled on the swell of them. Doesn’t miss the way his gaze darkens just slightly, his fingers flexing that smallest bit. Just the reaction she knew she would draw out with the gesture.

“Think of it as a wedding gift,” Nesta continues, her free hand reaching up between them to slide along Tomas’ temple, his cheek. “To spare your new bride such death.”

Tomas catches her hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. “I could never subject my sweet wife to such sights.”

“Thank you. You’re a good man, Tomas.”

The words are sour on her tongue, but she forces them out anyways. At least the crew will be safe now. That’s what she keeps having to remind herself of, that it’s better this way. Even as her chest feels ripped open, heart bloodied and bruised. Even as icy claws slink through her veins and leave her limbs feeling weighed down like lead. Even as that beast deep within her soul thrashes against its cage in protest, her mind screaming to fight back.

Tomas holds his hand out expectantly again, and this time, Nesta allows him to take her own. He tugs her out of the captain’s cabin and tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. It’s a movement that’s so familiar, but it’s all wrong. Everything is just wrong.

Tomas leads them up the stairs and back into the sun, Nesta’s eyes sweeping across the deck as they walk. She spots Bram sprawled unconscious against the wood, blood trickling down his face from some sort of head wound, Wiley beside him and eying his crewmate with barely concealed concern.

She spies Cormac next, hands tied behind his back and cloth tied over his mouth. His eyes are narrowed and clearly promise murder as they track Nesta, but the ire is not directed at her. Suddenly, Cormac jumps to his feet, making as if he plans to run to her, but one of the naval officers slams a knee into his gut, sending Cormac tumbling back down.

Nesta winces and looks away, scanning the other half of the deck. She sees Gwyn, Emerie, and Cresseida staring down the swords keeping them where they are, all three sitting with their backs pressed together. Emerie has a nasty cut across her arm and Gwyn has a bruise blooming on her temple, but at least they all appear to be in one piece.

Baz is pinned face down against the deck, a pistol poised at the back of his skull and keeping him in place, but even from where she’s standing, Nesta can see his hands are clenched into fists, can see the way his knuckles are split and bruised. The first mate clearly went down swinging.

But there’s no sign of a familiar head of dark hair, of hazel eyes. Nesta worries at her bottom lip and tries to subtly glance around again. She swears she must have merely missed him, but she still doesn't see Cassian anywhere up on the deck. They must have forced him below deck to show the officers where the gold is being kept. Was being kept. Nesta is sure her father will be disappointed to learn his gold is long gone.

Nesta wonders if she can stall Tomas, if she can wait it out just a little while longer until Cassian is brought back above deck. Just so she can see him one last time. She tries to slow her steps to do just that, but Tomas merely shifts his arm so he can settle his hand at the small of her back and push her along.

Wooden planks are laid across the two ships to act as a bridge, Tomas helping Nesta to step up and across. It takes everything within Nesta to hold herself together as her feet touch down on the Royal Navy ship, every crack and fissure through her chest threatening to shatter her clean open. She steps over to the railing and peers back at the ship she's leaving behind, still praying for one last glimpse at the pirate captain.

“Nesta,” Tomas begins from her right. “I can show you to your cabin for the journey back to Adriata. I'm sure after everything you've been through, you'll want to rest.”

“I need a moment,” Nesta whispers, fingers curling and nails digging in against the wood.

She won't give Tomas the opportunity to trick her out of his promise. Won't let him lock her away below deck while he fires the canons after all. She stays firmly rooted to her spot until he lets out an annoyed huff and finally stalks away, calling for his crew to raise the anchor.

She stays there at the railing until the waves and the distance between the ships grows wide once more, until Cassian and his ship and his crew are nothing more than a dot on the horizon. Only then does Nesta allow Tomas to show her to her cabin, and only when she's safely behind the closed door, when she's finally alone, does Nesta allow herself to cry.

—

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