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bokutoslittlebird · 3 years

Note

Your headcannons for a corrupting with the Kuroo one. I was wondering if you would ever do a one shot, Drabble, or another headcannon of what Kuroo does to force his sister into submission? 👉👈

Ah yes, more onee-san corruption. I will probably not be doing a pt. 3 like Bokuto’s (sorry Kuroo stans)

Warnings: incest, gagging (via tie), handcuffs, blackmail, dubcon/noncon, alcohol, smoking, manipulation, abuse

Kuroo Corrupting Onee-san

With the new living arrangements with your brother, Tetsurō, you had life much easier. With the kids having a good role model in their life, you’re free to relax. The best way to relax, in your opinion, is to drink a glass of wine while relaxing in a steaming hot bath. You’ll admit, at first it was rare. A bath to relax in once a week, a glass of wine accompanying you. The bottle hidden under the bed in the guest room, away from Tetsurō’s eyes. He didn’t like drinking, nor did he like it when you drank.

Then it changed. A glass of wine per week turned into three glasses per week, the it became a glass per day. You didn’t bother hiding it from Tetsurō. He wasn’t your boss, your father, or even your older brother. You controlled your life, not him. Even if he was kind enough to let you stay at his luxurious house, there was no reason for him to make you feel like you needed to hide stuff. You had some extra money, after all, since Tetsurō dealt with the bills and funeral costs.

Tetsurō, on the other hand, believed you to be acting out because you’re too free. With your life of being controlled for so long, it’s no wonder why you’re suddenly drinking freely and sneaking a smoke at night on the porch or balcony. After Tetsurō goes into his room, 30 minutes later you exit your given room and slink outside to light a cigarette. It disgusts him how much you’ve changed from the sister he remembers. The one he loves, the one he wishes never left. His decision to prevent you from going down the same path as everyone else in the family was to set in restrictions.

“No more alcohol? Smoking? Tetsurō, I’m not a child,” you argue. With the blanket of darkness upon the house, both of your daughters had already been tucked in and were sound asleep.

“You may not be a child, but you need to be responsible. I won’t be able to help you if you act like this,”

“Tetsu, this isn’t what I signed up for. I needed help getting back on my feet. If you’re gonna to act like my ex, I’ll leave,”

“Your- You think I’m like that piece of shit?” The anger in his voice freezes you to the spot, glare directed right at you. “I’m trying to help. You’re damaging your relationships and yourself,”

“Tetsu, you’re controlling me. If you’re gonna act like this, I’m gonna leave. You and Kouki are one and the same. I don’t need my children to deal with another pathetic excuse for a-”

Your sentence was cut by a sharp slap, the noise echoing loud in your ears as blood rushes to your face, hot where he touched. The stinging residue of his slap brought tears to your eyes, betrayal evident in glossy orbs.

“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m not the bad guy,” his voice is low, cracking as he tries not to let his face crack. You grit your teeth, anger boiling through your blood.

“How dare you fucking-!” You’re once more shut down, Tetsurō‘s hand on your mouth as you struggle. He’s much stronger than you, not to mention larger and more broad. He’s able to easily maneuver you down on your knees, vulnerable as he drags you over to his desk. Your struggling helps to loosen his grip a bit, but his hand stays on your mouth. Once he shuts a drawer, your mouth is free as he secures you to the drawer. “Tetsu, enough! Stop!”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” His voice gets louder as he loosens his tie and wraps it around your mouth. The fabric is quickly soaked with your saliva and your screams are muffled. “Fucking finally. This isn’t what I wanted, you must understand that. This is the best for you, making sure you’re not setting a bad example for your daughters!”

A muffled response is all he gets as an answer, your noises of struggling and squirming making his guilt worsen. As he starts to regret his decision, panic settling in as he realizes that he is, indeed, acting like your abusive ex. He knows he’s doing it for the best results, he’s doing it for your own good, but the gnawing feeling of knowing he’s no better is still there. The intention is different, the actions are the same. As you struggle, he comes to that realization.

But there’s another voice.

You’re helpless before him, the sister he’s been in love with since before she left him. As your skin shows more and more underneath the blouse, he notices the darkened marks. The only signs of an affair. The evidence makes his blood boil again, knowing you’re out whoring yourself instead of being a good mother. You’re just as bad as you were when you were 17, sleeping with random guys just because of the thrill. If he had known...

“This is poor behavior and you need to be properly reminded you have other responsibilities. If you wanna be a slut so badly, then so be it. You wanna do harmful things, then so be it,” his voice is shaking, but his hands are not. Popping open the buttons on your blouse, you struggle once more. With the handcuffs around your wrists, keeping you chained to the locked desk, you’re completely helpless as he undos the shirt. Once he gets it off and down your arms, he realizes the position you’re in. It’s a bit hard to have access to your body when you’re chained standing up to a drawer.

The handcuffs are released and forgotten, falling to the floor as he keeps your hands behind your back. “You make so much as a peep, I’ll make you regret it. Starting with your precious brats,” he sneers, halting your movements. You don’t struggle, letting him lead you from his office to his bedroom. It’s not far, but you pass the hallway where your children’s rooms are. It’s tempting, the urge to scream and beg for them to call the police or get help from a neighbor, but you don’t. Tetsurō may be family, but he isn’t a liar. He doesn’t bluff. He’ll do what he needs to do to get what he wants, even if that’s covering up a crime. The hallway fades from view and in place is Tetsurō’s bedroom, the door opening only to shut and lock.

“This isn’t how I expected my teenage fantasies to come true, but there’s no going back,” he pulls you towards the bed, letting you fall and bounce on the mattress. It’s a luxurious king sized bed, Western-styled, similar to the other beds in the house. Red silk sheets paint a romantic scene, your bra-clad chest for his viewing pleasure as he strips down. With each piece of clothing stripped from his body, you’re free to admire how much he’s changed since you last saw him. With the three year difference between you, he was just beginning high school when you left. Now he’s toned and tall, muscles flexing and rippling with each movement until he’s down to his boxers.

When his hands go to stripping you down, you don’t fight back. Your will to fight was stripped from your previous resistance. With the looming threat of your daughters getting hurt, you can’t find it in your body to put up even a bit of resistance. When you’re down to nothing, you shiver as his predatory gaze lingers on the evidence of your recent affair, a man you met over a dating app that happened to be a pathetic excuse of a man and a lousy lay. With a growl in his throat, your legs are pried open to Tetsurō’s heavy gaze, a sickening feeling in your stomach as he licks his lips. The boxers he wears are discarded, the fabric useless as he palms his hard cock. You’re staring, you know you are, but he’s much bigger and thicker than you expected. With beads of precum bubbling at his slit, he moves it to rub against your pussy lips.

“Tetsurō, please, don’t do this,” you shiver, covering your chest as you move your legs. He’s quick, pinning them to your chest as he applies weight. The feeling of being crushed is all you can think about, knowing he’s keeping you restrained in a brutish way. He doesn’t answer you, glare on the way his cock looks between your folds. Once he feels a bit of slick build up, he pumps his cock with your slick, sticky translucent strands covering his shaft and his hand.

It’s sudden, his cock slipping right into your heat. It has a moan slipping out, toes curling as he sinks into you. His own groan had you clenching around him, a sexual sound that you’d never expect from your brother. Hissing, he rocks his hips into yours until each inch disappears into your cunt.

“Tetsu, please,” you beg, hands gently pushing at his shoulders. “You can still back out,”

“If you’re so desperate for a fuck and some dick, then I’ll give it to you. Disciplining is the first step in obedience,” he grunts, keeping your knees to your chest as he thrusts into you. Your head is thrown back, the feeling of him rubbing every sensitive spot inside you has your orgasm building faster than you expected. “I’ve been dreaming of this for so long, taking back what was taken from me. Thinking you can go off with whoever, not anymore. Not while I’m here. You’re mine, all mine,”

With his confession ringing in your ears, his thumb goes to your clit and has your vision dotting. A muffled scream of his name, your hand covering the noise, comes as you cream on his cock, sticky white fluid on the base of his cock. He doesn’t stop nor hesitate in his thrusts, putting more force behind each pump as tears stream down your cheeks, lungs burning from the position.

“One more. Come on, nee-san, give me one more,” he encourages, fingers swirling around your clit and pinching the sensitive area. Legs tense as they shake, vision going black as your eyes roll with the force of your second orgasm. With a groan, Tetsurō finishes himself inside. His seed swishes inside you, coating your walls and spurting our when he pulls himself free of your hole. He’s not aiming to get you pregnant, oh no. He wants obedience.

Best way to do that is assert his dominance in your life, he thinks, as he positions himself to enter you once more.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #BB.Kinky #BB.Dark #tw.dubcon #tw.noncon #Mr. Tetsurō #Kuroo.Spice #kuroo x reader #BB.Requests #tw.incest #tw.alcohol #tw.smoking #tw.blackmail #tw.manipulation

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katherinewilliams221b · 3 years

Text

For A Greater Good 15/18

not my gif just the text. Origins

Summary: Kate Williams, young healer and member of the Order, joins Durmstrang’s staff at Dumbledore’s request. Her mission? Find a Death Eater and survive long enough to tell the story. Set in 1996.

Pairing: Charlie Weasley x ofc/mc

Masterlist

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

[Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10]

[Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14]

Her pulse failed every time she held a quill to write to Charlie; her eyes stung whenever she closed them. At one point she started to feel a constant pressure on her right temple, and it didn’t abandon her during the next weeks that followed her discoveries.

Kate lay on her side in bed, with her arms tucked against herself, protecting the cursed paper that was causing her nightmares, and curled up in a ball. That was her default position every day since then.

She stared at the candle on her table, the only source of light in the room and in her mind. The fire danced and twisted, hypnotising, captivating.

She thought of being somewhere else, with someone else.

What kind of person you must be to fool one of the greatest wizards alive? Dumbledore wasn’t any saint of her devotion, but… he must have known, right? He had to… or perhaps not.

Her breathing was slow and even, she concentrated on it; in and out. In and out. If she kept her eyes opened they stung, but if she closed them… it was worse.

And just like every other night, the candle consumed itself, leaving Kate in total darkness.

“Don’t give up hope.” She had told her students when they saw that none of the umbrella flowers had teeth. “We still have time.”

“We don’t have time! Exams start on Monday and the AEDA is in less than two weeks from now!” Jon had exclaimed.

“What have we done wrong?” Greta had asked.

“Focus on your exams. Remember that you can have your notebook with the greenhouse notes, so make sure it’s complete. I’ll take care of the flowers.”

She didn’t know how. The migraines had intensified, the parchment she hid under her uniform burned her skin every day, every hour, it was a reminder that she had to get out of there as soon as possible. But she had made a promise, and she had to keep it: those plants would have teeth like her name was Kate Williams.

And there, lying in bed unable to see around her, she discovered what had gone wrong with her project: Dark Arts.

After that revelation, Kate went to the library daily to visit the botany section. Corentin deliberately avoided her, being aware of the rumours about them. They had spent a lot of time together these past few months, and inevitably, the castle residents would wonder why.

Deaf to the gossip, the bat kept one eye on the library and one on Kate. Unaware that her friend had her back from above, the young witch devoured pages and pages about crossbreeding, the only activity that kept her from thinking about the list.

The day before the Herbology exam, Kate was sitting at her usual table going over all the ingredients for the potion she had found. With Jorgensen's help, maybe she could grow those fangs.

Voices made her look up. Before long, an unusual commotion where they were standing deafened those looking for a quiet study area.

She saw Corentin, in his bat form, swiftly descending towards the shouting, and followed his path with her eyes. Two of her students, Vivien and Jon, were arguing heatedly, surrounded by their friends. The librarian didn't have to say a word; he just transformed into a human right in the middle of the two, glaring disapprovingly at them until the children dispersed.

Unwilling to perform her duties as an authority figure and scold her students for misbehaviour, she dipped her quill into the inkwell and began copying down the ingredients she would need. She had barely written two of them when movement out of the corner of her eye distracted her.

At a glance she recognised Vivien, who was deep in thought, and pulled a book out of her backpack grumbling to herself. The girl dropped it on the table with a thump.

"Has he been bothering you?" Kate couldn't help but ask. She didn't look up from the page she was reading. She managed to catch a few words in Vivien's mind, but they blended into each other in a swirl of acidity.

"He's been hounding me all week to study with him. He won't leave me alone." Kate put down the quill then and watched as Vivien pretended to read. "I hope after this he gets the idea."

"He won't bother you anymore today." Kate said after a while, "Remember the exam will be in class 82. You'll do fine." Vivien nodded as Kate gathered her belongings.

After asking Corentin's permission to take the book, she walked over to the table where Jon Hopkins was ogling Vivien in the distance, surrounded by his friends.

"Gather your things," she said without greeting, "You've found a study partner."

The boy looked at her as if she had six arms and as a protest began to form on his lips, Kate interrupted him, "It's non-negotiable. Come on, I don't have all day."

The group around Jon pitied their friend as he reluctantly advanced in front of the young teacher outside the library.

"I have to study." He complained as they made their way down the hallway.

"You will accompany me to see Professor Jorgensen and then to the greenhouse. You will study there while I experiment."

"What if I don't want to study?" He challenged. Kate just shrugged.

"Much better. You'll help me with my duties in the greenhouse and with the umbrella flowers. I recommend you find the will to study. I have a lot to do today."

"But why?"

"Maybe then you'll understand what it feels like to have unwanted company."

Kent Jorgensen gave Kate the ingredients without complaint. She had expected more resistance from him, had even prepared a speech to get the professor to agree, but it hadn't been necessary. She supposed he would want to maintain some diplomacy between them with a gesture that wouldn't set off the time bomb that could destroy professor Angelov's career and life.

Once in the greenhouse, Jon sat in the seat furthest away from her and leaned his elbows on the table pretending to read his notes while Kate waved her wand back and forth.

An array of pots, bottles and boxes surrounded her and with a sigh she set about preparing her potion.

The concoction was composed of a mixture of compounds of both plant and animal origin that Kate had never used before and when mixed together, it flooded the greenhouse with a putrid smell.

After two hours, a small explosion of a suspicious liquid, one miscalculation and several incorrect consistencies, Kate managed to obtain the muddy-looking concoction, which she had to leave to steep for fifteen minutes. It was time for the key part of the process: introducing the desired characteristic into the potion.

Jon looked up from his notebook wearily and watched in disgust as Kate cleaned the inside of a geranium's mouth before pulling a fang out of one of them with forceps.

"Why did you say 'sorry' to it?" The boy asked. Kate looked at him in confusion, waiting for him to elaborate further. "You apologised to the geranium." Kate tsked.

"Well, I just knocked his tooth out. He must not have been amused." She set the tusk down in a glass bowl and proceeded cleaning her workbench.

"You're strange... I mean..." Jon stammered out a few words at the look on Kate's face, who misinterpreted her frown as anger. "It's just... you're good. And kind. Like Professor Mawut." Kate smiled.

"Thank you very much, Jon." She raised an eyebrow and added, "But you're not getting rid of me today." He pursed his lips and returned to his notes.

Movement through the glass of the greenhouse caught her attention and squinting she caught a glimpse of Mer Yankelevich hurrying over the bridge towards the forest. Libor Marek was at her heels.

Marek grabbed the teacher's arm and something he said stopped her in her tracks. After a while, Mer released her grip and retraced her steps towards the castle, leaving Marek watching her from a distance.

"Professor Marek is very brutish." Jon commented, having seen the scene as well. Kate tilted her head, agreeing with the comment, and proceeded to grab the fang with a pair of tweezers. She dipped it into the potion and waited as the tooth disintegrated on contact.

"What do you think of Professor Yankelevich?" She asked absently. Jon grimaced and shrugged.

"She's okay, I guess. She's been pretty angry lately, though."

"Angry with you?" Jon shrugged again. He glanced over to where the two teachers had been having the conversation and turned back to Kate. "Professor Marek has been arguing with her a lot," he whispered, "I don't know why... it's almost lunchtime..."

"Great. I'll finish this and we'll eat together." Jon let out a frustrated sigh and rested his head on his fist. "We shouldn't pry into their business." Kate grimaced hearing herself say that.

She swirled the potion with her wand six times to the left and then eleven times to the right. With each twist, the liquid grew thicker and thicker until it hardened so much that the wand had become trapped inside. But she was not to let go of it, no. The instructions clearly stated that there had to be contact with the wizard for at least five minutes.

Practically breathless, she watched as the stone began to crack from the centre of the wand, slowly breaking into a brown powder. She sighed in relief at the desired result and wiped her wand on her overalls.

After adding water, the end result was a bowl of what appeared to be, but nothing could be further from the truth, soil.

She excitedly sprinkled some of it on all the pots of umbrella flowers, and after watering them, covered them all with a leather tarp.

"Tomorrow we'll know if it worked."

Kate watched her students work through the test she had prepared for them. After nearly an hour and a half, she stood up to relieve her stiff muscles. She walked between the rows of children sitting individually and checked out of the corner of her eye that they were only looking at their parchment. A small, fleeting smile broke out on her face, proud to see that most of the pupils were writing with admirable concentration. Some of them, like Micael Angelov, had supplemented their writing with small sketches.

When she reached the end of the class, she went the other way and leaned against the door.

“You have fifteen minutes left,” she remarked, glancing at the clock.

Young Angelov was the first to stand up. Securing his backpack over one shoulder, he handed the parchment to Kate with a shy smile.

“How did it go?” She checked that he’d written his name and looked up waiting for his response.

“Pretty good.”

Kate nodded with a smile and stepped away from the door to make way for him. A voice whispered her name behind her back and Vivien appeared to hand her her exam paper. Kate repeated the question.

“Very good! It was easy... although I didn’t remember you were going to ask about our herbarium... but I was able to answer them. Professor Williams, are you coming to the Glow-bug shower?”

“What’s that?” she whispered, indicating to Vivien to do the same.

“Professor Rhode explained to us that every year thousands of glow-bugs appear and light up all the mountains. It’s Thursday night. According to her, it’s very exciting.”

Apparently, Astrid was right. In her healer’s uniform, spelled to withstand the cold, and her hood hiding her ears and forehead, Kate made her way through the crowd in one of the castle towers. She found a gap near the stone wall overlooking the quidditch pitch and rested her hands on the stone.

It was the one night of the year when students were allowed to roam the castle at midnight, on the occasion of the very particular event that was about to take place.

She raised her hand to her neck, adjusting her cloak to protect herself from the cold, and looked up. A blanket of infinite dots stretched above them. The stars guarded the terrain from high above, and with no clouds, they were perfectly visible from any point. Despite the voices and the shouting, there was something about watching the sky that left Kate in awe and isolated from the rest of the world.

She took a deep breath, imagining Charlie next to her, stretched out, side by side on the lawn of the Burrow, hands casually brushing and competing to prove who had been paying more attention in Astronomy.

“It’s bright out tonight,” a low, husky voice brought her back to the present, “At least it’s not a full moon, in which case they’d be unnoticeable.”

She looked down to find Professor Marek standing next to her. She raised her eyebrows, “I didn’t think seeing glow-worms would interest you, Professor.”

“There are many things that interest me, Miss Williams, not just winning duels.” he replied in a monotone voice. “I didn’t know you‘d be interested in this sort of thing... always stuck in that greenhouse of yours with dirt on your fingers. Have you had enough of flowers and leaves?”

Kate huffed, but didn’t take the bait. She merely averted her gaze to her left, where another tower of the castle contained the same number of people as there were around her. Marek also looked around, but didn’t move his feet from the ground. Kate suspected she would have an escort during the event. The question was, why?

The torches on the stone walls around them suddenly went out, raising the murmurs and impatient exclamations of the children. Kate and Marek turned their heads as they heard Professor Yankelevich’s shriek, pleading for silence.

“I remember you were good with protective spells,” challenged Marek

“I can defend myself.” The professor nodded and looked at the tower next door waiting for the signal. A light from a wand announced the teachers were ready to begin.

“We’re going to create a bubble around us, make sure it’s not too high.”

Numerous wands rose into the air, coming from different parts of the castle. A silvery layer began to form over their heads, spreading at full speed through the air from the highest point of the castle to the ground. Once every stone and corner of the place was encircled, the colour of the dome faded until it was completely transparent, invisible to the human eye.

There was a collective urge to hold one’s breath. The anticipation was beginning to be palpable, and even Kate noticed how her body leaned forward, as if to concentrate better.

A tiny spark came into view in the mountains. It was an intense white light, but very small, so small that after a few seconds it disappeared. The general disappointment dissipated as dozens of lights began to scatter in the distance, then hundreds, and before long, the stars seemed noticeably extinguished by the cascade of glow worms drifting in the wind.

Kate had only ever seen one glow worm in her life; in a Care of Magical Creatures class where Kettleburn had brought one inside a jar to show how some people used to use them as lamps. The problem was, and also the reason the teachers conjured up a protective bubble, glow-bugs were deadly.

“Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” commented Marek without looking away.

She nodded, mouth half-open, gawking at the scene before her eyes; the glow-worms were slowly approaching through the air, carried by the breeze to their heads. The creature comprised a transparent shell that resembled the shape of a Muggle light bulb. Inside was the worm, curled in on itself and emitting an incandescent light.

Several of them bounced off the invisible barrier, creating an almost hypnotic effect on the onlookers. The entire castle was under such a blinding spotlight everyone was forced to squint or shield themselves with their hands.

The worms had scattered within moments; some had strayed into the forest, some into the mountains, and the rest had descended the cliffs, leaving the castle in its usual gloom.

Kate turned to Marek the moment the torches were lit again. A particular, never-before-seen gleam decorated the professor’s eyes, which, as the seconds passed, transformed his gaze into a deep, watery unhappiness.

Marek pulled himself together quickly and as much as Kate longed to know the reason for such emotion, she kept her mouth shut and waited patiently for some dry, cutting remark to ease the tension.

“I don’t know my parents. They died when I was very young.” He proclaimed instead. She stood still, afraid to shoo him away like a bird perching in one’s window to say hello. Despite there being so many people around them, the rest of the teachers were ordering them back to the dormitories, giving them some ironic privacy. Marek was staring off into the distance, “But I have a memory, a very vivid one, of a situation like this. It’s like an anniversary for me, I don’t know what, but that’s how I see it.”

A cruel idea flashed through her mind, one that she was dying to spit in his face, but for the sake of their diplomatic relationship she held back inside her. Her eyes began to burn, and she cursed to herself for being so emotional lately. She carved a frown into her forehead to keep her tears from spilling.

“My adoptive parents never knew where I got such a story...”

“And despite...” she couldn’t hold back, her words would be hurtful and she knew it, but she blurted them out to his face all the same, “And despite not knowing your origins, which may well be non-magical, you make a point of despising those who are different from you. You could be a muggleborn.”

Marek peeled his eyes from the mountains and looked at her with his characteristic sternness. The facade had returned to his face and his heart was shut tight.

“No,” he hissed, “my blood is clean.”

Mer Yankelevich was pushing the last student into the building when he made eye contact with Kate. Surely she had been watching the entire exchange, she thought.

Professor Jorgensen appeared through the door at that instant, averting his gaze to Kate and Marek and then to Mer, intermittently. He closed the door behind him and both professors approached them.

“You’ll never be completely sure of that.” Kate shook her head at his comment, wondering why she’d been so concerned about his feelings. The professor turned sharply and without a goodbye, stomped off to enter the castle and disappeared from sight.

“Is Libor all right?” asked Yankelevich.

“He looks really obfuscated, but that’s usual.”

Kate took a step back, suddenly feeling irrationally cornered.

“He’s been acting strangely for some time now, and an unpredictable Libor can be dangerous.” said Mer.

Jorgensen turned to her, “To my mind, Libor is not an irrational creature...”

“Believe me, I know him well. We should stay away from him for a while, let him clear his head.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Professor,” Kate said, a little upset. Mer walked over to her, holding her gaze.

“If you spend more time with us, you’ll understand that it’s better to give Libor his space. By the way, the year is coming to an end. Will you still be the Herbology teacher next year? From what I hear, Rhode is thrilled with you.”

“And so are the kids.” Jorgensen pointed out, also interested in knowing Kate’s response.

“I haven’t discussed it with Rhode yet...”

“But you’d like to stay on?” insisted Yankelevich.

“It’s been an interesting opportunity, of course, but...” The conversation was entering swampy territory and as eloquent as Kate could be, she was struggling to find the right words. In the end, following her mother’s advice, she opted to speak a truth. “I’m very lonely.”

“Ah,” nodded Jorgensen, “That’s the effect Durmstrang can have, yes. I bet you’re eager to get home as soon as possible, wherever that is.” Kate nodded slowly, recognising a small, complicit smile on the professor’s face, making her remember their talk months ago.

“Exactly.”

Yankelevich hummed, inspecting Kate closely. Uncomfortable with the interrogation and impatient to regain the safety of her room, she said a hasty goodbye and headed for the door leading to the stairs, leaving Jorgensen and Yankelevich in the starlight.

[Part 16]

A/N: Not a very exciting chapter I know, but still important. The end is near my friends.

Tag List: @eldritchscreech @meteora-fc

@cazreadsstuff

@the-navistar-carol

@am-i-space

#charlie weasley #charlie weasley fanfiction #charlie weasley x mc #charlie weasley x ofc #charlie weasley/mc #charlie weasley/ofc #charlie weasley x jacob's sibling #durmstrang #kate williams #hphm #hphm fanfiction

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mistersourwolf · 4 years

Text

An Old Lovers Quarrel- Geralt x Reader

Pairing: Geralt x Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: hints at nsfw but not really nsfw at all, angry reader?? I don’t really have many warnings for this actually

Summary: Y/N hunts monsters just like any witcher except she is human. She is directed to Blaviken, the town in which only bad memories are tied to her, but she is here to go against a mutant whom she was told was lurking in the shadows. While in Blaviken she comes across Geralt, an old lover, one she hadn’t seen since the accidental death of a friend. A death caused by Geralt. They reconnect towards the end of the story and honestly just read because I feel I went all sorts of directions with this one but it IS worth the read I promise.

A/N: This is so insanely long but please do give it a read and reblog if you can. It took me about a week to write this as I wasn’t sure which direction I wanted to go with this, just a heads up Josef is just a character I planted in there to help the story run a lot smoother. I hope you do like it though and any feedback is welcomes and I do apologize if the end seems a bit rushed I was just so eager to have a finished piece but yeah :))

It was only noon when you pushed through the doors of the tavern, eyeing the elves and humans who sat amongst each other. They were in peace living among each other and as you could see they each shared bits of their traditions and culture. Surely a lot had changed since you’d last been here. You waved your hand at Josef, the barkeep. His eyes lit up at the sight of you and he quickly brought you a tankard, froth trickling down the side.

“You’ve returned, I wonder after all these years,” Josef leaned over the counter, smiling nastily, “what sort of devilry lingers in Blaviken?”

Sitting on the barstool, you took a swig of your ale and a cough rose from your lungs. “What is this? Goat piss?” You griped, wiping droplets of ale from your chin.

“I do remember you a particular one,” the barkeep grinned, “but honorable y/n, ‘tis the best ale in all of Blaviken.”

“I don’t doubt it, not a bit.” You sneered, glancing once more around the pub. “I’m looking for a witcher, one who‘s fond of hide and seek and I’ve no time for the antics of children.”

The barkeeps eyes widened at the mention of the brutish creature, a witcher, possibly in Blaviken.

“A mutant?” Josef quieted, “what business do you have with a beast like that?”

Your eyes narrowed, slightly offended by the barkeeps judgement for though you spited the witcher, you felt you were kindred spirits by divine will. You bit your tongue, saying nothing at all and taking a mouthful of that atrocious ale, forcing it down.

“Very well,” the barkeep continued, “You enjoy the ale.”

You watched him as he walked away, overlooking the tavern. Josef was an honest man, always considerably kind but an unapologetic brazen half-wit. It took a while for Josef to realize you were neither an elf, sorceress, or peasant but a simply a well respected human. One who sought out imminent dangers; to be precise you were the non-mutant witcher that even Witcher’s feared. A human hunter of all monstrosities that littered the world. Witcher’s didn’t belong on that list of horror but Geralt of Rivia held the honor of writing himself onto the non existent draft.

You finished up your ale, struggling to stomach the thickness of it but you managed, standing from your stool.

“Running off so soon?” The barkeep called out as you headed for the door, “You’ll come back to criticize more of my famed ale, will you?”

You turned towards him nodding, “My greatest pleasure in this town is downing tankards of your disgusting ale, Josef, I will return.”

The barkeep opened his mouth to speak but you never did hear his words as you rushed into the streets of Blaviken. Carts flew by you and you watched as the children played in the town, giggling maniacally. They had not a sliver of care in the world and you felt in the pit of your stomach the nostalgic feeling of being a know-nothing happy brat. It was years ago but still the memories of Sunday porridge with your mother as a girl were vivid. You stared into the crowds of people watching them disperse as the clacking of a horses trot rippled through the street. You watched the familiar horse emerge from the crowd and atop was a hooded figure. Your insides churned as your instincts told you who stood in front of you. You hurried behind a bush, placed conveniently by the tavern. Peeping from behind it you noticed the man jump from his mare, whispering to the animal. An odd, yet again, familiar thing to see. He turned away from the horse, trusting her to remain outside the tavern without so much as securing her to a pole. His pride radiated through each step he took. You winced hearing the door to the pub creak as he slowly entered, leaving your sight. You crept from the bush, brushing off the spiderwebs that must’ve been etched on the shrub and headed back inside the Tavern. You watched from inside the door as the witcher sat on a stool, dramatically pulling down his hood. Josef immediately approached the man with a tankard, as always overflowing with foam. The witcher took a swig of the awful concoction and a brutal hacking followed. You grinned, mentally telling Josef to shove Blavikens best ale up his ass. At that moment, you moved in on him, sitting on the neighboring stool.

Josefs eyes lit up seeing you back in the pub so soon but you stared him down coldly, sending a clear message not to bother you. You glanced over at the white-haired man, his eyes staring down at the bar top.

“Do you think I couldn’t sense you?” The witcher grimaced, “The hate you have for Blaviken, even the dead can feel your dread.”

You were startled by his sudden words which conveyed he remembered you well.

He raised his head to look at you, startling you as you forgot what it was to look him in his eyes which took on the bright bursting color of sunflower petals, a kaleidoscope of yellow and orange. It sent chills to your bones as you had forgotten how they could so easily penetrate the soul. You resisted shifting to puddy and instead held a strong stance, trying to get a read on him.

“That’s true, witcher,” you smiled, “I do pity this place. It is, after all, the place my mother and father abandoned me, where I was forced to kill my first monster and of course my biggest misfortune of all, where I met you.”

A frown masked his face, “I never meant any harm to—“

“You need not worry, witcher, I’m not here to avenge him. As much as I rightfully should, my hands will not command my dagger to be held against you.” you explained.

“So why trouble yourself to travel all the way to Blaviken?” He sighed. “I’ve not known you to come in peace.”

“Actually you’ve not known me at all, witcher.” You smiled nastily, “But if you must know, I’ve come seeking another mutant like yourself,“

Geralt looked taken back, assuming you were suggesting another witcher.

“Well, not exactly like yourself since this one is cursed. Birthed by her mother on the eclipse.” You explained watching Geralt drink from his tankard once more. He must’ve forgotten the taste of it as you watched his face contorted in horrific disgust.

“So I’ve heard,” He slid his cup away from him. “She comes for Stregabor, by the name of Renfri and from what he tells me, I see why she would pursue his demise. The Bastard.” He sneered.

“Well, I’m inquiring your help, Geralt, help me kill the—“

Geralts lips slightly turned upwards almost as if he were trying to smile, “I have a code, you’re forgetting but I do remember you an eager one.”

“I’ve heard particular now eager, I guess I leave quite an impression.” you grinned but the sound of the tavern doors swinging open caused you to turn your head. In walked a thin, lenient woman, her hair cut in a shapely bob made her way to the bar top.

“Josef!” She called out, “Two tankards, extra froth how I like it.”

The barkeep fumbled for the tankards, nervous in her presence. You turned back around facing Geralt, “You and I must be the only ones with any good taste in ale.”

Geralt watched the girl as she walked over to the two of you.

The brunette spoke up, “Well isn’t this the most prime example of opposites attracting? You two are together I assume?”

You disagreed shaking your head and letting a laugh rip from your lungs, “Not in his wildest dreams.”

The witcher grunted, amused knowing he already had you, long ago before your quarrel sent you both on separate paths.

She chimed in again, “Then it won’t be any trouble to steal your seat, will it?”

You felt jealousy stir in the pit of your stomach but calmed it, standing from your seat. Usually you would have twisted her arm and made her regret ever asking such a thing—to give up your seat so her entitled, everyone-loves-me self could have a seat next to him..but you were so sick of the impressions you made. Geralt tried to hold back a smug grin but couldn’t, knowing you were resisting your rage. You sat down the line from the two as she began making conversation with Geralt.

You noticed his eyes meeting yours every so often as she talked his ear off. Eventually his looks became focused on only her as you pestered Josef for more tankards of his shitty ale.

“Who is that?” You asked him, taking the cup from his hand.

His eyes gleamed at the sight of her, entranced by her very existence, “That is our beloved Renfri,” Your eyes widened at the mention of her name, this was the girl you’d been looking for. “been coming here these past few weeks and business is thriving more than it has in the last decade.”

You nodded at Josef, sipping your ale as you watched Geralt listen fondly to the girl. What did she want from him? You watched as they stood up from their stools, placing their tips on the bar top. Geralt made eye contact with you as he followed her out of the bar, seemingly to magnify you jealousy. It worked and you were certainly angered but again so sick of the first impressions you made.

For the rest of the evening, unsure of where the witcher and the girl had run off to, you sat at Josef’s tavern. By six o clock you were on your seventh tankard and booze practically seeped from your pores. Seeing Geralt brought back memories, ones you tried desperately to shove in the back of your mind. He had brought up the boy, the boy whom was loved so dearly in the village, the boy whom you had grown close to after your family left you to the streets of Blaviken. But as soon as memories of him surfaced you drowned them in the sea of your trauma, or in booze. Right now it was booze. You stumbled to your feet, slamming your coins on the surface of the bar.

“I knew I should’ve stopped you at tankard number three, y/n.” The barkeep said causing you to laughed obnoxiously, your breath reeking of ale.

“Take your coin and go to hell, my old friend.” You slurred, a stupid grin on your face. Your legs felt like jell-o as you headed towards the tavern door. Multiple times, you leaned onto the bar top to ensure your balance. You cursed at Geralt, pissed he had left you all alone at the pub. He owed you nothing but your stomach turned as you thought of the looks Renfri gave Geralt. You pushed through the doors into the evening landscape, a hand over your stomach as you retched, all the contents emptying from your stomach. Wiping your mouth with your sleeve, you stood upright again. You looked along the path heading to a local inn, it was going to be a difficult walk being as drunk as you were. However you made your way down the path receiving multiple stares from peasants, workmen, even children were disgusted by your souring look. You were far too lost in your head to even hear the trotting of a horse behind you, but the rider caught your attention shortly.

“You,” He said annoyed, “are not sober in the slightest. What have you gotten yourself into?” It was Geralt, seemingly concerned.

“Well, well,” you stumbled against him, “if it isn’t the absentee witcher.”

“Seriously y/n? What the fucking hell?” He grumbled, wrapping an arm around you and leading you to his horse.

“Yep,” you grinned, “What the fucking hell Geralt, you murdered an innocent boy.”

Geralt paused, glancing over at you who giggled idiotically, clearly unaware of what you were saying.

“Come on,” he muttered, throwing you on top his horse and then joining you. “Don’t fall.”

As the horse began to trot along the path again, your body rattled against Geralts. Your arms gripped tightly around his torso, terrified of falling from the horse. You were extremely intoxicated and so the scent of picked berries from the local shops made you feel hunger at a peak. He glanced every so often to make sure you were still awake and able to maintain your grip. The ride wasn’t long, only a few minutes compared to what would’ve taken you hours. Geralt leaped from his horse, immediately pulling you off and hurrying towards the inn. You stumbled down the halls of the inn, walking to your room. Geralt sighed annoyed by you as you fumbled in your back pockets, searching for what seemed like eternity for your room key.

Once inside, you ran towards your bed, jumping backwards onto it. The witcher was not amused, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You should get some rest,” He suggested, his voice a mix of concern and frustration. “If you want to get to Renfri in the morning.”

You sat up, eyeing him as he walked across the room, looking at your things. “Now you want to kill her, why the sudden change of heart?”

“I will not touch her, but I cannot stop you from killing her and I won’t let her kill you.” He admitted, hinting you were of importance to him.

“That’s endearing,” you stuttered, “to know I have your permission, tell me Geralt, did you ask my permission when you slaughtered the—“

“I know what he meant to you!” Geralt yelled, throwing a piece of china across the room. It shattered against the wall, not even earning a flinch from you. “When will you see it was not my intention? You brought him there when you knew—“

“How was I to know she was a Bruxa?” You raised your voice at him, “how was I to know she forged a bond with him? That he would try to protect her?” Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision.

Geralt grew quiet, ashamed that he tried to blame what had happened on you. You blinked, staring up at the ceiling in attempt to resist gravity. But you failed and multiple tears slid down your cheeks, now flustered and taking on a pinkish-red tone. Geralt walked over to you, sitting beside you. Silence with Geralt always was the opposite—horrendously loud. You know how he was feeling without him having to say it, and you leaned into him. His arm wrapped tightly around your shoulder, giving a small squeeze as you wiped your tears.

“I thought it would be easier to hate you but instead I’ve only had to suffer this loss alone.” You sniffled, your head still spinning from the excess amount of ale you had consumed.

“It’s easier to shift blame where it doesn’t belong than to accept a fate that we hate.” He said, clearing his throat at the end. “Just sleep. We will ride back into town at dawn.” Geralt pulled away, letting you lay back into your bed.

Geralt hadn’t even left your bed before you were fast asleep. He chuckled to himself, knowing you were sure to have an awful headache in the morning. Grabbing a spare pillow from your bed, he threw it onto the floor and stretched out on the floorboards. That evening he couldn’t sleep, his mind occupied by the days events. By sunrise, he was laying beside you, watching you in your peaceful slumber before you’d have to face the pain of a hangover.

You stirred in your sleep, squinting your eyes tightly as the bright sun illuminated the room. You groaned rolling over and to your surprise onto Geralts chest. You raised your head slowly, glaring at the witcher who peered down at you.

“I don’t imagine we...?” You hinted to the witcher, rolling your eyes as you ran your fingers through your hair.

Geralt smirked, “Not in my wildest dreams, I was once told.”

You rolled over off of Geralt, sitting up. As soon as you sat upright, a sharp pain beat against your temples. You groaned, massaging both sides of your head with your fingertips.

“Damn it.” you winced, squeezing the bridge of your nose.

“I might have something for you,” the witcher said, getting up from the bed and walking to his bag. “Here.” He said, pulling out a small bottle which was sealed with a cork.

You read the bottle which was a mix of Rosemary, Ginger and something you couldn’t even try to pronounce. You assumed it must’ve been a healing ingredient as the two herbs were easy enough to say.

“I trust this isn’t poison, but then again you do seek out the innocent.” You groaned, chugging the mixture down. The taste was horrifying and the texture even more so.

Geralt remembered your conversation from last night, realizing you were too drunk to remember. “You are miles from innocent and if it was poison I’d drink it myself if it meant not enduring your wit.”

You scoffed, walking towards your bag and grabbing a fresh pair of clothes. You didn’t bothering asking him to turn around as it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. His eyes tried to look in any other direction but he failed, coming back to your figure as you slipped your freshly cleaned shirt over your torso. You decided to keep your previous pants on as they were best to fight in and you knew there would be bloodshed today, whether it was your own or Renfri’s you did not know.

“Well, Come on then.” You said hiding a dagger in your boot and sliding your sword into your scabbard. You left the inn with Geralt behind you, following.

Geralt walked to Roach, talking as usual to the mare. “She’s a little bitter today, Roach, I apologize in advance.”

You kicked gently at Geralt, “It is impolite to gossip, now may we get going, witcher?”

Geralt smirked, climbing atop the horse as did you. Soon you reached the busy town of Blaviken, as usual children ran back and forth in the streets, racing their friends. Families walked together from shop to shop, seeing the same things they do any other day. Partially the reason you hated Blaviken was because nothing ever changed in the town. The people were the same for generations, the towns ale never got better, always a disgusting mixture easily comparable to piss, children were filthy and the shops worn down.

The tavern was in sight and in moments you were climbing down from Roach along with Geralt. Your headache had eased and nausea had subsided, it seems the remedy Geralt had given you was true to its purpose. You felt more lively than ever walking into the Tavern. Josef met eyes with you, ignoring Geralts brooding presence. “Surely you’re not back for another drink? This early?”

You smiled at Josef, his eyes a chilling blue-grey. “I don’t think I’ll drink for another decade, Josef,” you chuckled, “Have you seen Renfri?”

“Whats it to you?” The barkeep spoke in her defense, odd as you were his oldest friend. You grew up with Josef, his mother and yours were close friends up until she bolted from Blaviken.

“She’s a friend of mine.” You smiled, convincing him it was only of interest of you to reunite with an old friend. He didn’t seem very convinced, pulling back his lip unsure.

“You two didn’t seem that good of friends yester—“ Josef started only to be cut off by Geralt reaching across the bar top, gripping Josef tightly by his head of hair and slamming his head down on the bar top. The barkeep winced and you tugged at Geralts arm, worried for Josef.

“Alright, what has Josef done this time?” A voice called out from behind you two. You turned around but Geralt only shifted his body, still gripping Josef’s hair. The dainty brunette stood before both you and Geralt.

“They’re looking for—“ Josef tried to speak but Geralt slammed his head into the bar top once more, knocking him out this time. You nudged Geralt harshly, muttering some curse words.

“Now Josef is a good fellow, he doesn’t deserve to be attacked in his own pub, have you no manners witcher?” Renfri stepped closer to the witcher, her hand swiftly crossing his chest, “Oh yes, I do remember from last night you had quite the manners.”

You shot a glare at Geralt who avoided your stare as if he could sense the anger building inside you again. He gently pushed the brunette back so she wasn’t standing so close.

“Well it seems you aren’t the one looking for me so what do you want?” She said turning towards you, looking at you as if you were a peasant. It humbled you as you don’t recall the last time someone had a gaze like hers.

“Something very simple,” you murmured, now wanting her dead more than ever. “A gift for the queen, your head on a platter.” You grabbed the hilt of your sword, pulling it from its sheath.

Screams emerged from the crowd and in seconds the only ones who stood in the tavern were you, Renfri and the witcher. She was just as quick as you, whistling before unsheathing her own sword. A mob of men came from the shadows of the tavern, standing against you as well. Geralt gripped his sword, walking towards the men to fend them off. Your sword clashed with Renfris as your feet danced on the floor with her. Her weapon slashed through the air and you ducked under swiftly, slicing her side. She didn’t skip a beat, spinning around and aiming behind your legs. You jumped over her sword, feeling the sharp edge knick your achilles but not deep enough to disable you. You heard the agonizing screams of Renfris goons, Geralt was slaughtering each one of them and Renfri fell distracted by this. You took the opportunity to slash across her chest which she fell back from, her sword fell from her hands and you jumped on top of her, holding your sword to her throat. She leaned into the blade, which cut slightly into her throat. With a quick movement, her head butted against you making you fall back onto your ass. You winced, feeling a sensation similar to your hangover. You leapt back up, clutching your sword tightly as she fumbled for hers. You two stood on opposing sides of the table, circling it with your swords pressing against each other’s, each of you applying all your strength to overthrow each other. Suddenly, one of Renfris men fell into the table, breaking the barrier between you two. You swooped down in a pirouette slicing the back of her thigh.

“Agh!” She yelled, but continued to work her sword. She would not back down and was persistent despite her bleeding injuries. With one final clash, she knocked your sword from your hands. You stumbled back, hitting your head against the hard floor. In seconds she climbed on top of you, her legs on either side of you as she pressed her own sword firmly against your neck just as you did to her moments ago.

“You’ve come for my head and now it seems I’ll have yours.” She quipped, a strong hatred in her eyes, “I do hope this isn’t over the witcher, but bless his soul he knows how to pleas—.”

Her body arched above you as you watched a sword rip through her upper abdomen. Blood dripped onto you as she collapsed over you but not before being kicked aside by none other than Geralt. He offered you a hand but you refused, standing to your feet just fine in your own.

“Y/n, what she said..” Geralt tried to explain but you didn’t let him. You pushed his chest shoving him back, then again and again.

“I ask you to help me kill her and you decide to fuck her instead?!” You shouted furiously, giving one last final shove. Geralt said nothing but gave you eyes of sorrow, those eyes you could no longer stomach to look at.

“You think you’re gonna save my life and have me leap into your arms?” You yelled, truly wondering his thought process, “You are pathetic.”

You ran out of the tavern, a strong urge to burst into tears but you couldn’t. For whatever reason, you just couldn’t.

Geralt rushed after you, “Let me take you to the inn, it is too cold to walk, you’ll freeze.”

“I wonder, will you attempt to warm me as you did her?” You scoffed, crossing your arms, it really was cold.

Geralt stared at you as you avoided his eyes, his beautiful bright yet dark and sad eyes. “You don’t understand, she’s a mutant, one who enchants men she comes across—“

“Oh poor you, the mighty Geralt of Rivia, fallen victim to a scummy brunette.” You laughed as if that was masking your anger but even Geralt knew the dangers of a woman laughing when upset.

“I’m a witcher, y/n, but I’m not immune to magic, no,” he grew agitated by your rudeness, “but I did everything I could to resist.”

You cursed under your breath, finally looking at him. His eyes spoke volumes of guilt, unaware Witcher’s could even feel guilt. Saying nothing to him, you mounted yourself on Roach. As Geralt joined you on top the horse, your arms instinctively wrapped around his torso causing him to turn his head to the side, watching the outline of your figure lean against him for support. A small smile creeped along his lips, though he didn’t let you see it.

Arriving at the inn, you entered your room which felt like heaven as a blanket of warmth wrapped around you. You grew hot from the sudden shift in temperature and immediately stripped despite Geralt being there. He paid no attention to you though not wanting to hear any remarks from you. He then did the same except he only removed his armor and shoes, nothing else. You put something less bloody and looser on, feeling much better after the wardrobe change. The two of you said nothing on the way to the inn and even moments after sitting in your room. He wandered your room aimlessly, looking for nothing in particular but noticing everything. He came across an instrument hidden in the corner of your room beside your bed. He picked it up carefully, he was reminiscing and made it no secret.

“I know a bard who would treasure a lute of this woodwork.” He said softly, strumming his fingers in one swift motion. You looked at him, holding the dainty instrument in his arms.

“It belonged to—Its the only thing I have left of him.” You were hesitant but smiled at the thought of him, the boy who you’d been best friends with for years. You didn’t know how to play the damn thing but it was something he had always talked about teaching you one day. “What’s this bards name?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said placing the lute back in its original place, “I came across him a few years after our parting and it would be a dishonor to say he’s a persistent one. He is far more than persistent.” Geralt cracked a small smile thinking of his friend.

“Is he human?” You asked.

“He is, yes. He would drive you mad, I know that much.” Geralt walked over sitting on the bed beside you.

“You really didn’t feel anything for her did you Geralt?” You asked shyly, knowing it shouldn’t even matter to you. You left him years ago after the incident, it was you who made the choice to part ways with him. He reached out, tilting your chin towards him.

“Nothing more than magic tethered me to her,” he said, assuring you it was nothing to do with chemistry but manipulation. “I’ve never fought anything so strong but I did and if I had to I’d do it again.”

Your heart warmed hearing this from your witcher, the witcher who was usually not so open with his feelings. You had that power over him and always did. You two were open books with each other and despising him all these years just set you up to melt right into his hands. You forgot the connection between you and the witcher through all of your quarrel.

“I know,” you admitted, feeling a rush of emotions. “and I-I’ve missed you.”

Geralt tilted his head down, pressing his lips to yours. You leaned into the kiss, draping your arms over his shoulders, intertwining your fingers behind him. You pulled him on top of you as you laid into your mattress. His lips were hungry and each kiss more ambitious than the last. He broke the kiss crossing his arms and pulling his shirt over his head revealing a broad chest. You missed every part of him and having been apart from him all these years tore your heart just thinking about it. But you didn’t, you focused on his fingers gripping your hips and tugging at the hem of your shirt. He slid the shirt over your head, revealing your proportioned figure. He missed the sight of you beneath him and what would follow these moments would be a pleasurable reconnection, one of kindred souls.

You laid breathlessly on his chest, tracing patterns on his skin. He hummed as you did this, his eyes fluttering in and out. It had been long since he had slept but he was calm and at rest. The morning sun still lit the room, and you had forgotten it was only a few hours past sunrise.

“So,” you said calmly, breathing in his scent, one you missed dearly. “When can I meet your beloved friend?”

Geralts eyes opened at this, a smirk on his lips, “I don’t think friend is quite the term for Jaskier, more of a pleasant nuisance.”

You smiled, propping yourself up on a pillow “Then fine, when can I meet this nuisance?” You corrected yourself, running your fingers through the Witcher’s pearl colored hair.

“If nothing is waiting for you after Blaviken then come with me.” Geralt said staring at the ceiling above him. You leaned over planting a kiss on his lips, smiling broadly. Laying back into his arms, you watched as he fell into a deep sleep. You soon followed and fell into a dream state on top of the man who you thought you would hate forever. But as a dear friend once said to you, your fate is written and those who are fated for each other find each other in the most vulnerable times.

#imagines #send in requests #imagine #my gif edit #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x y/n #henry cavill #the witcher #the witchers imagine #the witcher geralt #x reader #geralt of rivia gifs #super long #long fic #sorry #not sorry #took me so long to write #but no regrets

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queen18xo · 4 years

Text

A Brothers Love

Thor awoke to dainty hands weaving through his recently shortened hair; he could feel a firm softness beneath his head not quite as soft as a pillow; however not wholly unfamiliar. Thor could feel the heat emanating from beneath him, the warmth surprisingly comforting.

Thor kept his breathing even; his eyes shut feigning sleep to give himself a moment to recollect his thoughts and assess where he is.

The fingers running soothingly through his golden hair felt familiar the ghost of a touch he'd long since forgotten. The intimate way in which the fingers weaved through his hair, bringing distant memories to his mind. He could see flashes of memories, his head pillowed in his brother's lap as he tended to wounds acquired amid various battles. He could feel the phantom touch of Loki's agile fingers gliding through his hair.

Thor inhaled deeply as blunt nails were dragged across his scalp, his senses enveloped by a sweet natural scent, a natural scent that could belong to no one other than Loki. Thor had spent millennia drowning in that scent, memorising each individual note that made up Loki's scent. In truth, there was no scent in the nine realms that could elicit such a response from Thor. Gulping in lungfuls of Lokis scent, Thor's muscles relaxed, his head burrowing deeper into what Thor could only assume were Loki's supple thighs.

"Loki" Thor whispered reverently, blinking his eyes open a sleepy smile on his face. Through hazy eyes, Thor saw Loki's shock filled emerald green eyes shining back at him. It was a rare sight, Loki without his calmly detached demeanour. Thor couldn't bite back the chuckle threatening to pass his lips as he took in Loki's unguarded expression. "You're here." Thor smiled lazily up at him once his chuckles subsided.

"Of course I'm here you oaf." Loki's harsh remark contradicted the gentle way in which his hands traced his multiple wounds. "You are brainless Thor." Thor stared up at Loki affronted by the insult. He attempted to manoeuvre his massive body into an upright position; however, Loki's lithe body was quicker a small hand pressing to his chest. "You must rest brother" Loki stated calmly, applying minimal force to push Thor back down into the warm cradle of his Thighs. In truth, Thor often missed the gentle way Loki had cared for him before the truth of his heritage had torn them apart.

Loki extracted his hand once Thor fell back against him, Thor immediately began to miss the soft skin of Loki's hand against his warm flesh. Countless years had passed since Loki had last touched him in such a way, Thor had missed the gentle caress of his brother. Years of hatred and betrayal, unable to eradicate the longing he felt for his brother. "Why are you here, Loki?" Thor asked the rare feeling of defeat coursing through him. Thor could do no more than stare at his brother, the gentle handling merely a distant memory to Thor after the many years of violence between them.

"Do you not wish me to be?" Loki asked the wet splash of a washcloth as Loki saturated it with water the only sound to break up the tense silence settling between the brothers.

"I do not appreciate your deflection brother" Thor growled his patience was wearing thin as he fought the urge to melt into his brothers comforting touch.

"When do you ever" Loki stated with a cold indifference that Thor had long since learnt was Loki's way of masking pain. His brother was a complex man, often hiding true feeling behind masks of detachment. Many thought Loki to be emotionless, but Thor knew in truth Loki felt more than most. Thor could remember holding Loki as he sobbed with sorrow, none other then Thor knew the damage their parents secret had caused Loki.

Loki had always been mischievous; he was a trickster by nature; however, he had never been malicious. Had you asked Thor many years ago if his brother were capable of harming another Thor would've profusely denied it. For years Thor watched as Loki struggled with confidence issues, often sobbing against Thor's chest late at night unable to understand why he did not look like other Asgardians. Loki may have been just as strong as any Asgardian warrior, but he lacked the muscle mass.

Loki was all sharp edges and elegant movements as opposed to the brutishness of an Asgardian. Thor found Loki's appearance mesmerising from a young age; he had watched Loki train on multiple occasions, entranced by his brother's sleek appearance. His sharp edges and beautiful curves, the way his daggers appeared as merely an extension of himself Thor had never seen such beauty and looking up at his brother now aged many years since they were boys Thor was still yet to find a beauty that could compare to Loki.

"Thor?" Loki called his brow furrowed with concern as Thor broke from his thoughts. Loki's soft palm cradling his cheek, his gentle breaths fanning over his flushed face as Loki's assessing gaze flickered over his face worriedly.

"Do not worry yourself, brother; I was merely lost in thought." Thor bit back a smile as Loki hummed his face shuttering against any discernable emotions as he continued to tend to Thor's wounds. "May I sit, brother?" Thor asked wishing to avoid being the centre of Lokis ire. Loki observed him trying to ascertain the reason why Thor was so cordial, Loki nodded his ascent gentle hands assisting Thor as he moved to sit before Loki.

Thor gripped one of Lokis smaller hands in his own as Loki moved to pull away. Loki's mouth opened in a silent gasp, shock and fear marring his features. "Release me Thor" Loki spoke his voice uncertain and tinged with nerves. Loki was capable of pulling from Thor's grip they both knew if Loki did not want to be held, then Thor wouldn't stand a chance of forcing the contact.

"I wish to speak with you Loki, not as an enemy but as your brother."

Loki laughed hollowly "but we are not truly brothers Thor" Loki argued in protest, Loki had never been one for open communication too quick to anger for any meaningful conversation to be achieved.

"Do not lie to me Loki, we may not be bonded by blood, but you care for me as you used to, your affection for me is not as lost to you as you may claim." Thor bit back unwilling to let Loki leave without allowing him a chance to speak of what has occurred between them for many years. Thor knew he was partly to blame for the hurt festering inside Loki, just as their parents were, however, Thor was now the only one that remained.

"What is it you wish of me, Thor?" Loki asked tiredly; Thor pulled on Loki's hand the younger man tumbling ungracefully down into his lap from his unbalanced position on his knees. "You brute!" Loki exclaimed flustered, his hair falling messily around his face, his cheeks flushed a delectable pink, and his mouth pursed unhappily.

"All I wish for is honesty Loki; I know you have been hurt by our parents and by me. I do not wish to quarrel with you brother; I wish to make amends." Loki huffed, pulling himself up to straddle Thor's thick thighs. Thor wrapped his muscular arms around Loki's delicate waist, acting on muscle memory alone.

In the past, Loki, on many occasions, would seat himself in Thor's lap his long legs wrapping around Thor's waist, they would spend countless hours conversing as Thor held Loki in his arms. They would hold each other from dusk till dawn given half a chance.

"You want honest then I will be honest if you are. Why do you hold me in such a way when we are no longer the boys we once were?" Loki asks an edge to his voice Thor is unfamiliar with.

"You are my brother Loki I will always hold you in such a way" Thor responded, it was the truth not entirely but enough that Loki would sense no lie in his words. Thor met Loki's vibrant green eyes his heart aching as he struggled not to reminisce, times long since passed. Days spent with Loki bathed in the golden sunlight sprawled across Thor unashamedly as he basked in the sun. Thor struggled to push the thoughts of the many ways in which he'd held Loki over the years, lest his brother sees straight to his soul. Loki had always possessed a strange affinity for reading people; however, he had never divulged how he learnt the ability.

Thor could feel the familiar tingle of Loki's seidr as his eyes locked with Thor's. The way Loki appeared to see straight through the half-truth Thor supplied, chilling Thor to his core for if Loki was able to see the truth long since buried there may be no hope of salvaging their already tumultuous relationship.

"What are you hiding brother?" Loki asked, gripping Thor's cheeks in his hands, his hands no longer as gentle or loving as they had been previously. "I can feel it, Thor, you know I can so why lie? Is the truth so bad you the golden son, the mighty Thor must lie to me?" Loki rears back extricating himself from where his body melded with Thors, instead choosing to stand before him.

Thor stood too, not wishing to be looked down on by Loki, the thought unsettling him. He towered above his brother, Loki eyeing him with suspicion. Thor was not one to lie; it was common knowledge amongst the people of Asgard that Thor detested lies and therefore he could not blame Loki for his suspicion however Thor believed in this scenario the truth was worse than the lie.

"Loki please" Thor pleaded with his brother for the younger man to drop his line of questioning, after all, if he told Loki the reason for the lie his brother would know the truth before the words could leave his lips.

Loki leaned against the wall feigning indifference, the long lines of his body elongated by his stance, the way his back arched against the colourful metal of the wall, his hair longer than in years past cascading over his shoulders framing his delicate face. Thor drank in the sight greedily for it was not often enough; he was allowed the chance to marvel over the vision that was his brother. Thor watched as a Loki's sinful mouth turned up into a wicked smirk, one that unfortunately Thor was intimately familiar with.

Loki made precise steps towards Thor as if he were a predator stalking its prey. His long legs were gliding swiftly across the space between them; every oncoming step Loki took forcing Thor to shuffle back. The God Of Thunder felt small beneath his brother's intense gaze and the predatory way he encroached on Thor's space. "Loki," Thor said warningly.

"What's wrong brother, you did not quarrel with the lack of space between us mere moments ago? I would go as far as to say you enjoyed it." Loki purred his eyes glimmering with mirth.

"Loki, brother" Thor pleaded urging his brother to step away, his self-control already frayed. The many moments spent laid beneath Loki as he cared for him, the way Loki had fit seamlessly in his lap as though an extension of Thor himself. Thor was unused to spending long periods of time alone in his brother company; this fact alone seems to work against his once well-honed self-control.

"You want me closer don't you brother; you want to feel me curled up against you, I can see it." Loki teased his voice an octave lower then it was previously. His words were dripping from his lips like honey.

"Loki, enough" Thor growled gripping Loki's shoulders firmly, twisting them around until Loki's back collided roughly with the wall, the sound of the collision resonating through the room.

"Fuck" Loki groaned his head dropping as he sucked in a startled breath. Loki's breath came in harsh pants for a few moments as he fought against the pain burning through his body. Thor's firm grip on his shoulders the only thing grounding him, keeping him from losing himself to the pain.

"Fuck, Lo I'm sorry I didn't mean to be so violent, oh gods I am sorry brother." Thor apologised frantically as he began gently pushing Loki's long black strands away from his flushed face, tucking them delicately behind his ear.

"I think I struck a chord brother." Loki wheezed out a laugh his breathing, still not as either brother would like it to be.

"For once in your life Loki, please just leave it alone," Thor begged, resting his forehead to his brothers, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, the furrow of his brow and the stiff tension held in his shoulders belying his guilt for the rough way in which he had handled Loki.

"You called me Lo" Loki looked into Thor's wet eyes, Thor could still recall the last time he had uttered the nickname. They had finished a particularly severe training session Thor's anger getting the best of him as was expected when they were younger. Thor had found Loki in their shared bathing room to apologise. However, the sight of Loki spread out his exposed body glittering beneath the golden flicker of the lit torches as the water rippled over his naked flesh with every rise and fall of his chest. Even now Thor's mouth dried over the thought. He could still remember as the nickname had tumbled from his lips barely more than a breathy gasp. The way Loki's eyes bore into his, Loki's eyes swimming with confusion as Thor eyed him hungrily. Thor fled swiftly and could never bring himself to call Loki by his nickname, the sight still seared into his retinas over the years the sight had fuelled many sinful fantasies each time the name fell from his lips as effortlessly as it had that day.

"Yeah, I did," Thor whispered gently into the meagre space, separating them his eyes softening as he could see in Loki's eyes he too was remembering the last time he'd heard the name.

"I was too young to understand it then, but I think I do now."

Thor growled warningly at Loki, not willing to have this conversation Loki was one of the smartest people Thor knew and he had no doubt figured out why Thor was behaving so aggressively. The truth was Thor couldn't accept his desires, Loki may not be his brother by blood, but in Thor's mind, Loki was still his brother.

Loki huffed as Thor's grip tightened, "let go, brother, let us talk in a more civilised manner." Loki reasoned one of his smaller hands settling atop Thor's.

"Damn it, Loki! What is there to talk about, you are my brother; you will always be my brother. We were raised together; we fought together, that should mean something!" Thor dropped his head to rest his forehead against Loki's once more. Unable to allow space between them Loki's skin beneath his fingertips, the only thing keeping him from breaking.

"But Thor I am not your brother."

"Yes, you are Loki! You are my brother, and I want you. With every breath I take, I desire you." Loki gasped, unaware Thor's feelings were so intense.

"You love me?" Loki asked unsure of himself, Thor slid one of his hands gently over Loki's shoulder, falling to rest against the side of his neck the rough skin of his palms stroking the underside of his chin. The other snaking down to hold his slender waist gently.

"Of course I love you Loki, how could I not you are truly the most beautiful person I have ever seen, you are clever and a true marvel to behold in the midst of a battle, you were made for me and I for you."

"Kiss me" Loki demanded breathlessly, eyes locked with Thors a single tear streaking down his cheek as the weight of Thor's words settled over him.

"You are still my brother Loki" Thor's breath fans hotly over Loki's waiting lips as he unconsciously leans in closing the space separating their mouths.

"I would rather be your lover," Loki whispered a gentle smile ghosting across his lips, it was a rarity to see Loki so soft, but Thor had seen it on many an occasion. It was at this moment he realised he'd made an error hiding his love for Loki all these years because his brother had loved him too.

"You loved me, all these years. I always wondered what I'd done to hurt you to cause you to hate me in such a way; you loved me, didn't you?" Loki nodded his eyes welling with tears as he watched Thor connect all the pieces of old arguments and all the quiet moments shared between them.

"Oh Lo" Thor finally closed the gap between them his lips meeting Loki's in a loving kiss. Thor licked his way into Loki's mouth, tasting his brother for the first time was almost too much, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his legs unsteady beneath him. He cradled Loki's head in his hands, kissing him passionately both men getting lost in the intensity of the kiss. " I love you, Lo," Thor states breathlessly as he breaks the kiss. Looking down, Thor had never seen such an enchanting sight, Loki flustered, and his lips slick with a mix of their saliva.

"I love you too, brother" Loki teased a playful smirk adorning his lips as he pulled Thor in for another kiss not yet sated.

#thorki #thorki fanfiction

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narniaandplowmen · 4 years

Text

Mysterious Fathoms Below (7/8)

Fandom: OUAT Pairing: Captain Swan Also on AO3

Rated: General Audiences Complete Full Fic is 12005 words

Summary: When a storm throws Killian overboard, a mysterious mermaid who saves him. Now it is up to him to save her and bring her back home.

[first chapter] • [previous chapter] • [next chapter]

CHAPTER 7 - Reunions

It turned out that she couldn't. It was four hours later and they were picnicking in a kelp field. Emma had learned a lot about her parents since they left the castle. She did not know her mother used to be a bandit, nor that her father was engaged to someone else. Their love story turned out to be quite an adventure. Whilst Emma listened to her mother tell about the time she almost got killed by a pack of weresharks, she suddenly noticed that she felt at peace. And, without realising it, she started to cry. “Oh Emma! Are you okay?” Snow White looked at her worried. Emma nodded, but seeing her worried parents, only sobbed harder.

“It’s- I just-” after shakily breathing, she continued. “This is what I have always dreamt of. Of having parents, and of them telling how they met, and how much they love each other and- and-’ she hesitated. “And I just never thought that it would happen. I- I am sorry I ran away, I just-”

“It’s okay,” David interrupted her. “It’s our fault, too. We didn’t take the time to meet you. You are your own person, and it is just hard for us to know you have grown up without us to see it. We should have given you more time.”

“I love you dad’ Emma replied, and before she realised what she had said, she was engulfed in a big hug. A hug from her parents. Her parents who loved her, cared for her and never stopped looking for her. And, for the second time in her life, Emma felt completely safe.

~ ~ ~ ~

Killian cursed. “Are you sure it was him who took it?” Ariel nodded, sadly.

“There used to be two. I still have one, but he has the other one. He stole it from Ursula years ago.” Killian nodded. Now that Ariel mentioned it, he remembered that the young girl he once knew wore a strangely decorated wristband. “I’m sorry I can’t help you any further.”

“Don’t worry lass, you helped me plenty. Say hi to Eric and Melody from me. How is she, by the way?” Ariel’ face lit up as soon as he mentioned her husband and daughter.

“Oh, she is doing amazing! She started to walk a few weeks ago, and my father has stationed mermaids in the shallow waters near the castle, they had to save her twice now. We’re trying to teach her how to swim now!” She smiled, incredibly proud of her little darling.

“You get back to her then, she has to learn from the best. Thanks again.” Ariel nodded and after saying her goodbyes swam away, leaving Killian alone to think. The Crocodile, he should have known. Any time something positive happened in his life, the Crocodile was there to ruin it all. Apparently, the bastard had stolen the wristband from Ursula after the two got into a dispute, effectively chaining her to the sea. Killian had heard rumours that the Dark One was afraid of the open water. Although he knew him as a coward, Killian doubted it. The sea probably reminded the monster too much of his former wife, the one he murdered. He tensed his stump as he remembered the day the Crocodile had appeared on his deck, crushed Milah’s heart and cut off Killian’s hand. He grimaced, turned his back to the sea and started walking in the direction of his biggest enemy.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Killian?” Killian had expected many things when he entered the territory of the Dark One, but not the friendly voice of a woman. Startled, he turned around to face-

“Belle? What are you doing here!?”

“I could ask you the same!” The brunette smiled. She was wearing a beautiful yellow summer dress and held a basket full of what seemed to be clean folded laundry. “It has been so long! How is your ship? Your crew? Does Smee still have the red beanie I repaired for him? Is Blacky still alive?” Killian smiled at Belle’s enthusiasm, but then grimaced.

“Blacky has passed away, she lived long for a cat. She died in her sleep on a sunny day at her favourite spot on deck. But I will tell you all later, you have to get out of here. This is the territory of the Dark One, he’s dangerous!” To his surprise, however, Belle burst out laughing.

“Dangerous?” She put down the basket of laundry and held out her hand. It took Killian a second, but then he realised she was wearing a wedding ring. “I married him!”

“I- You- What?” Killian went from surprise to anger to disbelieve so fast that his mouth fell open, only causing Belle to laugh even more. “But-”

“I know the stories people tell about him, Killian. But don’t worry. He’s changed. He is a good man now, even when not many people can see that.” Somehow, Killian sincerely doubted it, but he did not have the change to voice his concern.

“Hello, dearies. Having a little chat now?” It was the last Killian heard before he was lifted off the ground and felt the familiar sensation of magic pushing his air pipes shut.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Excuse me young la-” Killian started with a flirty voice when a pretty woman walked into him, but he cut himself off when he saw the look of panic on her face. “Are you okay?” He asked, normally this time, quickly glancing behind the girl to see what could be the source of her distress. He saw the girl looking at him doubtfully, then deciding that didn’t have another choice.

“I am being chased by my father and his friends. They want me to marry.”

“And you do not?”

“I want to marry for love. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to marry that nasty, brutish jerk for all the money in the world.”

“Ah.” Killian nodded. He had met a lot of women on his travels with similar stories. Most of his best crewmates had been women like that, escapees from arranged marriages, abusive husbands or fathers. “Well then,” he considered, looking at the obviously well-bred woman still clutching him and looking around terrified. “Can you read?” She looked surprised but nodded.

“In English, French and German, sir.” She replied.

“Ah, well-educated, I hear. So, can you do maths?” She nodded again. “ Well then, if you are not afraid to work hard, you have a place in my crew.”

“Your crew?” she asked, but Killian’s answer was cut short when he heard commotion ahead.

“Are those the people who are after you?” One look from the distressed girl was enough of an answer. Killian grabbed her tightly, turned around and ran with her to his ship.

~ ~ ~ ~

Tea. He was drinking tea with the Dark One. After he had met Emma, his world truly turned upside down in ways he could never have imagined. When the Dark One was choking him, Belle had pleaded for his life. Aside from his skin, which now looked human again, something else in the Crocodile had changed, since the monster had listened to her and had let him live. Now, the three of them were drinking tea in a lovely little garden house with a beautiful view of a large valley with grazing horses. Belle was happily chatting, telling the tale of how she met ‘Rumple’, as she endearingly called him, and how they got married. Killian could still barely believe it, and was almost suspecting dark magic was it not for the fact that Belle was still her cheery old self. Dark magic left its traces, and none of those could be found in Belle’s behaviour. Suddenly, Belle looked at him expectantly. “Sorry, could you repeat that, lass?” He was afraid for a moment he had offended her by not paying attention to her story, but she just laughed.

“Still often lost in thought, Captain? I asked what you have been up to since our parting.”

Trying to kill your husband, he thought, and a quick glance at the Crocodile’s wry smile confirmed that the man in front of him thought the same. “There aren’t many tales to tell, it is simply the usual. Finding treasures, daring escapes and heroic rescues of damsels-” and, after a stern look from Belle, he added “and gentlemen in distress. All in a day’s work.”

“Oh, come on. Something must have happened! Why are you here? Where is your crew?”

“My crew-” he hesitated for a moment, before continuing. “My crew is fine. We had a few changes since you left, basically only Smee is left, with his beanie, as ever.” Belle smiled as she remembered how distressed the man had been when his red hat had ripped during a fight. “The reason why I’m here, now that is a much more interesting tale. I recently found myself in a bit of a tight spot, which caused me to meet a wonderful young woman. This girl turned out to be the long-sought-for daughter of Atlantia’s Royals. So, I returned her to her parents and they live happily ever after. Back in the Enchanted Forest, I heard that your husband owns something I need, which is why you found me here.” The Crocodile, who had seemed absent for most of the conversation, suddenly looked up.

“You want to make a deal?” He grinned, rubbing his hands together. “How delightful!”

“Rumple.” Belle stared at him, and miraculously the man backed down. “What is it that you need? I am sure my husband will gladly give it to you.” She continued, looking pointily at her husband whilst emphasising the use of the word ‘give’.

“Your husband sto- came to possess a special wristband, which allows the wearer to switch between tail and legs.” Belle looked confused for a moment before Killian could almost literally see her realise his intent.

“You found love?! Did the fierce pirate Captain out for revenge finally find love?! Tell me about her!”

Killian rubbed his brow. “I’m not- it’s not-” he sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“Trust me, the best stories are.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The lass had introduced herself as Belle French, the only daughter of a lower-high class family nearby. She was betrothed to the hero-of-the-town, a fellow named Gaston, known for his muscles and hunting skills. But, according to the newest member of his crew, he was nasty, brutish, mean and the sort of guy that would consider the phrase ‘you are positively primaeval’ a compliment. And since she had no hope of escaping her marriage and since she was looking for adventure, she had happily sailed out on the Jolly Roger the next day. She was a good addition to the team. She was strong and hardworking, as well as incredibly smart. The crew took a liking to her determined nature, and the fact that she did not mind cleaning the human waste buckets helped her popularity rise quickly. She learned to fight and navigate, and after saving a small kitten from a burning ship she raised morale by raising it as the ship’s mascot. Killian had been sad when she left the crew after they docked at Arendelle, but he understood her need for answers about her mother. ‘

“Take good care of Blacky for me, okay?” She had him promise. “We will see each other again, I am sure of it!”

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gizkasparadise · 5 years

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ship: cersei/ned (even i don’t know if it’s one-sided or not), mentions of jaime/cersei, robert/cersei, and ned/cat prompt: he’s nothing like her husband. for @asoiafrarepairs mini event! warnings: kind of dark and fucked up tbh. brief description of the canon jaime/cersei scene from episode 1

Cersei steps out of the wheelhouse and casts her eyes about Winterfell for the first time. Her first thought is that it’s dismal; the second, backwatered. She looks to the Starks with their mixed-matched hair and dark outfits and she is too well-trained to outright sneer, but she is not impressed enough to force full courtesies. Uninterested, she passively observes as Robert embraces the kneeling Ned Stark, her gaze then going to the Lady Catelyn. Boring, she thinks. And Cersei Lannister has wasted away a month of her life for it. For her brutish, whore-mongering husband to ride over a thousand miles to collect solemn, honorable Ned.

But it’s not truly Ned he’s here for, is it?

She wraps her fur around her, striding to her place at the King’s side despite his lack of invitation. Ned’s eyes rest upon her. He is as taciturn as ever, with his grey eyes and downturned mouth. As expected of her, Cersei offers her hand. His gloved one takes it, fingers pressed against her own. He bends down, and when his lips press against her skin it is quick, cold. It’s a remarkable achievement, for a man to have lips colder than the air in the North.

But in the moment, there is something about hearing him call her “my Queen” that permits a smile. It is slanted, yes. Short, yes. But there.

Then his wife bows as well. “My Queen,” she greets.

Cersei’s eyes flicker to her, lingering just so she can take in the wild red hair, the Tully features. They are stamped all over their children but for the smaller ones.

She is disgusted, but not surprised, when that is to be the end of her reception. Robert turns and demands, eager to get to where his precious she-wolf bitch lies.

“We’ve been travelling for a month, my love,” she says in the way she has practiced. The way that doesn’t cause repulsion to crawl down her spine and arms. “Surely the dead can wait.”

Robert does not acknowledge the statement. But then again, she has never truly existed for Robert when he can love and fuck ghosts.

Ned, because he is honorable, because he is so bloody noble, looks to her. When their eyes meet, Cersei remembers that this man knows her husband. Understands what it means to suffer him. And she doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that he appears to be hesitating for her sake.

Cersei breaks the stare, looking down in dismissal. Ned Stark is a plain, boring man with a plain, boring wife in an isolated wasteland. What he decides to do with Robert’s offer means little to her, his opinion of her even less.

Still, Cersei’s eyes follow until their backs and shoulders disappear beneath the ground.

When she can no longer stand the sight of her husband, or the insufferably dull conversation from Catelyn Stark, her eyes find and follow Ned Stark at the feast. He spends most of his time talking with his brother, his sons. His eyes do not wander, nor do his hands. Everything he does is patient and measured.

Robert presses his face into some serving girl’s tits, and once again Ned sends her that cagey, sympathetic gaze from across the feasting hall. Robert has been in Winterfell for mere hours, and Ned Stark has already made himself his keeper. Apologetic for behavior that has gone on for years--decades--without his presence.

Sweet, simple Ned. Cersei raises her goblet to her lips, letting the bitter taste of Northern swill hit her lips. As Ned continues to watch, tediously chivalrous, Cersei taps one finger against the rim of her cup. Yet another silent dismissal. Another way to banish Ned Stark from her presence. Robert has had years of shaming her, this night is nothing but another in a long series.

Spitefully, Cersei thinks of what Ned would do, were his Lyanna in her place and not in the ground. How would such a man balance the loyalty to a friend and the love for a sister? Would he be so weak as to turn a blind eye?

Jaime would never, has never. But her twin is beyond the tedious things that Ned so obviously clings to. Wolves follow, after all.

Ned watches her for a moment longer, concern etched into those features she cannot find attractive, but then his head is bowed in conversation with Benjen once again and Cersei Lannister is left to the state she enjoys best: unbothered.

Her brother pounds into her, his grunts in her ear as her breath hitches and she makes her demands. Cersei is not bored. But when she’s taken from behind, it is easier for her mind to wander.

And wander it does. Back to Ned Stark.

She wants to know what sex is, for a man like Ned. Is it duty to him? Something to suffer and grunt and sweat through until he feels diligent enough to sire some pup? Has he learned to lie like a fish to appease his Tully wife? Does she rake her nails down his back like a wolf? Somehow Cersei doubts it. She doubts that anything as cold, remote, and solemn as Ned can incite passion in such a way. When she imagines Ned, she feels his lips on her skin and his eyes on her and thinks he could not be further from her dear, dear husband.

Cersei Lannister wants to know just how well Ned Stark fucks, before his son appears in a window.

“Your Grace,” he mutters, tension evident in every line of his rigid body. And yet the man finds it in him to make his courtesy. Noble noble noble Ned.

Cersei’s eyes flicker to the dead direwolf at his feet. His hand still holds the blade that slew his daughter’s beast. “It seems you are always a man of your word,” she concedes, her hands folding into her long sleeves.

The camp is dark, lit only by the orange and yellow casts of torches. The light further harshens the severity of Ned’s features--long nose and bagged eyes and thin lips.

“I’ve given no cause for you to doubt my honor,” he states, wiping away the direwolf’s blood on his leathers.

“Forgive me,” she says, wanting anything but. “A mother’s worry triumphs any other doubts.”

Ned turns to face her then, pulling his body into a slow stand. She observes the motion coolly, but softens her eyes in the way she knows men like. It, of course, does nothing to phase this particular one.

“Was it a mother’s concern, then?” His grey eyes are dark and there is something thrilling in knowing she has moved Ned Stark to anger. Something that makes her heart pound and her lips pull at the corners in victory. “That made a young girl pay such a price?”

“The price was bought with my son’s blood,” she reminds him coolly. “The blood of your future King.”

Ned watches her, and she realizes then that perhaps cold does not always mean reserved. She sees the way his anger settles upon him, it’s much like those cloaks the Northerners wear, broken in until comfort. Ned is a patient man, she realizes. He knows how to wait in a manner few men do.

“I regret the violence to your son,” he concedes. Cersei considers how his tongue shapes the words of his Northern accent, how it molds and curls around them. “Much like I hope Your Grace regrets the sorrows of my daughter.”

She tilts her head, blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “One of your daughters, yes.”

Ned cools at that, nostrils flaring slightly and fingers curled into his palm. “Arya’s young,” he defends. “She’s not yet learned to curb the wolf’s blood.”

Wolf’s blood, she thinks with a snort. Were Myrcella to have it, were her mother to be sweet, dead Lyanna, would Robert care for her then? Would he defend her in the face of another King?

No, she thinks vehemently. Her husband would not, could not, do what Ned Stark does for his children. He lacks such capacities. Cersei’s gaze crosses Ned’s face, down his chest and legs. He is not a remarkable man, not comely. He is not strong nor fierce or hot-blooded.

He is not anything Cersei knows.

“And how do you imagine she’ll learn that?”

Ned watches her for a long moment. He has never looked upon her with lust. Only pity. Only concern. Only apology.

And now, disdain.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he says levelly. “But I am poor company in the moment and must retire.”

Ned walks past her without another word, and something in Cersei’s gut ties itself into knots.

There is something desirable, in not desiring.

That night, as Robert lays on top of her and huffs the smell of wine onto her, Cersei closes her eyes and thinks of harsh features and grey eyes. She would be better than his fish, she thinks. Because Cersei knows how to please, when it’s a man she chooses between her thighs.

She apologizes, in her way, as she walks into the rooms to the Hand of the King. Ned does not seem to find it satisfactory.

But Cersei is an adept hand. And when she mentions Sansa favorably, the brittle edge to Ned Stark falls away.

“She likes it here,” he concedes.

“She’s the only Stark who does.”

He does not deny it, but she was not expecting him to. It amuses them, as they talk and he attempts to speak the language of King’s Landing. Ned is too rough and weathered for the painted smiles it takes to survive this place.

She does not think he’ll survive this place.

Cersei’s fingers slide over the wood of his desk. He stands across, weight supported on the fists he has pressed against it.

He would never sleep with her, she knows. But were he, she thinks he would not fascinate her so.

“Are you happy in your marriage, Ned Stark?”

His lips part at the question. “Your Grace?”

Her eyes dart up, catch his. “I only imagine a man happy in his marriage should want to return to his wife.” Cersei stops her motions, eyes darting to catch his. They are almost clear in the sun. “Do you? Want to return to your Catelyn?”

“Of course.” And there it is again, that steady contrast to what Cersei knows and understands. Clear, direct, and above all honest. “Perhaps you should return to your husband, Your Grace?”

She gives a little hum of a laugh at that, turning away. “Robert would sooner notice his favorite hound gone missing.”

“You are unhappy, then?”

Simple Ned. Cersei’s brows raise, but she keeps her attention focused out the window of a far wall. “And you, Lord Stark, apparently have use of your eyes.”

“...Robert is a good man,” he says.

Cersei smiles without warmth. “Is he?”

Ned does not answer. How tiring, to spend so much time convincing oneself.

She does make an effort to tell him: that Robert ruins things, that Ned will only be there to tend to them once they’re in pieces. He does not hear it over the waters he’s submerged himself in.

Good. Let him drown.

Because she likes the thought of him gasping. Of Ned having to fight for something, to beg for something, thrills her. If she is the one who can put that upon him, so much the better. Cersei wants something from Ned. It doesn’t matter if it’s his discomfort. His anger. She wants to be the one who is able to break something apart, for a change. And noble, simple, boring, fascinating Ned is the fault line she wants exposed.

“I was trained to kill my enemies, your Grace,” he says lowly, eyes pinned on her. It does something to her, stirs something strange and necessary. Challenges.

Cersei smiles, lowers her voice in the way she would for a lover:

“So was I.”

#cersei lannister #ned stark #eddard stark #nedsei #ned x cersei #asoiafrareprompt #game of thrones #!my post #liberal interpretation of the prompt but the Spirit is there

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butterflies-dragons · 5 years

Text

Sansa’s Armor

Sansa finally found her words. "Then surely you have chosen the right one, Your Grace," she said, and a gale of laughter erupted all around her.

"Well spoken, child," said the old man in white. "As befits the daughter of Eddard Stark. I am honored to know you, however irregular the manner of our meeting. I am Ser Barristan Selmy, of the Kingsguard." He bowed.

Sansa knew the name, and now the courtesies that Septa Mordane had taught her over the years came back to her. "The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," she said, "and councillor to Robert our king and to Aerys Targaryen before him. The honor is mine, good knight. Even in the far north, the singers praise the deeds of Barristan the Bold."

The green knight laughed again. "Barristan the Old, you mean. Don't flatter him too sweetly, child, he thinks overmuch of himself already." He smiled at her. "Now, wolf girl, if you can put a name to me as well, then I must concede that you are truly our Hand's daughter."

Joffrey stiffened beside her. "Have a care how you address my betrothed."

"I can answer," Sansa said quickly, to quell her prince's anger. She smiled at the green knight. "Your helmet bears golden antlers, my lord. The stag is the sigil of the royal House. King Robert has two brothers. By your extreme youth, you can only be Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and councillor to the king, and so I name you."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

And Joffrey was the soul of courtesy. He talked to Sansa all night, showering her with compliments, making her laugh, sharing little bits of court gossip, explaining Moon Boy's japes. Sansa was so captivated that she quite forgot all her courtesies and ignored Septa Mordane, seated to her left.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

Suddenly terrified, Sansa pushed at Septa Mordane's shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. King Robert had stumbled off and half the benches were suddenly empty. The feast was over, and the beautiful dream had ended with it.

The Hound snatched up a torch to light their way. Sansa followed close beside him. The ground was rocky and uneven; the flickering light made it seem to shift and move beneath her. She kept her eyes lowered, watching where she placed her feet. They walked among the pavilions, each with its banner and its armor hung outside, the silence weighing heavier with every step. Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. A true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. "You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor," she made herself say.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

The next morning, the morning of the third day, Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard came to escort her to the queen.

Ser Boros was an ugly man with a broad chest and short, bandy legs. His nose was flat, his cheeks baggy with jowls, his hair grey and brittle. Today he wore white velvet, and his snowy cloak was fastened with a lion brooch. The beast had the soft sheen of gold, and his eyes were tiny rubies. "You look very handsome and splendid this morning, Ser Boros," Sansa told him. A lady remembered her courtesies, and she was resolved to be a lady no matter what. "And you, my lady," Ser Boros said in a flat voice. "Her Grace awaits. Come with me."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

Sandor Clegane scooped her up around the waist and lifted her off the featherbed as she struggled feebly. Her blanket fell to the floor. Underneath she had only a thin bedgown to cover her nakedness. "Do as you're bid, child," Clegane said. "Dress." He pushed her toward her wardrobe, almost gently.

Sansa backed away from them. "I did as the queen asked, I wrote the letters, I wrote what she told me. You promised you'd be merciful. Please, let me go home. I won't do any treason, I'll be good, I swear it, I don't have traitor's blood, I don't. I only want to go home." Remembering her courtesies, she lowered her head. "As it please you," she finished weakly.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn't even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn't matter at all.

"Here, girl." Sandor Clegane knelt before her, between her and Joffrey. With a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip.

The moment was gone. Sansa lowered her eyes. "Thank you," she said when he was done. She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

"I'm glad you're not dead," said Princess Myrcella.

"We share that view, sweet child." Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel."

Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn't the gods who'd been cruel, it was Joffrey.

"I am sorry for your loss as well, Joffrey," the dwarf said.

"What loss?"

"Your royal father? A large fierce man with a black beard; you'll recall him if you try. He was king before you."

"Oh, him. Yes, it was very sad, a boar killed him."

"Is that what 'they' say, Your Grace?"

Joffrey frowned. Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady's armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, "I'm sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

She made herself look at that face now, really look. It was only courteous, and a lady must never forget her courtesies. The scars are not the worst part, nor even the way his mouth twitches. It's his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger. "I . . . I should have come to you after," she said haltingly. "To thank you, for . . . for saving me . . . you were so brave."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas? Willas? "I," she said stupidly. Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say. "I do not know Ser Willas. I have never had the pleasure, my lady. Is he . . . is he as great a knight as his brothers?"

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

"Gods have mercy." The dwarf took another swallow of wine. "Well, talk won't make you older. Shall we get on with this, my lady? If it please you?" "It will please me to please my lord husband." That seemed to anger him. "You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall." "Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that. "I am your husband. You can take off your armor now." "And my clothing?" "That too." He waved his wine cup at her. "My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

Their litter had been sitting in the sun, and it was very warm inside the curtains. As they lurched into motion, Tyrion reclined on an elbow while Sansa sat staring at her hands. She is just as comely as the Tyrell girl. Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful. He wanted to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy. Was that what made him speak? Or just the need to distract himself from the fullness in his bladder?

"I had been thinking that when the roads are safe again, we might journey to Casterly Rock." Far from Joffrey and my sister. The more he thought about what Joff had done to Lives of Four Kings, the more it troubled him. There was a message there, oh yes. "It would please me to show you the Golden Gallery and the Lion's Mouth, and the Hall of Heroes where Jaime and I played as boys. You can hear thunder from below where the sea comes in . . ."

She raised her head slowly. He knew what she was seeing; the swollen brutish brow, the raw stump of his nose, his crooked pink scar and mismatched eyes. Her own eyes were big and blue and empty. "I shall go wherever my lord husband wishes."

"I had hoped it might please you, my lady."

"It will please me to please my lord."

His mouth tightened. What a pathetic little man you are. Did you think babbling about the Lion's Mouth would make her smile? When have you ever made a woman smile but with gold? "No, it was a foolish notion. Only a Lannister can love the Rock."

"Yes, my lord. As you wish."

Tyrion could hear the commons shouting out King Joffrey's name. In three years that cruel boy will be a man, ruling in his own right . . . and every dwarf with half his wits will be a long way from King's Landing. Oldtown, perhaps. Or even the Free Cities. He had always had a yen to see the Titan of Braavos. Perhaps that would please Sansa. Gently, he spoke of Braavos, and met a wall of sullen courtesy as icy and unyielding as the Wall he had walked once in the north. It made him weary. Then and now.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

Ser Harrold looked down at her coldly. "Why should it please me to be escorted anywhere by Littlefinger's bastard?"

All three Waynwoods looked at him askance. "You are a guest here, Harry," Lady Anya reminded him, in a frosty voice. "See that you remember that."

A lady's armor is her courtesy. Alayne could feel the blood rushing to her face. No tears, she prayed. Please, please, I must not cry. "As you wish, ser. And now if you will excuse me, Littlefinger's bastard must find her lord father and let him know that you have come, so we can begin the tourney on the morrow." And may your horse stumble, Harry the Heir, so you fall on your stupid head in your first tilt. She showed the Waynwoods a stone face as they blurted out awkward apologies for their companion. When they were done she turned and fled.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

#Sansa Stark #courtesy is a lady’s armor #She is 11/12 years old!!!#You have to admire her self-control #She is too good for this world #I'm not a huge fan of the literal warrior idea but I like the figurative warrior

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kismetcanwriteme · 5 years

Text

Spoils of War

“Is this her?” the general regards Clarke distastefully, and Clarke tries not to be offended. Dante rushes to answer bowing low before her. “Yes, just as the king has requested and let this be a step towards peace… for both our countries” The general smiled coldly “I suppose that would depend on whether or not Arkadia knows better than to invade our country looking for resources that don't belong to them now doesn't it.” The king seems thoroughly mollified by that and backs away slowly. “This girl as promised” he says quietly

or Arkadia loses a war and Trigeda wants Clarke

Also on ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172064

She’s being sold. As Clarke is led through the blue gray stone halls of a palace that once was hers that’s all she can think. Her mother is selling her and Clarke can’t help but hate her for it. She knows it’s harsh. They lost the war, and now the winner takes the spoils. Namely her.

The war between Arkadia and the savages, the Trigeda, had gone on for centuries. Towards the end she doubted anyone remembered what caused Arkadia and the proud kingdom to their north to fight. All anyone remembered was the bitter rivalry.

Clarke hates the frigid northern country with every bone in her body. The Griffins were a proud family and had close ties with the King. They were even hoping to marry Clarke to the prince in time. Now, Clarke supposes, that was for nothing. More anger fills her. The prince was the very reason they were involved in this mess. If Clarke had her way they would have never spoken to the royal family. She would be a free woman, riding through the hills with her stable girl. Her heart gives a pang. Lexa was gone. Trigeda had claimed her as one of their own. Her best friend in the entire world. Everything she wanted was gone in an instant. By rights Lexa was Trigedian, and by their laws she had to join their army for a least a year before settling down. That was three years ago. Clarke is twenty two now and the woman she wants is nowhere to be found.

As the great oak doors of the throne room loom closer, and the guards on either side of her tighten their hands on her arms. Clarke allows herself to pretend. She isn’t here. She’s with Lexa in the small cottage she had shown Clarke when they were girls. Its cleaned up now, not so bedraggled. Lexa leans against the doorway and smiles at her. She hears the babbling brook and smells honey cakes, Lexa’s favorite. Just as shes leaning in to finally kiss her-

“Lady Clarke Griffin, your majesty,” the attendant announces as the doors open to reveal the court standing somberly.

Shes led to the center of the room, and her mother weeps to her right. Clarke can’t look at her.

“My dear Lady, King Dante starts, I am deeply sorry for the necessity of this grave decision.”

Clarke remains silent but the king continues as though she were weeping, trying to explain to her why this injustice is permitted “There is no other way dear lady! If there were I would find it, but Trigeda is insistent that you be given to them along with the spoils of the war...to be the King’s bride.” he says sinking down into his throne as Clarke’s mother gives another wail.

The prince, Clarke’s would-be fiance looks bored and a bit petulant. He rises and says “Yes yes I'm sure we all regret the fate of lady Clarke, but we have to hand her over by sundown so if we could..” he makes a move along motion with his hands either ignorant or uncaring towards the melancholy mood of the court.

Clarke feels herself go faint “sundown” she breathes “so soon?” She thought she had time. Time to say goodbye, time to grieve the loss of her freedom, the loss of her life.

“Yes, my dear” the king says, and to his credit Clarke sees his eyes brimming with genuine remorse. “And now it is time you should leave us”

Clarke curtsies to the court on shaky legs, and though she is still angry allows her mother to kiss her forehead and choke out an “I love you” that Clarke whispers back.

With that she is whisked back out of the throne room and led back down the stone halls and taken toward the front of the castle. The court follows her to watch as she is stripped of her life. She rolls her eyes and thinks she will probably be the talk of the palace for at least the next week. Outside it has grown colder something she supposes she will have to get used to the cold if she is to live in Trigeda with the king.

Outside there is a caravan waiting for her. Hundreds of horses and a carriage at the base of the palace. For a savage county they certainly have fine travel gear. King Dante goes before them to speak to the general stationed at the bottom of the palace steps. The general is tall and slim, with cheekbones that could cut glass. Her eyes are painted with the warpaint the Azgeda favor. In short Clarke is terrified. She’s thankful Lexa at least taught her to fight before she left.

“Is this her?” the general regards Clarke distastefully, and Clarke tries not to be offended.

Dante rushes to answer bowing low before her. “Yes, just as the king has requested and let this be a step towards peace… for both our countries”

The general smiled coldly “I suppose that would depend on whether or not Arkadia knows better than to invade our country looking for resources that don't belong to them now doesn't it.” The king seems thoroughly mollified by that and backs away slowly.

“This girl as promised” he says quietly

“Good we leave at once.” she replies and gestures at Clarke to follow her. The guards holding Clarke's arms try to manhandle her forward but the general turns and barks out at them “She knows how to walk by herself doesn't she?” and from there Clarke is alone and being ushered into a carriage made of fine red wood lined with fur inside. For a prisoner, she thinks, this is rather kind treatment.

________________________________________________________________

They travel for days. Clarke is too tired to sleep and too sad to cry, so she stares at the carriage wall until one day they pass a town. The general she's heard called Anya shoves a pad of paper and a piece of charcoal wordlessly into the carriage window. And so Clarke draws. She draws Arkadia and her father and her mother and Lexa. Lexa again and again and again. She draws all the things that have been ripped away from her forever.

Too soon the carriage stops. And Anya is opening the door gesturing to her to get out. Clarke freezes though. It’s too close and too much and all she can picture is some brutish beastly savage man bending her over the war table and- Anya picks her up out of the carriage, muddy silk petticoats and all, and deposits her on the path.

“Walk” is all she says. The carriage rolls away with most of her drawings still in it except for one of Lexa clutched in her fist. She holds it close and prays for strength. Anya leads her into the tallest tower she has ever seen.

Its freezing and she is ushered into the castle quickly, her summery silk dress too bare outside the confines of the warm carriage. Once inside, she is herded up the dark grey steps into a room with a claw foot tub at the center. An entire team of women undress her quickly, heedless of Clarke’s discomfort, pluck the drawing from her hand, and scrub her from head to toe in soaps and oils that smell like lemons and pine. They wash her hair, rub her dry, and dress her in a white gown that could qualify as a night dress. When she asks the oldest woman about this she tuts and says “Of course it's a night dress, child. It's getting late”

“But aren't I supposed to be presented to the king?”

“Yes of course”

“But in my nightdress? She blanches It's hardly proper”

The woman rolls her eyes and continues to braid her hair. “Child, the king does not care one way or the other,” she says heedless that Clarke might care if she meets the king in her nightdress.

They fit her with a warm quilted robe and slippers and push her out the door. Clarke is rather tired of being pushed at this point and really just wants to sleep, although she’s so anxious about being married to a stranger she isn’t sure she could. Still as she’ led down the hall by her new ladies maids Clarke holds her head high. The hall they're in is circular and the tapestries have warm colors like scarlett and emerald. The door she is stopped in front of doesn't look as grand as the many throne rooms she’s seen, and she furrows her brow when it opens and reveals a small room with two velvet high backed chairs and a small table with a plate of cookies on it in front of a roaring fire. She can’t see the occupant of one of the chairs, but she steels herself and steps inside.

Clarke was expecting a lot of things. A burly man, a cold throne room, a demand for her to remove her clothes. What she was not expecting was a child. Well teenager. A boy of about twelve summers smiling sheepishly at her.

“King… Aden?” Clarke asks stepping closer

“Uh ye...yes hi!” The boy stands and sticks out his hand which Clarke hesitantly shakes

“You must be hungry. I have cookies and cocoa!” he says rather excitedly

Clarke sits in a daze watching as he pours her a full mug and puts some cookies on a plate for her. “I… I beg your pardon your majesty but are… are we supposed to get married?” Clarke had looked after children older than this boy.

The young king looks alarmed “Married! To me? Is that what they told you?” Clarke nods and he slaps his forehead “Of course they told you that. They must have assumed I meant… No” he says “They didn’t …. You aren't marrying me, and you must have been really scared to come here huh?” his eyes go wide in horror “I just offered cookies and cocoa as if everything was fine.” he says, looking rather like a sad puppy.

Clarke hastens to comfort him “No! No! I love cookies and cocoa. How did you know?” and shoves one in her mouth cheeks puffing out comically . Aden laughs a bit, and Clarke feels twelve times lighter. She swallows her cookie and asks, face growing somber “Your majesty, if I'm not marrying you, why am I here?”

________________________________________________________________

Clarke is pale and more scared than she has ever been in her life. Aden was so happy to tell her she was engaged to the leader of his military, that she couldn't choke out that that was a much much worse prospect than marrying a twelve (“and three quarters”he protested) year old king. The Commander was ruthless and vicious. This was known throughout the world. And now Clarke was headed toward the bedchambers of a savage beast. Aden had sent her off cheerfully not noticing how stricken she looked, and she couldn't bring herself to tell him how much she really really didn't want this. Clarke wishes they hadn't taken away her drawing of Lexa. She needed it

The handmaid's lead her further and further up the tower on weak legs until they stand before a wooden carved door. They leave her there disappearing back down the staircase. She could run Clarke thinks they would catch her but maybe they would be so angry they'd kill her instead. No. she isn't ready to die. So she raises one trembling hand and knocks.

A voice from inside calls faintly “Come in”

She pushes open the door slowly and nearly collapses.

“I...I’m sorry for all the red tape, but I said I would never leave you and I meant it. And Aden was excited to meet you, and I should have told you about all this and our rise to the throne and my family and becoming the commander and- and well… I just- please say something.” Lexa babbles to a stunned Clarke, green eyes hopeful.

There she is. Standing there in a thin black nightdress looking so so beautiful with more scars and muscles ( and oh god is that a tattoo??) than when she left but still Lexa . So it shouldn't have been a shock when Clarke lets out a sob and dashes across the room to tackle her onto the bed hands and lips everywhere ripping at the dress to get to skin and upon finding it pulling her as close as humanly possible. Clarke kisses every bit of precious skin she can reach finally landing on her lips and staying there until they can’t breathe. She scrambles to grab handfuls of her best friend, of Lexa. The green eyed girl tries to speak but can’t seem to find her breath as Clarke cups her jaw and drops open mouthed kisses on her throat. They both ignore the tears streaming down their cheeks.

Soon Clarke ditches the robe and slippers and shoves Lexa under the covers pushing them as close as they were when squeezed into Clarke’s twin bed as children. Clarke’s head on Lexa’s chest, Lexas arms wrapped around her shoulders and hips. “So.” Lexa begins, “You aren't angry?”

Clarke picks up her head to look Lexa in the eye “Oh I’m furious with you” she said satisfied at Lexa’s wince “We will be talking about this extensively in the morning but for now let’s just sleep. I’m tired, you made me ride in a carriage for a week , Lexa.”

Lexa chuckles “You must realize why that was necessary, my love…”

“Shhhhh, sleep Lexa. You can explain yourself to me when I’ve had at least twelve hours in bed with you”

“Clarke you can’t possibly sleep that long.”

“Who said anything about sleep?” Clarke smirks into the commanders chest.

Lexa drops a final kiss to Clarke’s temple and they both drift off smiling.

#clexa #clexa au #clexa fanfiction #clexa fanfic #clexa fanfic au #clexa royalty au #clexa arranged marriage au #clexa fic #clexa ao3

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beekeeperofeden · 5 years

Text

fic: the synonyms for ‘barrier’ include hindrance, obstacle, and trammel

Summary: Ability to speak does not necessarily confer the ability to communicate. Entreri and Catti-brie are still learning this the hard way. Opposite of Arrogance AU. (Basic premise of the AU is that Catti-brie started working for Bregan D’aerthe during Starless Night in order to convince Jarlaxle to help rescue Drizzt.) Wordcount: 2880

They were on stake-out again. Catti-brie had noticed that none of the drow soldiers were sent out in pairs, and she wondered what it meant that Jarlaxle kept making Entreri work with her. She didn't need a translator to recognize the "it takes two humans to do the job of one dark elf" jokes as they left, but she didn't think that was Jarlaxle's reasoning. At least, that wasn't all of it.

Whatever Jarlaxle's rationale, it had resulted in the two of them sitting on the roof of a crumbling building, watching the street below for—someone. Catti-brie wasn't actually sure who they were looking for, but she had been assured that Entreri would recognize them. Which meant that, while Entreri studied the sparse crowds and watched for their target, Catti-brie had an idle mind and no one else to talk to.

"What're ye muttering?" she asked him. He'd been frowning and saying something under his breath for the past half hour. It almost had the rhythm of a poem, and she wondered if it were possible that the man who had haunted some of her nightmares would really be reciting poetry in his spare time.

Annoyed grumbling, followed by "Vocabulary." Not poetry, then. Far more practical, and Catti-brie was annoyed at herself for not guessing that first.

"That'll be in drow, then?" They were speaking in Surface Common. Catti-brie had half expected Entreri to insist on speaking drow in order to avoid talking to her, but he seemed to enjoy hearing a surface language again too much to argue.

Entreri rolled his eyes instead of answering.

"Drill me," she said.

"What?"

"I need to practice and so do ye." She nodded at the street. "It's not like we're going anywhere for a while."

He rolled his eyes again.

"Brane'sa," he said. Catti-brie grinned.

"Insect, pest, or annoyance." She'd heard that one a few times already.

"It also means 'prey,'" Entreri pointed out. He looked much less amused, though Catti-brie wasn't sure if that was just his face or if he'd gotten sick of hearing it muttered at him in the hallway.

"My turn," she said. "Delmah."

"Headquarters or fortress." He paused to watch someone exit a building across the row from them. "Uln'hyrr."

"Liar," she said. Entreri nodded.

"The synonym for that one is Jarlaxle," he said. Catti-brie started to etch the new word into her memory before she realized that Artemis Entreri had just made a joke. She searched for some hint of humor, but he kept his face totally blank.

"Uln'hyrr," she said. He raised an eyebrow.

"We just did that one. Choose another."

"Vynnessia," she said, grinning as he frowned. She'd remembered this one because it was pretty, but suspected Entreri might not have bothered to memorize it. He scowled.

"You made that one up."

"It means 'butterfly.'"

"You must be joking."

"Nope."

"Why do drow even have a word for butterfly?" He gestured at the ceiling, at the walls, at everything around them. "We are miles below the surface. There are no butterflies down here."

Catti-brie was silent for a moment, enjoying the view as Entreri's face shifted between astonishment and disbelief.

"Mayhap they're invisible butterflies," she said after a moment. His mouth opened and shut a few times before he responded.

"It's not a matter of visibility—butterflies could not survive in the Underdark. They're too delicate, and there is nothing for them to eat."

Catti-brie frowned and gestured at a pack of rothe down the street. "There's plenty o' food."

Entreri blinked. "I thought butterflies ate flowers."

"And meat. I saw a flock of them nibbling on a deer carcass once. Looked like a patch o' daisies until I got close enough to see their wings move."

He stared at her, clearly hoping for some indication of untruth. She could see the idea but they're too pretty to be dangerous flutter across his mind, unspoken. She shrugged.

"Ye've met Jarlaxle, and he's awful pretty. Are ye gonna tell me he's not dangerous?" She leaned forward. "But more importantly...if I'm lyin' about the butterflies, then why do dark elves have a word for 'em?"

He looked away, staring at the deserted street below them.

"We should move on to verbs," he said. "Run."

Catti-brie blinked, then considered whether she was supposed to run. "Oh! Er, z'haanin."

"That's 'running.'" He stretched one leg, then the other, without losing sight of the road. Catti-brie realized her own legs were stiff from sitting and started to stand as well. "Usstan z'haan, dos z'haan, il z'haane, udos z'haan, nind z'haan—I run, you run, she runs, we run, they run. Dos z'haanus. You ran."

Catti-brie sighed. This was less fun than nouns, but she couldn't deny it was necessary. She winced, remembering the times she'd heard a goblin mangle verbs in common or dwarvish and how easy it had been to discount them as real people. At home, she'd wanted the others to respect her as an adult, as someone who could be trusted to make her own decisions. She had thought she wanted that. But the basic respect that came from acknowledgement that she was a person...she hadn't noticed until it was missing, and she hungered to have it back.

"I hate this," she said.

"Usstan phlith nindol." He eyed her for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the abandoned street. "And in third person singular?"

"Er, il phlithe. She hates."

"If you hate this so much, why not leave?" Apparently satisfied with the results of his stretching, he sat back down cross-legged on the edge of the roof. "You could probably convince Jarlaxle to return you."

"Why would he do that?"

"Gold. Surely your father could pay a ransom that would interest him."

Her own bed. Seeing friendly faces again. Sunlight, rain, a soft breeze. She wasn't sure what season it was on the surface. Autumn, perhaps? There would be fresh apples falling from the trees. Everyone would be taking stock of their supplies, getting ready for winter. Usually she'd be helping buy preserves, storing turnips, deciding which spices to purchase and how many before the roads became too icy for merchants.

If she mentioned it to Jarlaxle today, maybe she could be home before the first snow fell.

Jarlaxle's words echoed in her mind. Drizzt may even outlive you, if they have their way. House Baenre is not known for killing its enemies quickly.

"No. If I leave, then Jarlaxle don't need to hold up his end of the bargain."

"Do'Urden must be quite gratified, to have so persistent a rescuer."

Catti-brie shook her head. "He'd hate it if he knew I was here. He told Regis to hide it from us."

He looked at her, his regard frighteningly intense. "Then why pursue him?"

Empty hallways. Her father, red-eyed and silent. The guilt that would eat her away if she didn't go, if no one went. Alustriel watching her with unexpected hope and respect.

She closed her eyes.

"I already lost one friend." Whatever arguments they had had, whatever Wulfgar had been to her before he died, she could still say 'friend.' "You killed him attacking Mithril Hall."

"One of the dwarves?" He frowned, clearly unable to put a face to her description.

"Not one of the—" Her throat ached with the effort of stopping tears, but she held them back anyway. She would not cry in front of Artemis Entreri. "Wulfgar. He died in the attack."

"But I was not the one who killed him."

"Ye helped." Her voice trembled. "If ye hadn't, perhaps the battle would have gone different."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." He shrugged. "If I had not been involved, it's possible you would have died and Wulfgar would have gone chasing Do'Urden to the Underdark."

"Or no one would have died!" She was vaguely aware that she was standing over him, her voice raised. He didn't seem the slightest bit intimidated, and that only made her feel worse. "We would have beaten them off and kept living our lives."

"Does Jarlaxle strike you as incompetent? If I had not been there, the drow would simply have used a different tactic to pry Drizzt out. Teleportation spells and a larger army, perhaps. Alchemical explosives in the mineshafts. Smoke, like hunters use for foxes."

"So ye joined them to reduce the body count?"

"Hardly." His lip curled in scorn.

"Then what does it matter, if I blame ye for his death?"

"It doesn't. But you hardly have cause to be upset. You did not wish to marry him anyway."

She stared at him, flummoxed.

"How do ye know—"

He arranged his features into a politely neutral expression that she'd never seen him wear. But she'd seen it on Regis's face a few times, when she needed to confide to someone. Like she had before drow attacked, when Regis had been...oh.

"You spying weasel," she spat. "That was—it's none of your—" She kicked a piece of decorative metalwork sticking out of the roof. Pain shot up her foot and spread like lightning through her leg. She cursed, still angry, but it was a pure, hot anger, something she could burn out. Grief was a dark tunnel that she couldn't afford to follow right now, not if she wanted to rescue Drizzt.

"How was I supposed to stop you?" Entreri's voice was harsh. "Say 'I cannot listen to your girlish woes right now, as I have espionage to commit and a prisoner to check on'? Or would you prefer that I simply pretend not to know?"

"Let's go with that."

"Very well." Another strange expression, this time an obvious caricature of sympathy. "I am so sorry about the death of your brutish fiance, whom you were so very excited to wed."

"Someone should have drowned you as a weanling."

He shrugged. "What makes you think no one tried?"

Exhausted by her anger, she sat down at the edge of the roof, close enough to speak but far enough away that he wouldn't think he was forgiven. I'm not sitting with ye, we just happen to be sitting in the same tunnel.

"Why do ye care if I go home, anyway?"

"Jarlaxle would need to give you a map, or send a scout to show you the way out. I could use that."

"So you're just bein' selfish."

"Yes. You could try it sometime."

"I think you're selfish enough for the both of us, aren't ye?"

He bared his teeth in what might have been a pleased grin. For a while they sat in silence, watching the street below them. Catti-brie's stomach growled, and she unpacked the fruit and cheese she had brought with her. She took a bite of the fruit, first. It was unfamiliar to her, but apparently commonplace in the Underdark. The skin was soft pink that faded into green. It tasted like a plum that wasn't ripe yet, but sweeter. She'd found she liked them.

Entreri glanced at her, then at the fruit. "Have you had a chance to look at the drow orchards yet?"

The question was so innocuous that Catti-brie was instantly suspicious.

"The drow have farms?" This far down, with no sunlight or rainfall to speak of?

Entreri nodded. "They're much like the great farms in the south, with aqueducts. They build in terraces to maximize space."

That...actually sounded rather nice. She'd seen aqueducts used in mining, to help carry away dust and debris. It could make sense for farming, too. She felt a pang of homesickness, thinking of the mines. Perhaps it was the case for Entreri, too.

"Do ye miss it?" He blinked, and she clarified. "Calimshan, I mean?"

"Parts of it." This time he didn't manage to hide the note of wistfulness from her. Was that him loosening up or her getting better at reading him?

"Like the food?" Her visit to Calimport had been too brief, too fearful, to really understand the city.

"Like the freedom to kill anyone who talked too much." Catti-brie took another bite of the fruit, and Entreri smirked. "But yes, some of the pashas keep fine gardens. Keeping plants alive in the desert requires time, water, money—it's a chance for them to show off."

Catti-brie didn't remembering seeing any such gardens, but she supposed that they were probably walled off. Knowing that Calimport hadn't been as barren as it looked but that all that green was simply hidden away didn't make her like the place any better.

"Is that why the drow grow fruit? To prove they can?"

Entreri thought about that, then chuckled. "Perhaps. Although, water is not the problem down here."

"Sunlight." She frowned, thinking. "Light spells?" But surely that would take too much magic to maintain, and the dark elves barely tolerated torches along crowded streets. They couldn't possibly be casting enough light spells up to keep any sizable farms alive.

"Some of the fields have light, yes, but plants don't need to get their energy from sunlight. Some can get warmth from the ground." He grinned wolfishly.

"And most of the plants down here get their energy the same way we do—they eat."

Catti-brie finished chewing her bite of not-plum and swallowed. "Eat what?" she asked.

"Meat." He jerked his head at a goblin corpse, already being dragged away. "Whatever kind is available."

Catti-brie looked at her mostly-uneaten fruit with disgust. Entreri huffed in annoyance, then took it from her.

"If you won't eat it, I will."

Catti-brie swallowed her objections. It wasn't like eating a person, not really. She couldn't shake the certainty that it had tasted like blood, nonetheless. Entreri rolled his eyes.

"A few days of hunger, you'll get over it," he said, carving the not-plum into small pieces. He popped a piece of fruit into his mouth. "Or you'll starve. I care not which."

Catti-brie scowled at him, then snatched a piece of the not-plum and ate it, never breaking eye contact. He laughed.

She raised an eyebrow, considering how, when she'd first known him, he'd butted heads with the guard from Luskan for no apparent reason other than that it seemed to amuse him to insult the man.

"Do you have to work to piss off all yer potential allies this much, or do it come natural?"

"It took practice."

"Oh, so ye want otherwise neutral parties to be looking to take yer head off," Catti-brie said sarcastically. Entreri nodded.

"It weeds out the opportunistic leeches. Anyone who sticks around after that is probably just planning to kill me."

"Or mayhap they weren't planning to kill ye until ye opened yer damned mouth." Entreri shrugged, as if people wanting to murder him was a natural consequence of existing. Then he perked up, like a cat that heard the skitter of rodent feet nearby. He jerked his chin as an armored figure down the street.

"Our target." Then he stood and started climbing down the building, not bothering with a rope. Catti-brie peered over the edge after him, then down at the rapidly-approaching drow.

"What am I supposed to do?"

He sneered but didn't answer. As their target got closer, Catti-brie recalled Jarlaxle's instructions: I need him alive, but not undamaged. She growled under her breath, drew her bow, and fired into the target's leg, pinning him to the nearest building.

Entreri, halfway across the street, whirled to scowl up at her. She made eye contact for a long second, then deliberately lowered the bow. She looped a length of rope around the decorative metalwork and started to climb down the side of the building. By the time she got down, their target was bound and gagged. He whimpered through the gag as Entreri roughly tourniquetted the wound on his leg. When Catti-brie let go of the rope, Entreri knotted the bandage and stood up.

"What were you thinking?"

"I was thinkin' ye hadn't exactly shared a plan, and this seemed like a halfway decent one. If ye were expecting me to do something else, ye should've said."

He tilted his head, and she expected an attack. A shove, a slap, something. When it didn't come, she ground her teeth and maintained eye contact until a particularly loud groan from their target drew her attention. Entreri was still frowning at her.

"If you get in my way again, I'll leave you at the bottom of the Clawrift, Jarlaxle's orders be damned."

With that, he dragged the captive to his feet and shoved him toward Bregan D'aerthe's base.

"Walk," he ordered in drow. A glance at Catti-brie suggested that the imperative was targeted at her, too. She pulled her rope down and followed.

"I don't suppose ye can tell me how drow say 'thank you,'" she said, draping the coil of rope over her shoulder. "Given that ye don't seem to know it yerself."

"If you shut up, I'll express gratitude by letting you live." He ran his thumb along the pommel of his dagger. "If a drow were going to deign to thank iblith for anything, I suspect it would be by killing us fast instead of slow."

She spent the rest of their walk in silence, wondering if he was right. When they returned, Jarlaxle smiled in delight, praised their work, and offered not a single word in thanks. By Entreri's grim smirk as they left Jarlaxle's office, he'd noticed too.

#au: the opposite of arrogance #bag of many aus #fic

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settle-down-frohike · 6 years

Text

Late to the game as always!! My submission for @xfpornbattle . I was given an unsexy prompt by @contrivedcoincidences6, my episode being Excelsis Dei, and I’ll be honest, it was *extremely* hard to feel anything resembling smutty after watching it, but I think that was the point. ;) But! I was able to pull prompts 195(dominant Scully) and 38 (Mulder watched Scully have one-night stands for years before making his move) and try to make something work. I do strongly advise re-watching it before you read if, like me, you haven’t in a while.

My eternal gratitude to @lepus-arcticus for going easy on me and making my first beta experience lovely and pain free! <3 If you see any spelling or grammar mistakes at this point it’s from my latest hurried edit and no reflection on her skills at all. And thank you to Idris Elba, for being, well, Idris Elba. ;) Tagging @today-in-fic

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Shrinking Violet

R: NC-17

“I don’t know how to explain it, but it has something to do with those pills.”

An unsubstantiated solution to the substantiated crime. That was her report in a nutshell.

Thanks, Mulder.

She’s spent the last 5 hours turning that crude statement into an official report, and to say she is tired is an understatement. To make matters worse, Mulder seems to be finding any excuse to stay in the office with her. She understands the fact that he was technically her superior, but she doesn’t literally need supervision, for Christ’s sake. He just keeps hovering around her, just outside of her periphery, like a dog circling a dinner table. Rummaging through cabinets, flipping through files, making much ado about absolutely nothing. It’s incredibly annoying, but at this point she doesn’t have the energy to analyze or address it.

She’s been in the same clothes for close to 18 hours now, and just wants her shower and her bed, in that order. She packs her briefcase and watches from the corner of her eye to see if he does the same. He doesn’t even look up. It isn’t until she is halfway out of the door that he even bothers to speak.

“Hey Scully?”

She turns, her escape thwarted, and regards him with a blank expression, save one raised brow.

“S’good work. This case I mean....I’m glad you pushed it.”

An unexpected wave of rage paralyzes her senses, and for a moment, a rehearsed tirade about his premature dismissal of their victim’s case and its similarities to her own experience plays out in her mind. How it could have so easily been her pleading for someone to validate what her body knows, but what no one can prove-all of the physical evidence that would hold up in a court of law having been erased, her chance at justice stolen, along with a good bit of faith in the system she works for. It lodges in her throat that she’s disappointed in him, maybe for the first time.

She can still hear herself pleading with him to continue to pursue this case, and the memory makes her cringe. Her abduction has her unwillingly humbled, punished for the company she’s chosen to keep, and she hates it. If she’s being punished, she’d might as well commit a crime befitting. Ahab once grounded her for a month after she came in smelling of cigarettes she hadn’t smoked. It’d felt righteous then, on the roof at 3am, choking on an entire pack of her mother’s Virginia Slims. Bad decisions might as damned well be her own.

She doesn’t know herself anymore. The body in the mirror at home is softer than it used to be, it slouches with memories of invasion and abuse. This body betrays her. It keeps secrets now. It’s frustrating to feel patronized by one’s own mind. She appreciates the work keeping her busy, and she hoped coming back as quickly as possible would be the first step in feeling whole again. But she’s not anywhere close to restored. Her edges feel tattered and stitched poorly together, and though her reflection may not show it, she’s a Raggedy-Ann version of her former self. She wants her body back, her memories back, and her autonomy back.

To let him know these things would show weakness. So instead, she smiles tightly at the floor and mumbles some platitude about teamwork or partnership and slips out. If she makes it to the garage fast enough, he won’t have time to wrap up this charade, gather his own things, and follow her home. Again. She’d rather him pull the big brother act when he thinks she’s not looking.

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

At the third stop light before the freeway, a Holiday Inn sign reads, “$1 MRGRTAS” and the rebel in her smiles. He won’t follow her in here, and if he does, she’ll hopefully be drunk enough to say what’s on her mind. She’s not ready to be at home alone with those thoughts just yet.

Two hours later, she’s four deep and enjoying her umpteenth cigarette with relish, her nose is pleasantly numb, and her thoughts about her partner are turning maudlin. He’s trying, she reckons. She knows he cares deeply for her. He likes to keep her close, like a lucky rabbit’s foot or some other talisman, rattling around in his pocket with the loose change, carelessly cherished. She remembers a time, not so long ago when she’d been starry-eyed and school-girl smitten with her new partner, with his unexpected good looks and unreachable genius. And for a time, they’d sparked against each other like flint meeting a match. For a time, it’d felt like maybe he’d felt something too. Her disappearance has exposed weakness in them both, she supposes. Her need to push against support instead of leaning into it, and his inability to offer any outright, for fear of not deserving the trust. This thought feels like something resembling forgiveness, and, her anger having dissipated, she’s thinking seriously about paying her tab and calling a taxi. At that moment, an impossibly rich baritone asks if the seat next to her is taken.

The accent is British, and his suit is expensive. He fits in here about as well as she does. He orders Glenlivet, neat. The tequila has her feeling loose limbed and mischievous, so after a few moments of quiet companionship, she slips off her jacket to reveal the pale blue silk shell underneath, just to see what might happen. Her newer, larger breasts stretch against the fine fabric, and if the sensation is unfamiliar and discomfiting, his side glance is not. She swallows any lingering traces of self doubt down with a swish of salt and cheap mix. The game is afoot, and the rush of adrenaline to her brain at her prowess is euphoric. She wants more of this kind of puissance, achieved cheaply, but effective nonetheless.

“You’re not singing tonight?” He nods towards the empty stage, floating lights and karaoke machine at the corner of the bar, unused, thankfully.

“Not tonight,” she smiles into her plastic tumbler, “too much competition.” His resulting chuckle is deep and dizzying.

Afoot, indeed.

She turns her head and is met with a very handsome smile with a face to match, basset-hound eyes and skin the color of strong espresso. His beard is well kept, and only serves to highlight his strong jawline, and sumptuous mouth. The closely tailored suit is doing nothing to hide the brutish build underneath. But he carries it with such elegance. He is fist-bitingly sexy. His handshake is gentle and warm, his name is Miles. There’s a bewitching hint of grey at his temples, and she is suddenly swooning, and damning everything all to hell.

She can’t honestly believe she hears herself ask if he is here alone, but the words come from someone that sounds a lot like her. He nods, and says he’s there ‘on conference’, the way that well-to-do Brits must put it, and the rest of his associates are at the Four Seasons.

“I’m set to give a lecture come morning, and tonight... I just needed a bit of breathing room.”

“Pressures at work?” She asks. He nods and releases a puff of smoke from one of her borrowed cigarettes.

“Comes with the terri’try, I suppose. I’m the head of my department at university. I’m expected to have allll the answers,” he cracks, with a wide sweep of his arm.

She chuffs. “That’s interesting. Lately I feel like I have no answers, only questions. But I think I understand.”

Their eyes meet again, and the air around them is suddenly charged. Not sexual, really, but a kind of understanding, a kinship being formed, and she’s now more drawn to him than ever. She feels brazenly without filter.

“Do men like you, with answers, I mean, does that power ever become a burden?”

“It absolutely does. Yes.”

She surveys the room, nodding. “Well I can assure you, Miles. Being without them can weigh on you just as well.”

He’s watching her still, even as she refuses to return his gaze.

“Can I help?”

That catches her attention. His eyes are crinkled with scrutiny, but something else, something familiar radiates behind the humor. Ah, yes. She recognizes it now. Need. Naked and thinly veiled behind his offer.

“Yes,” she answers, with a Mona Lisa smile, “yes, I think maybe you can.” He gracefully signals the barkeep, and she stands to gather her jacket and purse.

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

She shivers visibly as he closes the door to his room, and she chalks it up to the ancient overactive air conditioner by the window and not her nerves. Like the gentlemen she expects him to be, though, he adjusts the setting before relieving himself of his own jacket, and walks to stand before her. But God he is striking, and mysterious and reserved in a way that intimidates and in turn, arouses her. And something about the scent of the cheap furnishings and the last traces of his expensive cologne is intoxicating in an illicit, tawdry sort of way. This feels like an affair. This stranger’s body she’s been inhabiting for the last few months now is behaving like the old Dana would, unmercifully enraptured by an older, powerful man.

“Tell me what I can do,” he says gently, and she’s swept up on a wave of supremecy.

“Take off your clothes,” she orders, softly but firmly, as she begins to relieve herself of her own, “and get on your knees.” His eyes flash brightly and he obeys, an eager supplicant. The slightest sway of her pelvis toward his mouth is all the command he needs, and his tongue snakes between her thighs, smoothly traces her outer folds, seeking entrance. She presses her hand to the back of his head and he growls into her in response. She can see him growing long and thick and hard between his legs, purely on the taste of her. Her voice is husky with want, and the air is saturated with pheromones.

“Make me come.”

And he does. Using long, deft fingers and a dexterous tongue he suckles and strokes with perfect pressure, an even rhythm, until the one leg she has thrown over his broad back becomes two, and she’s lying back on the bed, watching herself thrash and moan from far, far above her body, this dark god of a man at her mercy.

He laps at her gently, bringing her down from orgasm with incredible tenderness. His beard is soaked and glistening when he looks up, and she decides she’s not done with him yet.

“Lie on the bed, now.”

He rises wordlessly, licks his lips, and nods. When he settles, fully prostrate, she rises and stands next to the bed, admiring his form. Every inch of him is perfection. She wants to bite at his pebbled nipples, suckle at his mouth, capture the straining tendons at his neck between her teeth. He’s visibly, if willfully, tortured, and true power is not without mercy.

If she were to straddle and face him, it would feel too intimate. Neither want connection, they want distraction. She wants to use him and he wants to be used. So she turns back and watches herself sink down, slowly, onto his dusky length in the dresser mirror. The woman before her is dominant, formidable, and she’s aching to come again. Her fingers slide down between her breasts, over her mons and past her clitoris, fully engorged, stiff and eager. She finds their bodies’ joining, finds where he enters and his slick girth spreads her open, impaling her as she rises and falls. Her slick, shining fingers reach her mouth and taste their sex, rich and biting. He’s watching her reflection with wide, worshipful eyes. Dipping lower, her fingernails graze the tender underside of his sack, and the muscles in his legs rippling in anticipation, like a thoroughbred at the gate. He thrusts unconsciously and groans helplessly, “God!” and the succubus in her takes over. She growls, “Don’t you dare fucking move,” and starts to work herself ruthlessly, grinding him down and deep against her cervix, the sensation acute and exquisitely painful, over and over again. Her eyes never leave her reflection, even as she is open-mouthed and howling, her second orgasm consuming her like a brushfire. His own climax registers somewhere in the distance.

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

Her legs are trembling with exertion, an unnamed emotion bubbling it’s way to the surface. She collapses forward, sobbing, as a pair of warm, strong arms envelope her from behind.

“You are incredible,” he whispers, breathless, “a goddess. Now come here.” His commanding tone is softened by English r’s. The fight in her has gone, but he takes no advantage. He tucks her next to him under the thin comforter and tells her sternly, “Give yourself time to heal, girl. You have all the power you seek. Wield it as you wish. You have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself.” The last thing she thinks is how, in this moment, she does feel very much like a girl, newborn and guiltless and so very, very afraid again of what she does not know. What her mind won’t let her remember. For now though, she lets his warmth and his brawn shield her against the demons that beckon.

Come morning, on the pillow next to her, a vibrant, freshly picked violet is all that remains of him.

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A disheveled man sits in a parked car across the street from the Holiday Inn, two days worth of stubble coating his cheeks, eyes red-rimmed and shifty. His body shakes, the indignant fury he felt previously now exhausted into fumes of guilt as he watches her come through the sliding doors, out to her car, and follows it as it drives away. She’s safe at least. She’s alive. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.

#myfic #msr fic #xf prompt battle #xfiles s2 #fic prompts #excelsis dei #drabbles #idris elba

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pernatius · 4 years

Text

Lost in Space Part 2: Ch 4

Ch 3

Summary: After returning to Earth, an unnamed Space Explorer must face the consequences of going past Quadrant 5.

Attempting to write 10k words for part 2 by the end of the week.

Part 1:

Ch 1

Ch 2

Ch 3

Ch 4

Ch 5

____________________

Turning to the fire, I imagine that brutish commander passing through it with something bloody in his hand. He steps towards me. I want to run away. I really want to, but they held me down. His men have my wrists and ankles gripped in their hands. I tried fighting free. All it does is have them spread my limbs further away from each other. Once he’s all too close to me he lifts what he’s been holding. Mikrovos’ decapitated head swung towards me. His blood splatters onto me. Because of this, I cry. The Commander had his hand caress my cheek and thumb to wipe away my tears, but my suffering had only just begun. He then forces my head to turn towards other familiar faces like Ashley and Saamuki. The monster wants me to watch them begin what Mikrovos had just gone through. I shut my eyes before it starts, only allowing my ears to listen. I hear them scream until someone calls for me.

“Hey. Are you all right? What’s wrong?” In her blue eyes, I see how pale I’ve become. I see myself crying. While I no longer knew her, they at least did. So, I wrap my arms around her. I hug her tightly as I cry into her shoulder as the other two watches from afar.

Her hand rubbed my back as I watched the fire eat away the wood beneath it. My foot rolls a pebble from side to side. I now sat near them. I joined their dreariness. “Is the ship going to be ready by then,” I broke my silence.

“Mikrovos found a whole junkyard filled with abandoned vehicles before sunset. If we get to them as soon as the sun rises I’ll be able to fix the ship long before they come,” Saamuki explained.

“What’s,” I gulp, “What’s going to happen when they find out I’m not here? What’s going to happen to Earth?” I lift my head and look into Saamuki’s eyes.

Saamuki looks away. She looks into the fire between us. I watch her burned hands fold and thumbs rub against each other.

“That’s why we have to leave as soon as possible,” Mikrovos reminded.

“The whole Earth...millions of lives are going to suffer because of me. All because I went on that stupid mission.” I grab the pebble underneath my foot and throw it into the fire. Before my eyes, it reddens. It then slowly blackens.

“I’ve said it before and I’ve said it again, what’s-”

I turned to him and shouted, “So, what if I want to mope? It’s because of me millions are going to die. It’s because of my stupid rashness I’m going to bring about a second intergalactic war on Earth.”

“Yeah, and what of it? What can you possibly do to even prevent that from happening? You only survived that whole fucking journey we went on because of me. You don’t have the strength and you definitely don’t have the intelligence to even go against them.”

My eyebrows furrowed. My fists shook. I opened my mouth, but I quickly closed it and turned away from him as soon as I realized he’s right. If I hadn’t met Mikrovos I would’ve died out there a long time ago. I would’ve died right from the beginning.

“This isn��t the time to argue,” Ashley butted in.

“It’s most definitely the time to argue. She needs to finally get it through her damn head that there’s absolutely nothing she can do. She just has to live with it.”

“And is that how you feel?”

“Ashley,” he grunted. His nostrils flared as he snorted.

“Is that how you’ve been feeling all your life?”

He gets up and makes sure to look directly into Ashley’s eyes as he expresses his irritation towards her not stopping, “I’m not sleeping here tonight. I’m sleeping somewhere else.”

As he heads into the crops, Saamuki calls out to him, but it doesn’t change his mind in the slightest. So, she sighs and looks at Ashley.

“What,” Ashley asked.

“You know how he feels about it.”

“And he knew how she feels about this.”

Again, Saamuki sighs. “I’m heading to bed. She bends down and uses her hand to swat away the pebbles that were across the ground. After she’s done, she lays down and goes to sleep.

“Feels about what,” I asked Ashley.

“We should be getting some sleep too,” she ignored.

My eyes open. It’s still dark. The fire is still burning, but it’s not as lively as earlier. I also see her arms are wrapped around my waist.

I try to slip out of her grip, but she wakes up before I can. Actually, she’s sort of awake. She’s half-asleep. “You’re going to Mikrovos, aren’t you,” she slurred out.

“Yea.”

She lets go. Her eyes are still closed. “Make sure you get enough sleep when you get back.”

I kiss her forehead. I know we’re married. So, it felt natural to do so, but I still don’t remember. At least it gets her to go back to sleep,

The moonlight cut between the dense crops, allowing me to see his hoofprints. So, I followed them. I followed them until I found a familiar figure slouching above a bank in front of a small stream. He throws a pebble into it.

Nearing closer, I see his ears twitch. I hear his nose sniffing the air. He knows it’s me. So, it doesn’t surprise me when he asks, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be sleeping with the others? It won’t be too long until daylight.”

Taking a seat next to him, I throw my own pebble into the running water as well. It’s not the type of rock that hops across water when thrown. It’s just like any other rock. It sinks into the water, but it felt calming to watch it join with the other rocks at the bottom. I then go straight to asking, “What did Ashley mean back there?”

He looks at the reflection of the moon in the dark blue water before us. “Your planet is beautiful. It’s way more beautiful than my homeworld.”

Instead of the stream now lies mud. There’s lots of it. For miles, it’s just mud. Well, not entirely mud. There are small patches of grass that have sprouted out every other foot. I also notice that I’m bent down and my hand is reaching forward. It plucks some out. It’s not my normal hand, though. It’s not even a human hand. It’s much larger and it’s covered in brown fur. I watch myself drop the patch of grass into a wooden basket. I then take a step forward and bend down. Again, I pluck some grass and drop it into the basket. I do this over and over until it’s full. When it is, I turn around and walk towards the mountain that had suddenly appeared behind me.

Teeth gritting the basket, my hands and hooves push me up the mountain. I climbed and climbed even as the wind tried to push me down. Because of how tall it is, sweat dripped off of me. It caused my fur to become sticky, but I kept climbing. Even as the mountain’s rocks became jagged and cut into my skin I remained diligent in reaching the top. Once I do I find a waterfall and in it, I see my face is no longer human, but it’s familiar. I know this face. It’s Mikrovos’. I jump into its pool and walk across it with the basket above my head. The water is up to my chest. It’s freezing, causing me to shiver, but I continue.

A cave’s mouth stood before me. It’s not dark. Inside there’s light. Lots of it. Inside there are voices. There are hundreds of them. I shouldn’t be here. My head is telling me I should turn around, but my body stepped in. It’s as if it’s forced to. It wants to run away as well, but it just can’t. I’m just too scared.

Inside the cave is a bustling market. I see Tauvoxes everywhere I look. Unlike the market that was filled with criminals, this one isn’t filled with happy faces. They talk among themselves, but it’s out of necessity. They ask for meat, vegetables, fruits, and clothes. Sure, they did the same over there, but at least there was substance to it. At least they liked talking to each other. Here it feels like one wrong move like something as little as accidentally bumping into someone and a fight will break loose. The smell isn’t any better either. Sweat, which isn’t mine as mine died as soon as I went into the pool, masks the grilling meat. Everything around me is gross, is wrong, which becomes even more apparent the deeper I go. What was once just the stench of sweat is now combined with decay and sewage. Speaking of the latter, I see a greenish water drip down in front of me. Following where it came from, I look up to see pipes running all over the cave’s ceiling. Steam puffs out from some of them and one of them, where the dirty water droplet came from, has a slowly growing hole. I try not to gag.

Waving off a thick cloud of smoke, I finally came across what I’ve been looking for. I stand before a poorly made home, one made out of trash, Although, it’s not like the homes around it don’t share the same crummy feature. The shops earlier are made out of some trash as well. As my heart races, I step inside. Who greets me is a female and much older version of Mikrovos. “Where’s dad,” I asked her. While I heard my voice come out of his mouth she must’ve heard her son’s voice seeing she was unfazed.

His mother’s voice is shaky as she responds with, “He’s-”

“Mikrovos, is that you?” The voice came from another room. I assume it to be his father and I’m proven correct with someone that looked like an older version of him comes around the corner. I freeze, unable to answer him once our eyes meet. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

“Honey, the neighbors will hear if you-” She doesn’t get to finish her sentence. Her husband slaps her across her face and she falls because of it. As she rubs the site, I run over to her and help her stand back up. In the process, though, I dropped the basket. The grass fell to the floor, causing Mikrovos’ father to turn his anger towards me. He pulls me off of her and slams me against a wall. His hand clutched my chest hair and in the corner of my eye, I saw Mikrovos’ mother watch in fear. I know she wants to help, but she’s too scared to.

“I’ve waited all day for you to come back. I’ve waited all day for that damn grass,” he crouches down and picks up the grass, “And you just let it fall to the floor. Now it’s dirty. It’s not good anymore.” My eyes watered as I watched him raise a fist at me. I thought he was going to punch me, but instead, he threw the grass at my face. He lets go of me soon after.

“Then, he walked out the door,” Mikrovos broke me out of my imagination.

From his reflection I watch him sadden. “I’m sorry.”

Ignoring my sympathy, he goes on to continue, “All my life I’ve been abused, but who am I to complain? My mother had it worse. Even now, even after they’re both gone, she bared much more than what I’ve been through.”

Returning to my mind’s reenactment of Mikrovos’ past, I am seen plucking out grass like the last time. The time, though, I see my reflection in a small puddle. I see my lip has been split. As I stare down at my reflection, I rub the cut. My blood is then smeared across my hand. Seeing it, I get angry. I shout to the sky about wishing if only I had the strength to give his father a piece of my mind. I didn’t expect an answer, but he came. I see his face in the puddle as well. It’s The Commander’s face. “I think I can help with that,” he offered.

“W-Who are you,” I questioned innocently.

The Commander is much younger compared to the version I’ve grown to despise. He should be about Mikrovos’ current age. Maybe a little older. However, this doesn’t remove him from the creepy demeanor I’ve known him for.

“A friend.”

#185 #lost in space #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writers #creative writing #spilled ink #wlw #fiction #my writing #space

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thedragonblessed · 7 years

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Dorianmance week day 2!

Pavellan. Dorian Pavus x Fenlyn Lavellan (approx 17k)

Fenlyn had strayed from camp. It was early morning and due to his insufferable tendency to wake up first. He decided to take his dalish mare “Sandy” for a ride. Dorian sneered relentlessly at her given name calling him adorable every time he brushed her fondly. It was no secret Sandy was his favorite and his love for his horse was something he and Master Dennet could agree on. Fenlyn had traveled with Cullen’s forces to oversee the watch towers construction in the Hinterlands, desiring a distraction from Skyhold. Empress Celene’s gala was rapidly approaching and Fenlyn desperately wanted to escape Josephine's stern nobility lessons that he wasn’t excelling at as quickly as she hoped. Even the way he held a blighted fork could be interpreted as a rude gesture to some frilly orlesian in a mask.

Fenlyn picked up on a twig snap. He almost didn’t hear it over Sandy’s loud shuffling but he pulled her to a stop,looking over his shoulder. Fenlyn remembered the bear ambush from last time he went off for a ride in the woods and did not want to repeat it. Another twig snapped from his side and he drew his dagger, preparing a good clean throw if an enemy appeared. Suddenly a loud whoosh of air and then a stabbing pain in his side as an arrow stuck him. His armour slowed it from killing him but it pierced his skin, wedging itself deep in his flesh. Fenlyn cried out and jerked away as Sandy reared, startled. She threw him over the ravine and bolted, narrowly missing other arrows that attempted to halt her. Fenlyn rolled violently down the rough forest cliffside landing halfway into a shallow river with a splash.

“Fenedhis! Shit!” Fenlyn spat with gritted teeth and his whole body flared with pain. He heard hooting and shouting from the top of the ravine.

Fenlyn attempted to sit up, the arrow’s feathers twitching with his rapid breaths. His leather armour was stained darker with his blood. He rolled on his side using his shaking arms to at least get him on his knees. The pain was agonizing and he blinked blood from his eyes. A cut on his forehead no doubt. His head wound had painted the water with red. Sure enough a brutish man slid down the ravine, looking predatory and gleeful.

“Shem!” Fenlyn snapped struggling to put more distance between him and the bandit.

Fenlyn scrambled away as he loaded another arrow into his bow. He drew his daggers and with a flick of his wrist broke the poison pellet in his armguards. The green, foul liquid ran down his hands and soaked his daggers. The man released the arrow and he jumped out of the way, adrenaline disregarding his injuries. The arrow missed, and with a frustrated growl the bandit advanced on him instead, crossing the river with confident strides. Fenlyn managed to raise himself by bracing a hand on his knee and his vision swum. By the time the bandit reached him with a sword unsheathed Fenlyn stood and leaned back to avoid the first swipe.

“Not very good aim huh?” He choked out laboring for breath.

“Shut up, Knife-ear…” The bandit’s voice was slow and mumbling. The man attempted to slash at him again but Fenlyn ducked instead, rearing up to cut his opponent past his armour. His blade met the skin of his armpit and that’s all it took. The man screamed as the cut burned and the poison rapidly seeped into his system. The man began frothing at the mouth and fell to the ground, gurgling violently. Two more men came down the ravine cursing and screaming at the staggering elf. They tried to flank him and Fenlyn wavered, keeping an eye on both of them with a shaky fighting stance.

“Come to join your friend? Good. I’m alway up for some practice.”

“Watch yourself, pretty elf. You’re losing a lot of blood there. Look like a damn pin cushion.” The rogue of the group commented grinning with rotted teeth.

He could fight defensively. Fine. Masking his fear with a taunting grin he flipped his blades in the showy trick way he does for the children at Skyhold to entertain them. He supposed now he did look like the savage forest-dwelling dalish that fereldan thought they were, adrenaline pumping blood uselessly out the arrow in his side. The bandit with a greatsword charged him, full of openings. Fenlyn dodged but couldn’t get enough momentum to finish the killing blow that he normally would, his injury slowed him. He settled with kicking the larger bandit on his ass sending him face first into the pebbles. All it did was anger the bandit as he reared up with a furious roar. He slashed angrily at Fenlyn who could do little more than dance around his attacks. While he was preoccupied, the rogue began to notch his arrow into place. Fenlyn almost missed the rogue snapping up his weapon and releasing the arrow aiming for his head. Thinking fast he ducked and threw a knife, hitting the rogue squarely in the chest. The rogue collapsed and died slowly, blood filling his lungs. That earned him a heavy punch from the other bandit and he fell to the ground, his other dagger flying out of reach. The bandit abandoned his weapon deciding to strangle Fenlyn to death instead. Fenlyn strained, digging his nails into the bandit’s hand, his air cut off completely. Desperate, he reached down to the arrow in his side, pulling at it. It started to exit the wound with agonizing slowness as dizziness started to overtake Fenlyn. He pulled as hard as he could until the arrow notched free from his skin.Without hesitating he reared back his arm with the blood stained arrow and drove it into the bandit’s neck, causing him to leap back with a howl of pain. The arrow didn’t puncture enough for it to be a killing blow so Fenlyn improvised. He burst another pellet of poison and lurched up, shoving his fingers into the bandit’s mouth. He gained the upper hand, shoving the man down and straddling him. The bandit bit down on Fenlyn’s fingers as he struggled for life, the poison slowly killing him. Blood flooded out of his neck where the arrow pierced him and he slowly stilled gurgling wetly. Fenlyn felt beads of sweat drop from his nose as the bandit drew his last breath. Fenlyn removed his bleeding and bitten fingers, falling over with a large heaving sigh. That had been...way too close. He realized with a groan that Sandy ran away with his pack and all his healing potions.The crisp morning air chilled him where he was wet and his blood turned icy. He pressed down his hands on the wound,his breathing slowing and the pain coming in fierce waves. Fenlyn wanted to sleep. He heard shouting and a fight break out nearby and jolted remembering where he was. He couldn’t stay-he-

There was a massive blast of fire at the top of the ravine and screams resounded from the skirmish. Fenlyn flinched, fearing mages, venatori maybe, something-

“Amatus!”

Fenlyn jerked up at that voice. He’s never heard Dorian sound so terrified before and never been so relieved to see him. He cried out when he moved, seeing blood seeping through his fingers and trickling over them. His hands were painted red. Fenlyn fell roughly back against the stones again as the pain reignited. Dorian sprinted down the hill, his robes stained with blood. He skidded to his knees next to Fenlyn’s weary form.

“Vishante Kaffas! Fasta vass!” Dorian swore applying pressure to the wound on top of Fenlyn’s reddened fingers. “What were you thinking? Going off on your own. You bloody fool, look at the state of you-”

Fenlyn let out a wavering chuckle.

“Must you scold me….?” Fenlyn hissed in pain and Dorian hushed him gently. He smoothed a handkerchief over Fenlyn’s face, wiping the sweat, grime, and blood off him.

“Be quiet, you’re in no condition to speak. Why must you torture me so? Sandy comes running back to camp in a panic with no rider and a bloodstain on her, what was I supposed to think? You’re lucky you’re just getting a scolding.”

“I’m glad….that...Sandy is safe…” Fenlyn struggled to get his words out and Dorian cupped his face.

“You and that ridiculous mare. It’s almost like she came to warn us.” Dorian smiled fondly and Fenlyn responded with a woozy half lidded grin.

Dorian hurriedly grabbed an elfroot potion from his purse, unstoppering it. His hands were trembling as he eased Fenlyn’s head up. Fenlyn drank obediently, feeling the burn of the potion as it staunched his bleeding rapidly. New skin stretched over the hole in his side and his forehead wound looked two days old instead of fresh. The bites on his fingers healed completely. The Iron Bull and Vivienne ran over the ravine looking winded and panicked. When they saw Dorian tentatively help Fenlyn to his feet they both sagged in obvious relief. Vivienne suddenly looked mutinous and Iron Bull gave him a lopsided grin.

“You all right, boss?”

“Yes….Just...might need to see some healers before we get to work.”

“Hmph...Three bandits nearly got the better of you, darling? I’ve seen you fight better than that. We had to fight through the rest of them to get to you.”

“In my defense, I fought them with an arrow in my side. And I pulled it out to kill the last one with it.”

“Ha! Pretty badass!” Iron Bull barked out a laugh throwing his axe over his shoulder as Fenlyn beamed.

“Don’t encourage him, Bull…” Dorian snapped supporting Fenlyn at the waist as they stepped gingerly away from the carnage.

“Would you at least try to not get yourself killed next time, Fenlyn, dear? It would be such a waste.”

“And quite literally, the end of the world.” Dorian said, regarding him sternly. Fenlyn pouted at Dorian playfully nodding his head solemnly and Dorian sighed, trying to hold back the smile twitching at his lips.

“Good thing I have such heroic companions then.” Fenlyn grinned at Dorian, kissing him on the cheek.

Dorian smiled in spite of himself.

#drabbles #fic #rescue fic #Fenlyn Lavellan #Dorian Pavus #dorianmance week #dorianmance week day 2 #pavellan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian x lavellan #I hope they like it #oc fic #Fenlyn and his rogue tricks

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