#char a day keep the monsters at bay
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Whumptober Day 8: Outnumbered
Read on Ao3
- Time/Malon
- Summary: when Time ends up in a battle he can’t win he dons the Fierce Deity mask — a choice with grim consequences
CW for blood and injury, a character losing an eye, possession, self-harm, and vomiting
——————————-
Link stumbles for what must be the hundredth time in the last few moments. His steps are unsteady, his body weary. The room spins like the water of the Great Bay Temple. If he stops moving for even a moment he is certain he will be swept up in its nauseating current.
The screams of monsters ring in his ears, deafening, skull-splitting. It has been a long time since he battled so many.
…if there ever was a time when he had.
A lizalfo swings its dagger dangerously close to his head. Gritting his teeth, Link fells it with a thrust of his gilded sword. But ten more replace it, all crowding around him, battering his body with weapons and claws and teeth. His armor feels about as effective as his regular tunic now. Each blow beats upon him like those of an iron knuckle’s ax.
A particularly wide swing of a dodongo tail trips him up. He nearly falls, catches himself, retreats a bit.
Another step backward, another step closer to the wall.
His heart pounds so loudly he can hear it over the ruckus surrounding him. Sweat runs down his face in rivulets. It has long since soaked his hair and tunic.
He spares a glance toward the ceiling, vaguely wishing he could see the sky through it.
How long has he been in here?
Easy. Simple. That was what Zelda had dubbed this mission. What they had both believed it would be. After all, monsters seldom flood Dodongo Cavern like they did in the days of Ganondorf. And though the Gorons are normally averse to asking for help, they make an exception when it comes to him. They hadn’t warned him of any great threat either.
There had been no reason for suspicion, no need to suspect something dreadful awaited him in here.
All of these monsters…it is as though they appeared out of the air solely to face him.
Link pulls a spin attack, sending some of his assailants flying. He weaves Din’s fire into the tail end of it and the screeches reach a fever pitch before promptly dying out. But the powerful spell hardly makes a dent. If anything, it makes things worse.
He straightens, breathing hard, and squints into the gloom before him. There, standing atop the charred remains of the monsters he has just vanquished stands an iron knuckle.
Desperation cleaves through him at the same time the beast breaks into a run. It shoves aside the monsters crowding around it as though they are weightless. The sound of its clanking armor echoes in his ears and seems to shake the cavern.
With a grunt of exertion, he forces himself forward to meet it. Exhaustion drags at him, his limbs are heavy and numb, his breath comes in haggard gasps. But he keeps going anyway, slicing at the monsters that leap at him.
He has to make it out of here alive. He has to. Malon is waiting for him. She had made him promise to return. And the Hero of Time has never broken a promise.
Especially not to someone he loves.
The iron knuckle brings its ax down in a sweeping motion, cleaving through the air and sending monsters flying. With shaking hands, Link brings up his shield to block.
…it goes flying.
The sound of it hitting the cave wall reverberates in his aching head. His breath catches in his throat.
He throws himself sideways just as the ax comes back around. He can feel the wind as it rushes past him. But he hardly has time to celebrate his victory. Though his quick maneuver keeps his head on his shoulders, it also sends him right into the midst of the other monsters. And before he can react, one leaps for him, weapon held high.
Pain explodes across his face with nauseating force. He stumbles, back hitting the wall with a resounding thud, sword clattering to the ground. Pressing a hand to his eye, he screams.
They close in on him with sadistic eagerness, sensing weakness. But their forms are hazy and indistinct. His fear of them seems very far away now, replaced by a terror of another sort.
Blood streams hot and fast down his face. A throbbing burn grips his eye.
…or the place where his eye once was.
Another blow sends him to his knees (though he can’t help but think he would have ended up there anyway). He falls, choking on blood and bile. The room tilts and he slumps against the wall, trying to breathe.
The pain is endless, pounding behind his eye sockets, streaking through every part of him. And he knows, even through the agonizing haze, he knows he is not going to make it out of here. Not now, wounded as he is.
Link grits his teeth and plunges his bloodied fingers into his pouch. The item he needs is not difficult to locate. After all, he would know the feel of this mask anywhere. It is impossible to forget.
Even so, he pauses for a moment to gaze down at it. The vision in his remaining eye is hopelessly blurred by pain and blood and sweat, but he can still make out the familiar crimson markings. They stir up an all too familiar dread.
He closes his eye, grip tightening on the worn wood.
The iron knuckle is charging again. He can hear its footsteps echoing, even over the screams of the monsters that surround him.
Go on, comes the familiar voice, soft but strong. You know you have no other choice. Put on the mask, little one. Allow me to save you.
Link drags in a haggard breath, fighting to remain afloat on an ocean of agony. Slowly, he lifts the mask to his face.
Forgive me, Malon.
It latches onto him in a searing blur of red-hot light and breath-taking pain. He screams, shrill and panicked and anguished, as control over his own body and mind are snatched away. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t feel anything beyond pain, so much pain…
Then, abruptly, something shifts, and there is only darkness.
Be calm, little one. I will protect you.
Something cold and stifling, familiar and oddly calming blankets him. Link’s grip begins to slip. But he doesn’t plummet. Not yet. By some blessing he holds on.
Even through the drifting haze he can feel his body moving. He knows when a monster is felled by the Deity’s mighty blade, or when his failing limbs take another step. Though the agony and horror are distant, he knows that they are there. And he grasps onto them like a lifeline.
Because that is what they are. Without them, he will fall completely. The Deity’s embrace, though painful at first, is too comfortable, too placid and mindless not to draw him in.
Rest little one, he murmurs, against a backdrop of screaming monsters. You are safe.
Link would believe him if he didn’t know better. If he hadn’t nearly lost himself so many times before.
When the last monster falls he fights to surface from the deep.
Release me, he orders, even as the cold and dark begin to tighten around him like bonds of iron. You have done your job.
I cannot release you now.
Link tries to inhale but his chest feels heavy, his throat tight, and he comes up short. Fear begins working its way in through the numbness.
I want to go home. Let go, Deity. Now.
Why? You are safe with me. You are strong.
Link’s grip slips further. All he can see, all he can feel is black — smothering and frigid. It numbs the agony, chips away at the terror. He could, given time, become comfortable in it. He could grow accustomed to being nothing more than a shadow in his own body, without feeling or thought, without control.
Without pain.
No.
If he gives in now he will be here forever, caged in an inescapable prison. He will never work beside Zelda again to protect the land they love. He will never ride Epona across the rolling hills of Hyrule Field, or play his ocarina with the Skull Kid and his friends. If Navi ever chooses to return, he will not be there to greet her.
And Malon. Beautiful, sweet, fiery Malon. He will never see her again.
Slowly, he begins to lift his hand. It trembles with exertion and exhaustion. And despite his desperate need to escape, it is heavy, reluctant. Some treacherous part of him yearns to stay, as it always does. It yearns to be free. But what freedom is there in a cage?
NO.
It is not his voice that utters the word this time. No, though it is his mouth that forms it. The voice is firm like a father’s, but icy as the winds of Snowhead.
The invisible bonds tighten. He chokes. His fingers freeze, mere inches from his chin.
Little one, you are not thinking correctly. Your pain blinds you to the truth.
You think that you can go on without using me. Do not think that I did not hear what you swore to Malon. But how can you protect her without donning my mask? Look upon yourself.
For a split second, Link sees his reflection as though staring in the mirror – ashen skin and an eye bright with feverish light; blonde hair streaked with crimson and plastered to his cheeks and forehead with sweat; right eyelid sealed closed with drying blood and marred by an angry gash.
You cannot even protect yourself.
You are weak without me. Powerless.
The words propel past his defenses to pierce his very soul. For a moment, and only a moment, Link hesitates.
Listen to me, little one, the Deity rumbles, his voice encompassing Link and pulling him downward. You know you need me.
No, I don’t, he grits out, even as his eye begins to slide closed, his body to go limp. He feels oddly lightheaded, yet heavy. Perhaps, if he surrenders he will be able to breathe again. Perhaps, if he releases his grip now he can rest.
No? Why then, have you worn my mask for seven days?
If he could still draw in air, it would catch in his throat.
Seven days. Seven–
He had thought it had only been one.
How far had he truly fallen to be so unaware? How close had he come – is he even now – to being the Deity’s prisoner? As trapped as the Skull Kid was in Majora’s clutches.
Horror grips him tighter than the Deity ever could, forcing him out of the unfeeling oblivion and toward the dazzling light of day. Link forces himself to grasp the edge of the mask.
Little one, do not be unwise. Remember. All actions have consequences.
He grits his teeth, steels himself, and pulls. It feels as though he is tearing off his own skin. A strangled cry erupts from him, only growing louder and more shrill as the right side of his face begins to burn. The sheer intensity of it nearly makes him black out and for a terrifying second his fingers slip. But through pure desperation, he holds on.
“Come back to me fairy boy,” Malon murmurs, calloused hands cupping his face. “You hear? Be the hero you’ve gotta be, but come back.” A teasing smile lifts her lips. “After all, I need someone to help me manage the cuccos.”
He chuckles. “Is that all you need me for?”
Laughing, she gives him a quick kiss. “Of course not. I need you to feed the horses too.”
The mask comes off in a screaming streak of molten agony. Link crumples.
The right side of his face is all burning, aching pain. Stars dot his vision on the left, broken only by the grayish-red of the blood that coats every part of him. Shoving himself to his knees, he pitches forward and vomits bile.
He dropped his sword at some point, he realizes dimly as he holds himself up on shaking arms. It lies before him, mighty blade reflecting the rocky walls. And when his vision clears for a moment, he can just make out his own reflection wavering upon it.
He looks much the same as he did when the Deity had shown him his state – bloodied and wounded and much too pale. But…there is something there that wasn’t before.
Link inhales sharply, hand flying up to touch the right side of his face. Markings have seared themselves into the flesh there – stripes of crimson, a crown of royal blue. And the eye he had thought he had lost is open despite the gash he knows is still there. It glows in the darkness — white, pupiless, and demonic.
A cry breaks free before he can stop it. Viciously, he digs his fingernails into his face, tearing and scratching. New blood runs down in rivulets and furious red marks mar his flesh. Yet, still he rips himself apart.
Maybe this is a mask too. Maybe if he pulls hard enough, it will slide off revealing his true face underneath.
But his efforts are for nought. The markings remain. And at last, he stops, dropping his hand to his side.
For a long, terrible moment, he gazes at himself. Then, he leans forward and vomits once more.
——————
He doesn’t truly know how he makes it back to the ranch. Likely by the same desperate stubbornness that made him fight the Deity and has guided him through all the hardships of his long life. But however he makes the agonizing journey, it no longer matters once he reaches that familiar path.
He can see their home through his fading vision and make out the familiar form of Malon. She stands on the porch, hair waving softly like a flame dancing with the wind, hands clasped before her chest. Beneath the serene glow of a new moon, she looks almost ethereal.
His aching limbs scream as he breaks into a run.
She meets him halfway through.
“Link!” she cries, tears welling in her eyes, horror on her face. She cups his face, gently, paying no heed to the blood, sweat, and vomit. “Oh, Link, what happened?”
He drags in a breath. “I fought the Deity.”
Terrible comprehension enters her expression.
“Fairy boy,” she breathes. And something about the way she says it goes straight to his heart.
With an anguished sob, he collapses into her waiting arms.
#whumptober 2023#no.8#outnumbered#self-harm tw#blood tw#injury tw#possession#vomiting tw#linkeduniverse#fic#trin writes#lu time#fierce deity#lu malon#angst#whump
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hi, i just love you and your writing
can i suggest something - you are in love (taylor swift) and supercorp
i cannot listen to that song without going yeah, that's them
(also on ao3 if you prefer)
Five years from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”
And when she does, five years from now, Lena will think back to this moment.
This moment, which is as close as Lena's come to happiness since she'd woken up ziptied to a chair in her brother's office. This moment which, despite the fuzzy feeling of her unbrushed teeth and the pungent aroma of burnt toast filling the air, is perfect.
Kara, bed-warm and sleep-heavy, is gazing beseechingly down at the charred remains of a slice of a bread as though if she only pouts hard enough, its edges will un-blacken and its corners will stop smoking.
“I'm so sorry,” she says as Lena rounds the screen separating Kara's bedroom from the rest of the apartment and perches herself on a barstool, tugging her borrowed sleep shorts a little lower down her thighs.
Kara's tone is mournful, her face so forlorn she looks to be one deep breath away from tears. “I wanted breakfast to be perfect, since it's your first time staying over and if it's terrible you might not want to stay again and I, I really want you to stay again, but I don't know why you would since you probably have a private chef waiting for you at home and I can’t even manage toast—”
“Kara,” Lena interrupts, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as Kara's bottom lip trembles. “It's fine, really. I once set fire to my dorm kitchen trying to boil an egg. And besides,” she winks as blue eyes meet hers. “I like to give my personal chef the weekends off.”
Kara huffs out a relieved chuckle, her face brightening. “Oh, well, in that case,” she grins, a sparkle returning to her eyes. “I'd better feed you up before you go home. Never let it be said that I don't look after you.”
Lena can't help the smile that pulls at her as the warm bright feeling in her chest grows and grows. She tugs the sleeves of Kara's sweatshirt over her hands, fighting the urge to fidget as the blonde orders a frankly obscene amount of food from the brunch place on the corner.
She feels exposed like this, face bare and hair sleep-mussed, unshowered with unbrushed teeth, huddled inside borrowed clothes after the impromptu invitation to stay over when last night's movie marathon ran late. It's a far cry from the regimented composure she fights so hard every day to project, and something in her chest twists anxiously.
Kara is a reporter, after all, and National City really doesn't need any more reasons to hate Lena right now. The darkest corner of her mind – the one which has been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for everything to come crashing down ever since the whirlwind of Kara's too-good-to-be-true friendship had come blazing into her life – still worries that this may all be an elaborate ruse. A trap, a way to get close to her in order to assess her weaknesses, to bring her down with an inside scoop.
But in their six months of friendship, Kara's never given her any reason to believe she has any kind of ulterior motive. And despite the suspicions and anxieties hammered into her by a lifetime of hurt, Lena knows now that even if this is a trap, she'll take the bait willingly. Especially if it means Kara will keep looking at her like there might just be something in Lena that's worth her time.
"Hey,” the blonde says gently, leaning back against the counter opposite and pinning Lena with a searching look. “You okay? You kind of zoned out on me there.”
Lena jumps, blinking back into herself with a start. “Yes, sorry. I was miles away.”
The blonde only smiles, flicking on the coffee machine at her elbow. “You sleep okay?”
“Very well, thank you,” Lena answers, fighting to lessen the formality of her tone, to soften the edges her harsh childhood had sharpened into a fortress to keep the world at bay. “Your bed is surprisingly comfortable. I had a great night's sleep.”
"Perhaps the company had something to do with it,” Kara winks as she turns to pull two mugs down from the hooks at her shoulder. Lena thinks back to the smell of Kara's sheets and the soft pulls of her breathing, to the warmth of Kara's ankle against her calf and the strong fingers that had wrapped themselves in the sleeve of Lena's sweatshirt in sleep, anchoring them together. She blushes.
Kara only smirks, pouring their drinks and grabbing the milk from the fridge. “Well, the food's all ordered, it should be here soon,” she says over her shoulder, the waterfall of her golden ponytail mesmerising in the bright rays of morning light filtering in through the vaulted windows. “And you don't need to head off in a hurry, unless you have plans—?”
She glances back at Lena, who shakes her head. “Great!” she grins. “’Cause I was thinking, maybe we could check out the botanical gardens, since it's such a nice day? Oh, and there's a new bakery right across the street that I've been dying to try—”
Lena listens to the blonde's excited rambling with an endeared smile plastered to her face, feeling happy and warm and wanted with every fibre of her being. The feeling is new but so welcome she could cry, and Lena wonders – not for the first time – how she ever got so lucky.
Kara's presence in her life is like sugar in her coffee; meant only to sweeten that which has always been bitter.
Lena's always taken her coffee black. Softening the blow was never much her style.
But here, now, perched at Kara's breakfast bar with her hands wrapped around a steaming mug the blonde has brewed to perfection, sunlight streaming in and highlighting the angles and planes of Kara's face, the way she’s smiling at Lena like there's nowhere else in the world she'd rather be, she realises her reasoning is twofold.
Sugar isn't just appetising. It's addictive. And now that Lena's had a taste of sweetness, she's hooked.
In this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.
-
Four years from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”
And when she does, four years from now, Lena will also think back to this moment.
This moment, which may well be one of the lowest of Lena's life. And she's had some doozies.
The two bottles of wine she'd managed to mainline between Sam leaving to orchestrate damage control at L-Corp and Kara arriving and attempting to confiscate her glass have well and truly caught up to her now. She sways heavily on her stool, the room spinning. Tears sting her vision and guilt scorches her throat as she presses a hand over her eyes so she won't have to look at Kara's face anymore.
“Please, just— just, stop believing in me, okay?” she slurs, heart full to shattering with the faces of lead-poisoned children. “I am not worth it.”
She hears Kara sigh, and the room falls silent for a long long time. Lena drops her head fully into her hands, fighting the nausea that's taken root in the pit of her stomach. It could be the booze that's causing it, of course, but it could also be the incessant headlines baying for her blood, the bullet James had taken for her that she'd fully deserved, the curse of her family finally fulfilling itself.
The guilt, the worry, the crushing disappointment of the knowledge that despite her very best efforts, she'll never be anything but a monster— it's too much to feel. It's too much to bear.
So, Lena drinks.
She drains her glass. She pours another. Kara watches, silent and disapproving, fingers twitching against the granite countertop between them.
Lena finishes her glass. Splashes the last dregs of the bottle into it, blood on ice. Still Kara watches, motionless and mute. It's only when Lena's swallowed the last of the red and is lurching unsteadily to her feet to source another that she moves, a hand reaching out to encircle her wrist.
Shame ignites beneath her skin and she pushes Kara away. Snaps at her to go home, to learn to recognise a lost cause when she sees one and just give up already. Kara refuses with a stoic shake of her head, and Lena sighs.
They repeat the same routine three times en route to Sam's wine rack, the blonde shadowing her every step. Each time, Lena wobbles, head fuzzy and room spinning. Each time, Kara steadies her, and Lena flinches from her touch like her palm is a brand, snarls at her to leave, to cut her losses, to just fuck off. Each time, Kara refuses.
She eventually retrieves the wine after a number of unsuccessful attempts but overbalances on her toes, bottle slipping from her grip as she sways dangerously. And then Kara is there, glass bottle caught a split second before it can shatter, a firm arm at her waist that will not be rebuffed.
Lena struggles, shoving and protesting, but this time Kara does not give in. “Enough,” she says quietly, firmly, blue eyes burning a mere inch from Lena's own. “Lena, enough.”
Lena's unsteady legs buckle further and Kara’s basically holding her up now, walking her slowly over to the couch and she shouldn't be this strong, surely, shouldn't be lifting Lena onto the cushions quite this easily. But it's such a minor concern when weighted against the fact that Lena is personally responsible for the hospitalisation of children that her mind brushes over it, forgets it immediately.
"Please go home,” she slurs as the blonde arranges her on the couch, as she stashes the unopened wine far out of reach and sets about finding blankets and pillows in various cupboards. “Please, just— leave me alone.”
“No,” Kara says, almost snaps, glancing back over her shoulder. Partially hidden in the linen cupboard, her face is cast deep in shadow, a splinter of half-concealed truth. “I made you a promise, I gave you my word. I'm your friend, and I will protect you. Always.”
She crosses back to the couch, soft blankets and pillows held out in invitation. When Lena refuses the offering Kara sighs, draping a knitted throw over her anyway and perching on the cushions beside Lena's hip. “I'm not going to leave you, so you might as well stop asking,” she hums, softer now, a hand reaching toward her that Lena no longer possesses the strength or coordination to bat away.
Long fingers make contact with her cheek, with the mussed curls tangling in her eyelashes, and Kara sighs. “You are not your brother,” she murmurs, fingertips grazing Lena's cheekbone, sliding back to thread into the fine hair at her temple. “And you never will be. There's too much light in you to allow for that kind of darkness, so put that fear down, Lena. Let it go. Be free of it.”
Tears spring unbidden to her eyes. “I poisoned children.”
Kara tilts forward and Lena wonders if it's just that her vision has upped its spinning, but then warm lips are pressing against her forehead, soft and delicate as gossamer wings. Kara's mouth moves against her skin, breath damp and sweet and unmistakeably her. “You saved the world.”
Neither one of them moves. When Lena speaks again, the words hit the elegant hollow of Kara's throat. “I don't deserve your kindness. I don't deserve you.”
Kara's lips are still on her forehead. “I don't care.”
Lena feels as if her throat is splitting open, every last fear and hatred and worry and insecurity gushing out of her in an unstoppable stream. “I'm scared.”
“I know.” Kara's lips press once more, and then withdraw. They watch each other in the dim light from the kitchen. Lena's vision is beginning to blur at the edges. Kara's hand is still in her hair.
“You will get through this,” the blonde whispers, so earnest Lena almost manages to believe her. “We'll figure it out. Together.”
Heart in her mouth, tongue sticking behind her teeth, Lena's eyes slide closed.
The sweetness of Kara's words, her gentle touches, seep inside her like honey. She doesn't deserve it but God, she wants it. She wants to be worthy of Kara's faith in her more than she's ever wanted anything in her life. She wants Kara more than she's ever wanted anything in her life.
And it's telling, she knows, that she's just lost the trust of all of National City, that she has no way of easing those children's suffering and no way to prove that she isn't the cause of it, that she's finally living up to the Luthor name she's been running from ever since she'd learned what it truly meant and yet in this moment, with Kara's hand in her hair and the ghostly imprint of her lips on Lena's skin, none of it seems to matter.
In this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.
-
Three years from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”
And when she does, three years from now, Lena will also think back to this moment.
This moment, which stands alone as an oasis of calm in the turbulent tumult of the past days, weeks, months of chaos. Lex's escape from custody, Eve Teschmacher's betrayal, James’ shooting, the Harun-El serum, the whole shitty totality of it all has been weighing Lena down like an nth metal chain around her neck.
And Kara, Kara hasn't been around. The one person who has always managed to ease Lena's suffering has deserted her when she needs her the most and it feels like she's been sliced open, cracked in two.
She tells her as much, when Kara at last comes to see her. Tells her she's missed her, tells her she needs her, all but begs her to stay. And what does Kara do? She leaves.
And when she leaves, Lena is gripped by a panic so intense she fears she may never breathe freely again. So terrified is she that Kara is gone for good, that she's forced away the best thing that's ever happened to her, that almost before she knows what's happening she finds herself at Catco with apologies dripping from her own tongue.
Anything to get Kara back. Anything to keep her.
Lena apologises. Kara apologises. Lena cries, and Kara holds her, and tells her that the decision to help her brother when he was dying of cancer doesn't make her the monster she now believes herself to be. And standing on her office balcony with Kara's fingers wrapped around her biceps, with her own tears spotting dark on Kara's blazer, Lena manages to believe her.
When she's collected herself, smoothed away the wetness coursing down her cheeks, she speaks. “I really want to help you with your investigation on Lex.”
Kara's face lights up; Lena's whole world along with it.
“I'd love that,” Kara says, voice quiet and still a little tentative in the wake of their new truce. “But first— would you, um. Would you like to have lunch with me?”
Lena blinks. “Don't you want to get started on the exposé?”
“I do. But—” Kara's face is still painted that earnest shade from earlier, when she'd smoothed her hands over Lena's shoulders and whispered you are a brilliant, kind-hearted, beautiful soul against the sensitive skin of her neck. Lena feels her cheeks heat up at the memory, at the intensity in the blue eyes still roving her face.
Kara shuffles her feet but her gaze is clear, unwavering. “But you were right. I've spent too much time recently prioritising the wrong things. So, I want to work on this exposé with you, and I want to bring your brother down. But first, I'd really just like to have lunch with my best friend.”
Lena's heart trips in her chest. “I'd like that too.”
So, that's what they do. Kara asks her to wait, which she does, idly tapping out a few emails on her phone. And then the blonde is back, far quicker than should have been possible, with her arms full of takeout bags from the café on the third floor and she's taking Lena by the hand and leading her to Cat Grant's private elevator. She presses the button for the roof and Lena's gaze jumps to her face but Kara only smiles, and squeezes her fingers. “Trust me, it'll be worth it,” she hums, her excitement infectious. “You'll be safe with me.”
And Lena believes her.
That's how she ends up sitting at the edge of Catco's roof on a clean sheet Kara had borrowed from the builders on the second floor, heels kicked off, Kara's red blazer draped around her shoulders. It is worth it, she'll admit; the view from this high is phenomenal. The sun burns bright in a cloudless sky, glinting off the glass-sided skyscrapers of the business district, the glittering waters of the bay beyond.
Kara had picked up Lena's favourite salad, some flatbreads and dips, and they drink kombucha and eat strawberries in the sunshine. They talk and they laugh and they catch up and there's no more fighting, no animosity, no megalomaniac brothers or backstabbing secretaries or worlds needing to be saved. There's only them, she and Kara, and it feels like all she will ever need.
The blonde's hands are braced behind her on the rooftop and she looks happy and carefree as she regales Lena with stories of her upstairs neighbour's antics, and Lena feels the tight knot of tension that had taken up residence in her chest begin to unfurl.
"Hey,” Kara hums, pushing up straighter as Lena licks strawberry juice from her fingertips. The motion brings them closer, their shoulders brushing. “Look up.”
Lena does. High above them, a huge murmuration of starlings whirls and swoops through the air. Thousands of birds move together as one, a vast wave cresting but never breaking against the blue canvass of sky.
“Wow,” Lena gasps, awed.
Against her side, Kara hums. “Yeah.”
They watch the birds for a long moment, captivated by the ceaseless swirling and diving. When Lena at last tears her gaze away from the sky, Kara's eyes rest intently on her face. "Here,” the blonde murmurs, reaching out. The pad of one finger makes feather-light contact with her cheek. Lena's breath catches in her chest.
Kara holds out her finger, proffering the stray eyelash she'd captured with a smile. "Make a wish,” she whispers, her fingertip an inch from Lena's mouth. Her eyes never leave Lena’s.
Lena looks from Kara's face to the eyelash, and back again. From somewhere deep inside her heart, the truth bubbles its way to the surface. “I don't need to.”
Kara smiles, a brilliant, beautiful smile, and Lena knows. The stresses and anxieties of their current crisis feel far away here, harmless as birdsong. She's meted out forgiveness, received it in return. For the first time in her adult life Lena has communicated an issue with a loved one and been heard, understood. She has admitted her own mistake without having it spell out the end of her relationship.
Lena smiles back. The weight of the world sublimates into nothing beneath the bliss of a simple picnic in the sun.
In this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.
-
Two years from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”
And when she does, two years from now, Lena will think back to this moment.
This moment, which has sapped the both of them to the bone. Another fight, another screaming match, another quick-fire back and forth of accusations and recriminations. Another night of cursing and crying and choking on all the things they never said before this, on all the things they can't now that Kara's secret has detonated in the shrinking space between them like a nuclear bomb.
Another round of bloodshed, and for what?
Lena sags against the arm of the couch, exhausted. Her face is hot, scratchy with salt from the tears still drying on her skin. She's dehydrated, probably, and half hoarse from shouting, tongue blistered with the bitter sting of betrayal.
Across the no man's land of her living room, Kara slumps against the floor-length windows, drops her temple to the cool glass. She's breathing heavily, cheeks wet, posture battered and eyes dark-bruised beneath the force of Lena's wrath. As Lena watches, her eyes slide closed.
It's been three months since Lena found out. Three weeks since Kara found out that Lena had found out.
Every night since, they've done this. Every night, Kara has shown up on her balcony and begged, pleaded, apologised, cajoled, defended, rebuffed, and sobbed. Every night, Lena has unleashed the hollow agony of Kara's deception masquerading as anger in her chest, incinerating the both of them in the fires of her desolation.
She would have expected the wounds to have cauterised by now. To feel some kind of release, the relief of catharsis. Or at least, to have expended some of her fury after all this time.
She hasn't.
They've been at this for three hours already this evening, and gotten nowhere. Kara's skin is pale above that fucking supersuit, face drawn and complexion sallow.
Lena knows how she feels. The singular exhaustion that is her rift with Kara has sapped her in every way imaginable. She can't sleep. She barely eats. She's no longer interested in work, research, friends. There's nothing in her life that isn't tainted by the shadow of the lies her best friend told and kept telling, every day for four years. Lena doesn't know how any amount of screaming and crying is ever going to get them past that.
Across the room, Kara sighs. It might be the saddest sound Lena has ever heard.
“Should we keep doing this?” she asks after an interminable silence, voice rough with tears still building. Her eyes are still closed.
Lena manages, with exorbitant effort, to raise her drooping head. “What?”
“Is there a point to all this?” Kara asks quietly, hunched body sliding a little further down the glass. "The explanations, the fighting?”
Blue eyes blink open. The weight of the sadness in them is unbearable. Lena struggles to find it within herself to care.
“Lying to you about who I am is the single biggest mistake I have ever made, and if it will make even one single shred of difference I will apologise to you every day for as long as I live,” Kara says into the aching chasm between them. “But I can't keep doing this. Not if it won't change anything. I can't— I don't want to keep hurting you.”
An hour ago, Lena would have scoffed at a sentiment like that. Would have parried back with some piercingly dry comment about how the blonde should have thought about that before she decided to betray Lena's trust as soundly as she possibly could.
Now, though— now, she's just too tired.
“So, should we keep doing this?” Kara whispers, throat working. “Or— God, Lena. Should we just— should we give up?”
Green eyes meet blue, two shattered hearts haemorrhaging between them. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” Kara's voice is loud, fiercely determined in the face of Lena's hesitant whisper. “God, no. Never. I don't ever want to give up on you, Lena. I don't ever want to give you up.”
Kara straightens then, with a strength Lena cannot imagine mustering herself. Perks of being a superhero, she supposes. Perks of being Kryptonian. The thought stakes another shard of ice through her bleeding heart.
“But I know that I've spent four years calling the shots for both of us by keeping you in the dark,” Kara continues. “I've taken away your agency. I've taken away your choice. I won't do that again.”
She sucks in a deep breath, a little of Supergirl's regality seeping back into the defeated slump of her shoulders. “So, I'm doing what I should have done from the start. I'm being honest with you, and hoping that you'll be honest back. I'm asking what you want.”
Kara's fingers twist anxiously before her, bottom lip bleaching white beneath the nervous pressure of her teeth. “Do you think we should keep doing this? Or do you— fuck.” Her voice cracks, the tears brimming in her eyes once again breaking free. “Do you want to give up?”
Jesus Christ. Lena never knew that the prospect of doing the right thing could hurt so much.
“Fuck,” she mutters as she kneads her knuckles over her closed eyelids, digging in until white lights starburst across her vision. “Fuck, Kara.”
“I know,” the blonde whispers from across the room, brittle and broken. “I know. I'm sorry.”
Lena slows her assault on her own eyelids, pinching thumb and forefinger hard at the bridge of her nose instead. “I want to give up,” she mutters, and in the taut silence between them she hears the blonde gasp, watery and thick.
Lena blinks open her eyes to find Kara's face crumpling, every facet of her seeming to fold in on itself even as she visibly fights to keep herself upright.
Lena sighs, and hates Kara, and hates herself even more. “I want to, but— I can't.” She sucks in a ragged breath, hating the truth that's just fallen from her lips, hating the lies that had necessitated it. Hating everything and everyone and most of all, hating just how much she's hurting. “I can't give this up.”
The tiniest spark of hope flares to life in Kara's eyes. Lena hates that she notices, hates that she cares, hates that the sight eases the tight knot of devastation clawing at her ribcage just the tiniest bit.
She also knows that this was inevitable. She knows that, though she hates Kara, though she's nowhere close to forgiving her, though she has no idea how they can rebuild from here or even if she truly wants to try, a question like Kara's could only ever have one answer.
In this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.
-
One year from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”
And when she does, one year from now, Lena will also think back to this moment.
This moment, which is barely even a moment at all. It's more like a dream, warm and faded and fogged in darkness, seconds stolen when sleep should have long since claimed them.
Kara's nightmare had woken them both. In the month since they'd pulled her out of the Phantom Zone, she hadn't slept alone once. Often, she stays with Alex, curling into her sister's side the way she would when they were just kids after one too many late-night horror movies. Once, she stays with Nia, tucked up snug in a borrowed pair of puppy print pyjamas.
Mostly, she stays with Lena. It's natural and unspoken and easy as breathing, the way Kara will show up at her place after a Supergirl save or Lena will let herself into the blonde's apartment after a late night in the lab. They cook dinner and watch Celebrity Masterchef and brush their teeth elbow to elbow at the bathroom sink and when Kara is inevitably tugged screaming and sobbing from her night terrors, the way she presses her face to Lena's neck and her hand over Lena's heart is natural and unspoken and easy as breathing, too.
Kara's racing pulse has calmed a little, her grip on Lena's body beneath her losing some of its urgent desperation. After a long moment of Lena's hand stroking her hair, of gentle reassurances and lips pressed to her temple the blonde pulls back, just enough to rest her head on the pillow facing her.
In the dim light filtering in through the bedroom window Kara's pupils are blown, her face solemn. There's something in her heavy gaze that Lena can't identify; something weighted and potent that prickles goosebumps up the length of her spine.
"Feeling better?” she whispers into the inch of warm air between them, reaching out to tuck a sweat-matted curl reverently behind the blonde's ear.
Kara catches her retreating hand and holds tight, twining their fingers together on the narrow swathe of pillow between them. If either of them were to move so much as a millimetre, their clasped hands would press against their lips.
The blonde nods and sure enough, the soft heat of her mouth brushes the back of Lena's knuckles. She shivers.
Kara is still watching her, the intensity of her gaze causing Lena's heart to thud hard in her throat. She squeezes lightly at the fingers threaded through her own. “What?”
A pause, heavy and sweet as overripe fruit. Kara blinks once, slow. “You're my best friend.”
Lena swallows down a sudden swell of emotion. The blonde nudges closer and when she speaks, the wet seam of her lips catches on the angle of Lena's bent knuckles, painting her skin with the words.
“You're the most important person in the world to me,” Kara whispers, breaths skating fire-flashes across Lena's fingers, voice muffling out past the mouth pressed to her skin. “You know that, right?”
Lena's voice deserts her in the wake of the quiet words. She leans forward instead, presses her lips to Kara's fingertips where they rest against the back of her own hand. It's answer enough.
She hears Kara's breath catch, feels the disruption mirrored in her own chest. Both their mouths are pressed to the joined hands clasped between them. If they were to move their fingers down even just a fraction, there would be nothing separating their lips but a promise, a prayer.
Kara's eyelashes flutter in the semi-darkness. The tip of her nose brushes Lena's own. Neither one of them moves their hands.
They only gaze at one another a long moment, and Lena wonders if the blonde is memorising the planes of her face the way she's memorising Kara's. She could look at her forever, be happy here with her forever, and in this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.
For the first time, she wonders if she might not be the only one.
-
Right now, Kara is reaching across the table at Noonan's and taking Lena's hand.
It's been three weeks since they'd taken down Lex for the last time. Three weeks since Kara had stormed into the Tower's med bay to cup Lena's bloody, bruised face in her hands; since she'd brushed her thumbs feather-light over Lena's split eyebrow and purpling jaw and growled don't you ever scare me like that again. Three weeks since she'd leaned in and pressed her lips to Lena's.
It's been two weeks and six days since Lena, confined to a gurney but utterly uncaring thanks to the warm Kryptonian curled against her side, had pressed her aching face to Kara's shoulder and first whispered that she loved her. Two weeks and six days since Kara had first said it back.
It's been two weeks and five and a half days since Nia had walked in on Lena in Kara's arms, lips pressed to her neck and hands wandering beneath her sweatshirt, and promptly shrieked the place down. Since their friends had exchanged pointed glances and relieved sighs and congratulated them on finally making it official, their expressions ranging from overjoyed to exasperated to plain exhausted.
It's been two weeks and four days of she and Kara dating; of morning kisses and shared showers and the perfect partner at game night and all of Lena's wildest dreams coming true.
It's been less than a minute since Kara had admitted, hushed and wondering, that she'd known she was in love with Lena ever since she'd found herself suddenly prepared to poison National City's entire water supply rather than let Lena fall. That she hadn't been able to fully it admit it to herself until she'd found herself suddenly prepared to alter the course of all of history in order to get Lena back.
And right now, Kara is reaching across the table at Noonan's and taking her hand. She's looking deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice barely rises above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”
And now that she has, Lena is sure of her answer.
The highlight reel of her relationship with Kara lays itself at Lena's feet, each precious memory between them stretching out like a roadmap of her growing affection, with every hard-won step leading her right to this moment.
And in this moment, Lena knows. She's in love with Kara. Really, she always has been.
#sorry this took approximately 8932018207402 thousand years to materialise#if you've ever sent me a prompt and thought well fuck she's taking so long with this she's clearly forgotten about it i'm just here to say:#nope!#still here#unsure how inspired by the song this actually was in the end#it's either way too close to the lyrics or not close enough#who can say#but anyway yeah. supercorp song#thank your for the prompt and the lovely message! hope you like it#asks#anonymous#ridings writes#supercorp#supercorp fanfic#supergirl#lena luthor#kara danvers
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All Is Lost
Summary: Zombies have taken over the world, humanity on the edge of extinction. All hope was lost. Despite that, Wanda couldn’t seem to let go of Y/n, who had fallen victim to the plague herself.
Word Count: 2,263
Genre: Angst
Requested?: No
Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, cannibalism, suicide, mentions of blood. Spoilers for Ep. 5 of What If...?
A/N: I know, I know, I’m gonna get into the stuff I promised soon. But for now, the Zombies episode inspired me and this came out. If you haven’t seen the episode yet, go watch it. Its amazing and depressing. Also this is DARK guys, probably the darkest thing I’ve ever written, so...Happy Reading!
The Zombie apocalypse was always something everyone joked about, but never something that anyone could actually predict.
Everything happened so quickly, Wanda could barely keep up. It’s hard to believe that everything was so normal only two weeks ago. Now, she was locked away with Vision in an abandoned military base in New Jersey. Desperate to survive for as long as possible while Vision worked on a cure.
Some of his experiments had been a success, most notably Scott Lang who he was able to revert back from his zombified state. However, the man was now only a severed head.
Despite the success, Vision was less than optimistic. For one, Scott was one of the first infected. While the cure worked on him, the android theorized that the disease has mutated greatly since then, and it was likely impossible to cure everyone. And even if he could, the technology to do so is beyond human comprehension and therefore doesn’t exist.
Vision might have all but given up hope, but Wanda didn’t. She couldn’t. She refused to give up on you.
Wanda and you have been best friends for as long as Wanda had been an Avenger. You were already a member of the team and greeted her with an open mind and open arms, despite all she had done. You had fire powers, and while your powers weren’t identical to Wanda’s, you still offered some basic tips and tricks to keep such explosive powers at bay.
It wasn’t a surprise that she fell in love with you.
But her stupid fear had to get in the way, and when you came to confess your own feelings for her, she panicked and rejected you. You were so heartbroken, Wanda didn’t need to read your mind to know that.
And it kills her everyday knowing that that was the last interaction she had with you. The last one with you as yourself anyway.
All that remained now was the flesh hungry, blood thirsty monster that wore your, now rotting, skin.
This wasn’t you, she knows that. She looked into your mind and saw no trace of the woman you once were, the one she loved with all her heart. She couldn’t feel you, you were gone.
Despite this, Wanda couldn’t let you go. She couldn’t handle losing you entirely. She already lost almost everyone.
She managed to convince Vision to keep you in the base for testing. You were locked behind a large steel door, with only a window to see you through. But you were here, and that’s all Wanda cared about.
The cure wasn’t working for you. Your powers caused it to incinerate when it entered your system, proving it to be ineffective. Still, she refused to give up.
Vision thought it best to terminate you after the failed tests, but Wanda begged him not to. Knowing he couldn’t overpower her, and sensing his friend’s distress with anything that comes to you, he agreed. As long as Wanda had it under control.
She doubted he knew that she was luring innocent survivors into the base so you could feed on them, but she did what she had to do.
Wanda spent most of her days sitting outside of your cell. The first few days, you were ravenous. Banging on the walls and trying to burn them down, growling and screeching with the inhuman noise that took over your vocal chords, but you didn’t manage to break free. After a while, it seemed you have given up, and just sat in place. Only moving when Wanda opened the cell and let some of your ‘food’ in.
There were times where Wanda thought that maybe, just maybe, the cure was working more than they thought. You seemed to have recognized her, your facial expressions formed into ones that she had recognized and missed dearly. But that hope quickly died when she would peek into your head and still sense nothing.
“Hey, Y/n.” Wanda walked up to outside your cell and sat cross-legged like she did everyday. Your head rose, staring at her with your now glowing yellow eyes. “Still no progress on the cure, but don’t worry, I’m not giving up yet.” You offered no response, not that she expected one. “It’s hard. It’s only getting worse out there...” She sighed as she trailed off. She raised her hand to the glass, like she always did. “I’m going to figure it out...we’re gonna get you back to normal, and I’m going to tell you every day how much I love you. I miss you so much, but...we’re almost there. I can feel it...” Wanda’s voice started choking up, as tears ran down her face. “We deserve our happy ending.”
Her hand was still pressed against the glass as she finished her speech. She was about to lower it, but then something unexpected happened. You stared at her hand curiously, beginning to raise your own. Wanda watched, smile forming on her face as your arm made it’s way to the glass.
“Wanda! Please come here, we have a situation.” You had almost pressed your hand against Wanda’s, when Vision’s voice interrupted. Your attention turned to the direction it came from and you let out a growl, clearly angry at the interruption. Wanda sighed in disappointment, but she tried not to let it take over. You still showed massive improvement, something worth reporting back to Vision. “It’s okay.” She soothed you. “I’m going to go see what he wants then I’ll be right back, okay? I know you’re hungry, I’ll get you some food too.” You didn’t offer a response as she walked off.
“Vis! I have to tell you-” Wanda began as she walked into the main room, but cut herself off at the new faces. She didn’t recognize the bald woman with the spear or the wimpy looking man in a workers uniform, but she was familiar with Peter. What surprised her most though, was Bruce Banner. A man she hasn’t seen in over three years. “What is going on?”
“I ran into them outside the premises. Apparently word has gotten out about the cure.” Vision answered before turning his attention back to the guests. “As I told you, I am afraid we cannot help you. The cure seems to be a moot point.”
“Well, what about-” Peter began, but he was interrupted by a new voice.
“For something you have no hope for, you sure don’t have a problem bringing in new test subjects.” Wanda recognized Bucky Barnes’ voice. She turned around, and her eyes widened as she saw King T’challa on his arm, struggling to stand on his one remaining leg.
Shit.
“My king! We thought you dead.” The bald woman exclaimed in relief and surprise.
“Your highness. I was not aware you were in the base.” Vision said, confused on how that got by him. It didn’t take him long to figure out why. “Wanda...”
“I’m sorry.” Wanda whispered, knowing she was caught. “The cure wasn’t working on Y/n, and in order to keep her at bay, I had to feed her.”
“So you fed her our King?” A spear was raised to her throat, threateningly.
“It was nothing personal, I promise. I have her under control and the cure is starting to work, I know it. We just need a little more time!”
“Why not just kill her? You lured innocent people to their deaths just for her when there a couple million more Zombies out there that you could use for testing. Ones that have a chance of being cured.” The whole room went quiet after Bucky said that.
“Uh oh. Shouldn’t have said that.” Wanda heard Scott say, but she was too busy glaring at Bucky. Her eyes started to go red, but before she could do anything, she noticed the spear held to her throat begin to glow red and melt. The woman dropped the spear as it began to burn her hands.
“Did it just suddenly get like, super hot?” Peter asked as he began to fan himself.
“Oh no...” Wanda trailed off. She looked up to notice the steal walls that led to your cell begin to melt. “You’ve done it now...she hasn’t eaten in days.” Before anyone could respond, the steel doors melted completely. The man in the uniform was unfortunate enough to be standing in front of it, as a strong burst of flame shot out and incinerated him on the spot. Only a second later, you flew out the door, covered in flames as you hovered above everyone.
Wanda watched in horror as you began to fight everyone. They weren’t holding up very well, and that’s when Wanda finally realized what she had done. This wasn’t you, and if you were still here, you would hate to see your body be used to attack and kill others.
“Vision! Get us out of here!” She heard Bruce yell, and Vision shot a blast towards the wall, blowing it up and letting everyone out. Wanda turned her focus back to you, you watched them starting to escape and you began to fly after them, but a red mist surrounded you before you could. You turned your head, starting to growl, but stopped when you saw it was Wanda.
“Y/n. Stop...” You tilted your head, still struggling to move as Wanda came closer. She took a chance and reached up, gently placing a hand on your face. “I am so sorry...you never deserved this...” Your face softened at the touch, beginning to show the signs of emotion that Wanda desperately held onto. However, it was clear now that it was too late.
You snapped out of it, as you managed to break free from Wanda’s hold. You opened your mouth wide, intent on biting and feeding on her, but something stopped you. You hesitated, and Wanda noticed. You settled for pushing her aside to the ground as you reignited yourself and flew out of the base.
Wanda picked herself up after a moment, intent on stopping you. She ran past Okoye’s body, charred and eaten, but she was sure there was little time until she turned. She ran faster to where you were, now facing off against Bucky. She sprinted further, about to take off and fly when she paused.
Vision was face down on the ground. She kneeled next to him, glowing red hand turning over his body, afraid of what she’ll see. Once he was turned, Wanda gasped at the sight. The mind stone was torn out of his head.
“Oh no...no, no, no...” She held his body, tears slowly building as she mourned the loss of her best friend. She had officially lost everything. “I am so sorry Vis...I’m going to make this right, I promise.”
She heard Bucky scream. She looked over to see you start to feed on him. She saw Bruce, Peter, Scott and T’challa in the distance, making their way to the jet. They were your next target.
No. Wanda wasn’t going to let that happen. It ends now.
She used her powers to propel herself forward, landing directly in your path. You growled at her yet again as she used her powers to hold you. “Y/n...please, stop.” You struggled to get out of the hold, but Wanda held on. “This isn’t you...you wouldn’t want this...I love you more than anything, and I’m so sorry...I hope one day, you’ll forgive me.”
Wanda used her powers to grab the gun laying by Bucky’s side. She held in to your head, ready to pull the trigger...but she couldn’t. She let out a scream of frustration and dropped her hold on both you and the gun. The gun fell to the ground, but you haven’t moved.
“I can’t do it...I...I’m not strong enough...” Wanda began crying, shutting her eyes and waited for you to finish her off. She failed everyone, no one deserved death more than her. She opened her eyes when nothing came. You stood, staring at her with a tilt of your head. The yellow of your eyes dimming as you stared.
“W....Wan...” You struggled to let out, but it was enough for Wanda to hear. She cried even harder. She was right, you were almost there...but it was too late now.
You took in your surroundings as best you could, you didn’t have a lot of awareness, but you knew enough to piece everything together. You saw the influx of zombies starting to enter to base. Everyone needed to get away. You turned back to Wanda, and you knew what you had to do. You felt the little control you had start to slip away.
You bent down and picked up the discarded gun. You shakily pointed it to your temple, the control slipping away faster and faster. “Love....you....I...sorry...” You managed to croak out. Before you could lose control completely, you pulled the trigger.
Wanda watched in horror as you shot yourself in the head. Pieces of your brain landing on her, your blood drenching her. She looked down to see your body, half your face still together, but you were gone. Truly gone.
She knelt down sobbing, as she held your body. After a moment she looked up to see the Hulk appear as the zombies began to overwhelm the base. She saw the jet take off, and she gave a weak smile. They got away. Wanda’s job was done. This is where her story ends. All was lost for her.
So when the zombies finally reached her, she didn’t fight back. Accepting her death with open arms.
Epilogue
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Trapped
Pairing: Sakusa x Reader
Prompt: Fantasy
Genre/Warnings: Yandere, Toxic Relationship, NSFW, Fantasy AU, Sorcerer Sakusa, Rape/Non-Con, Mind Control, Manipulation, Obsessive and Posessive Behavior, Degradation
Summary: You should have trusted your gut instincts, the lessons you had learned the hard way about just how cruel powerful men could be.
Author’s Note: This is my contribution for my HQ Discord Server’s NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist here to see how everyone decided to run with this prompt. (Masterlist goes live Friday, October 30th 11:00pm U.K. time!)
You splutter awake, laughing, but also groaning as a wet tongue slobbers all over your face and you lightly shove the fox that’s currently standing beside your resting head, intent on waking you up to play. Blearily you blink your eyes, trying to gauge what time it is based on the light seeping into the cave you’ve come to call your home. Judging by the bright rays of sunlight, it’s already mid-morning and you stretch your arms above your head, petting your furry companion behind its ears before standing up and treading out into the forest, your friend walking right beside you, its tail brushing against your leg.
The familiar peace and quiet of the wind rustling past branches and the faint chirping of birds wafts through the air and you smile as you continue making your way to the nearby waterfall, various four-legged animals that have come to be your family and friends popping their heads out of grassy patches and from behind trees in greeting. You can’t even remember the last time you’d seen another human being and you grimace at the thought of your last encounter.
Orphans, especially female orphans like you, rarely survive for long and you bitterly remember the years of being a street urchin, never knowing when your next bite of food would come, never knowing who to trust in a world full of both humans and magical creatures who’d do horrible things to an unclaimed child and you shiver at the thought of possibly being eaten or harvested for ingredients for countless dark magic spells. But life had only gotten harder the older you became and as a single, vulnerable woman, you began to attract a different attention, no longer able to blend as seamlessly as you once had with predatory eyes trailing after you, resting too long on parts of your body that you desperately wanted to hide from the world.
You tried sticking it out, finding ad hoc jobs here and there as a maid, as a seamstress, as a waitress. But corruption ran deep wherever you went and disgust makes you recoil when you remember all the times you’d been cornered by all types of men and creatures, received unwanted touches in hidden corners and degrading remarks of what your only purpose in life was. And after being left to sob, pain lancing between your legs, your clothes ripped to shreds, knowing no one would ever take your side, knowing that this would just continue happening over and over again, you vowed to never have anything to do with another sentient being ever again.
You’d heard rumors of the forest, about its enchantment, about the stories of terrible things hiding away in its heart, but you couldn’t imagine any monster worse than the ones you’ve already encountered and you determinedly march forward, never turning back to look at the city you’re leaving behind. And as you step past the border of trees, even you, someone who’s never had anything to do with magic, can feel the surge of power, feel the crackling energy as you delve deeper and deeper. But maybe the forest could sense that you meant it no harm, maybe it knew that you were just a lonely, helpless soul, maybe it felt generous, felt pity for the damaged woman seeking refuge. Whatever the case was, it left you alone and in all the years you’d made a home in its lush vegetation, not once had you met any of the ghastly creatures you’d heard so many horror stories of. And maybe that’s why you let your guard down when you meet him, finding a false security in the wood and grass-filled world you now live in.
You don’t bother being quiet or stealthy as you walk. Why would you when there’s never been anyone else around? So imagine your shock when black human eyes are staring at you as you round the corner and reach the water’s edge and panic laces through you when you see how masculine and strong he looks, overwhelming fear making you tremble when you take in the staff you see laying next to him.
A sorcerer.
You’d learned the hard way that men were never to be trusted and that men with power and wealth were the ones to be even more wary of. Fortunately you’d only dealt with vile wealthy men and as awful as they had been, you know men gifted with an affinity for magic make those nobles seem as harmless as kittens in comparison. You’d seen firsthand the havoc sorcerors could wreak, seen the charred, mutilated, disfigured bodies put on display at the city gates as an example of the fate for anyone who rebels against the crown. To your knowledge, all sorcerors worked for the royal family, rarely leaving the walled fortress unless sent on a mission or task, but never in a place like this so-called cursed forest. So what was he doing here?
The urge to flee thrums through your veins, but when he makes no move to stand or get any closer to you, curiosity gets the better of you and you stay rooted to your spot and before you can stop yourself, you find yourself asking the first question that comes to mind.
“Who are you?”
When Sakusa had ventured outside of the castle walls for a break from the irritating humans inside the cramped corridors and bustling courtrooms, he had purposefully chosen a place where no other soul would be. His hand had immediately wrapped around his staff as the sound of approaching rustling interrupted his thoughts, but when you had made your presence known, he could only stare in awe, staff forgotten as he took you in.
You’re different from the usual noble women he sees on a daily basis. For one, you’re barely wearing anything, a makeshift dress of strung together leaves, flowers, and grass the only thing covering you and he can feel his face grow hot as he tries not to blatantly stare at your bare legs and arms. But as he really regards you, he can’t help but feel something wild, something primal in you and he blinks in shock when he realizes that you have the same energy as the forest, as if the forest has claimed you as one of its own and he’s so entranced by his realization that he’s startled by the sound of your voice.
From anyone else, he would have scowled at the forwardness and bluntness of the question, but for some reason, coming from you, he finds himself easily answering.
“Sakusa Kiyoomi”
People, conversations, human interaction. Those are all things Sakusa abhors and yet, as you tentatively draw closer to him, staring at him in wide eyed curiosity while the two of you exchange words, he thinks he doesn’t mind any of those things when you’re involved. He comes to visit you as often as he can, something warm blooming inside of him as he sees your hackles relax, notices how you inch closer and closer to him every time he arrives, and he can’t help but compare you to a wild animal and behind the warmth in his chest, something darker lurks, and he wonders what it would be like to tame you, claim you back from the wooded forest that had taken you in, mark you as his own.
And that thought festers and grows inside of him.
He does his best to keep it at bay, play it off as just a fleeting idea, but when your eyes and body begin to seep into his dreams, into his every waking thought, he can’t keep the desire down any longer and when he strides towards you once more, he drops to one knee in front of you, asking for your hand in marriage.
In hindsight it probably was foolish to think that you were as smitten with him, foolish to think that someone who had been scarred enough to escape from civilization would easily just return to the place full of painful memories, and yet red hot anger blazes through him when you turn him down. It doesn’t matter how sweet and kind you are about it, gently letting him down and telling him you’re sure he’d find someone much better suited to being his wife, someone prim and proper, someone educated and knowledgeable of court intricacies.
Humiliation only fuels his rage as he rises back to his feet and he can feel his magic churning, waiting to be used, dancing at his fingertips, and he has half a mind to forcefully drag you back with him, but he retracts it, pushes it down deep inside of him as he takes a deep breath. No, he wants you to come back and grovel at his feet, beg him to take you in, to help you. He wants you to feel the same need for him that he feels for you and he bites his tongue and restrains himself as his mind begins to plan and strategize.
He tries to remain as normal as possible, still going to visit you as often as before, but his nails dig into the palm of his hands at the pity in your eyes and he clenches his teeth at the way that you tread around him like he’s a wounded animal. But he takes those feelings and lets them drive him late through the night as he chants strange words, flips through old scrolls, experiments with different spells and ingredients and a rare smile stretches across his face when the pieces finally come together.
It’s time to take set his plan in motion and in the middle of the night while most of the city is fast asleep, there’s a strange flashing light, a rush of something sinister in the air, and the murmurs of masculine chanting swirling in the air, lingering, and foreshadowing the dark days ahead. But you remain asleep, peacefully ignorant of the shift in the atmosphere, naive to just how much your life will change.
You wake up, surprised by the lack of a warm furry body or tongue lapping at your face, and you vaguely wonder if you’d woken up in the middle of the night, but the sunlight filtering through tells you a different story. You feel strange, warning bells beginning to faintly clamor in your head, and you gingerly step outside of your lair only to freeze at the dead silence surrounding you. It’s always quiet and calm in the forest, but where there is usually the sound of nature and creatures, now there is only a deathly silence and you stare in horror as the forest seems to decay right in front of your eyes. What used to be green grass is wilting and brown. The trees you’d spent years climbing and picking fruit from are completely bare. But what makes a choked sob get caught in your throat is the corpses of the animals who’d you come to be so fond of littered around you and your slow stuttered amble becomes a frenzied run, as you race through your dying home, hoping to see any sign of life left.
But days pass and the state of your home only gets worse. Your throat is parched without clean water to drink, all the water sources near you murky and littered with fish corpses indicating just how toxic they’ve become. Your stomach aches with hunger, no vegetation, fruits, or animals nearby for you to ingest. And a deep loneliness churns inside of you and once again you feel as alone as you did when you were just a dirty street urchin trying to scrape together a living off the streets.
So when Sakusa comes for his regular visit and finds your weakened body slumped on the floor of your cave, it just makes sense to you, survival instincts kicking in, to drag yourself over to his feet, fling your arms around him when he finally bends down, and sob into his chest. You don’t question the way he’s slow to crouch down to your level and comfort you. You don’t see the cruel smile on his face when he sees you pathetically laying at his feet. You don’t notice the glee in his eyes as you beg him to take you with him. And when he asks you if you’d like to come and be his assistant, you eagerly nod your head and cling tighter to him, burying your face in his comforting and familiar presence as he teleports the two of you back to his living quarters.
Months pass and despite your initial wariness of returning to live among other beings, you find that Sakusa seems to dislike being around others just as much as you, and the two of you find a comfortable way of life mostly holed up in his living quarters with only the other as company. You’d never really been exposed or taught anything about magic growing up, so you’re genuinely fascinated as you watch Sakusa chant, attentively listening as he tells you what each ingredient is, eagerly following his every step as he shows you firsthand how to mix different potions. And Sakusa thinks that your aptitude for learning, the perfect synchronization the two of you have as you seamlessly work your way into his rhythm, preparing and setting things up before he even needs to tell you, speaks volumes of just how perfect the two of you are together, speaks volumes of how you were meant to be together.
He continues strategizing, gaining your trust, letting you grow accustomed to his presence, smiling at the way you don’t even bat an eye when his hands linger on yours a bit longer than normal when he hands you something, at the way you don’t tense up anymore when he presses his body against you from behind as he physically guides and shows you how to do something. And he knows he’s on the right track when you take the initiative to swipe a strand of his hair behind his ear as he concentrates on a task at hand, when you perch your chin on his shoulder, peeking over his shoulder as he jots down notes.
But even the greatest minds make mistakes and when he sends you off to find a certain piece of text for him from the bookshelf in the corner of his room, he forgets to clarify where on the shelf to look and not wanting to bother him, you meticulously comb through every book, forehead scrunching in curiosity when you find a notebook tucked behind, as if it was meant to be hidden. You consider just passing it over, not wanting to intrude on Sakusa’s privacy, but having gone through most of the books and not finding what you need, you wonder if perhaps the thing he’s looking for is in here and that this had just been misplaced or accidentally pushed towards the back of the shelf.
As you flip through the pages you quickly realize this is a book of Sakusa’s own spells and you stare in awe at how much work he’d done, how extensive his own self-created spell repertoire is, but suddenly your heart freezes when you flip to the last few filled pages. You’re not as fluent as Sakusa is when it comes to the ancient magical language, but you know enough after the time you’ve spent with him, the lessons he’s taught you, to recognize ‘plague’ and ‘forest’ and your throat and heart feel both heavy and panicked when you realize the implication of what you’d found. And suddenly you remember the day he had proposed to you vividly, ice cold shock and realization making you shudder when you remember a flash of something dark in his eyes when you had rejected him. And your hands tremble when you see the very last page, taking note of the phrase ‘mind control’. But before you can dwell on it, you squeal in surprise when the book is plucked from your hands and you’re rooted to the spot by dark eyes pinning you down.
You want to scream angry words at him. You want to escape. And yet, you do neither, frozen with fear when you remember exactly what happened to the victims who’d defied sorcerers.
“Hmm. This spell’s not quite ready yet, but I guess we can test it out early.”
And before you can even register what’s happening, a firm hand is placed on the top of your head, the other wrapped around your throat to keep you still as magic surges through the air and you vaguely hear yourself pleading for him to stop, until suddenly you feel trapped in your own body, the connection between your conscience and physical figure severed and you stare in horror as your body goes limp and docile in his arms.
Sakusa peers into your eyes in interest, humming in thought as he scrawls a few more notes in his notebook.
“The end goal of this spell is for me to be able to completely control your mind, but right now it looks like I only have control of the section that handles your physical functions if that ugly hate-filled look in your eyes is any indication. But let’s test my theory shall we?”
And it feels like a bad dream as your body submissively makes its way to his bed, seductively swaying your hips as you sprawl out on his bedsheets, eagerly wrapping your arms around the back of his neck as he joins you, bringing him down for a kiss. He’s rough and invasive as he tears your clothes off, calloused hands touching and contaminating every inch of you and you feel disgust as he examines you like you’re a piece of prime meat he’s purchased, coldly and meticulously pinching and prodding you as he observes what makes your body react. And for once, you hate how observant he is, how in tune to your smallest shifts he is, how sensitive your body is as your nipples perk up, as little moans escape past your traitorous lips when he pinpoints your weak spots.
But what you hate most is the triumphant grin on his face when his dexterous fingers swipe against your lower lips and you internally flinch at the glistening slick that coats his fingers when he holds it to your face, evidence of the heavy arousal mixing with your humiliation and hate. And you try to think of anything else, imagine you’re anywhere but here as he begins to wonder out loud while his fingers twist and turn inside of you, reaching and touching places you’d never been able to explore yourself, if he even needs to tweak his spell anymore seeing how you’re a slave to your body’s natural desire for pleasure. Maybe there wasn't a need to completely control your thoughts and emotions as well.
He hadn’t realized what a slut you are, getting off to anyone using your body, and he leers down at you while he continues questioning you, knowing full well you can’t answer or retort to his crude remarks. And he idly wonders if your mind would naturally break without additional magic if he pleasured you enough, transformed you into a warm body that constantly seeks and craves his touch.
The fear in your eyes at his words only fuels his need to completely dominate you and he grits his teeth as he slides into your drenched hole, eyes closing shut as he just stays still and revels in how tight you are, how perfectly you wrap around him. And when he opens his eyes and sees the glassy-eyed lustful look on your face from being filled, he finally releases himself from the controlled facade he so carefully always wears and lets himself dive headfirst into the sultry, dizzying, primal embrace of lust as he pistons his hips in and out of you at a brutal pace, dark eyes never straying from your face as your eyes begin to roll back and your wanton mewls fill the air.
He can feel his end approaching, but he’d be damned if he didn’t make you fall apart with him, drown you in inescapable pleasure, and his hand slips between the two of you, fingers finding your aroused clit and all it takes is a few rubs and thrusts before your body is tensing up, back arching, mouth opening in a silent scream, body convulsing and writhing underneath him, your cunt milking him as you’re forcefully brought to your peak. And he joins you over that edge, thick white spurts coating your twitching walls.
You pray that he’s done, that he’ll release you now that he’s thoroughly tasted and had you, now that you’re just sloppy seconds, used goods. But you’re startled when he lovingly kisses you and tenderly strokes your hair, and your stomach churns at the genuine affection you see in his eyes. And your heart drops, any last bit of hope you had extinguished as he holds your body close to him in a mockery of a loving embrace and whispers in your ear about the future he has planned for both of you, a future where you stay by his side as an obedient, submissive housewife, a future where you’re willing and eager to please him, to love him.
That was always his goal for the both of you, he insists, and a flame of anger burns inside of you at the exasperated and patronizing sigh he directs your way as he blames you for forcing his hands, for forcing him to do this the hard way, for forcing him to resort to magic when you could have saved everyone the hassle by just accepting his proposal all those months ago.
Hate and anger twist and coil inside of you and yet, when he kisses you once more, your body instinctively leans into the soft touch before obediently going lax as he tells you to sleep, eyes automatically closing at the command, and Sakusa smiles at your slumbering figure. It’s not exactly how he had planned to go about this, the mind control spell being more of a back-up option he had been trying to avoid, but you’re finally irrevocably his and that’s all that matters.
#yandere haikyuu#haikyuu yandere#yandere#haikyuu smut#yandere sakusa#sakusa x reader#tw: yandere#tw: rape#tw: noncon
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Historic - november drabbles - day 9
Day 9 of @creativepromptsforwriting November prompt list.
A retelling of the Greek myth of Andromeda and Perseus (Jonsa-fied, of course).
Sansa stared out at the rough waters that stretched before her, stoically serene in her monstrous fate. Her legs were weary as they stood, unable to move, on the tiny wooden platform. Her arms were outstretched, heavy metal chained her to the rock. It was getting much colder now, and the tide would make the waves lick at her feet soon. However, it didn’t matter, it would all be over soon – the kraken was coming for her.
Ever since Sansa had been brought to King’s Landing as Prince Joffrey’s betrothed, the commonfolk talked of her stunning beauty. Queen Cersei, in all her jealous furor, had begun to declare she herself was the most beautiful woman in Westeros instead, even claiming she was tenfold more beautiful than the goddess of the wind. Well, that certainly angered the sea god, beloved husband of the goddess of the wind. Relentless storms battered King’s Landing, the Red Keep getting the brunt of it as it sat against the bay. They were unceasing and causing more damage as each day passed. A remedy was found – a sacrifice would need to be made to the sea god’s monster in order to appease and ask for forgiveness. It should have been Cersei, the arrogant boaster who caused this mess. But no, her advisor Qyburn created an alternative solution – offer up the one who people sang of her beauty, Sansa. Cersei ran to her husband, King Robert, to ask permission to use the girl. The king, his mind occupied with the expected invasion of the dragon riders from the east, waved her off with a brusque nod. Her son had a bit of a fit when given the news. Joffrey didn’t like giving up his toys. After being promised with a better match, the prince simply shrugged and moved on with his day. Sansa was whisked away in the dark of night. Not daring to offer up the innocent girl to the kraken in Blackwater Bay for all the commonfolk to see, she was secretly taken to Storm’s End and cruelly chained to the rocks.
Cold water splashed at her feet, sending a racking chill throughout Sansa’s body. No one else knew where she was, Storm’s End was abandoned, no heroic knights in shining armor would know where to look. Acceptance filled her, she closed her eyes and sang songs she favored as the naïve girl she had once been. Through her closed lids, she could sense the daylight fading away and knew the darkness would bring the monster.
Strong gusts of wind blew, her hair swirling about, the meager dress she was wearing fluttered wildly. It was much different than the coastal winds that had been assaulting her all day long. Her eyes shot open, expecting to see tentacles reaching for her. What greeted her instead was a massive, winged beast. Its great wings beat strongly to hover over the water in front of her. Sansa had no more fear left to give, she just stared and marveled at the warmth that emanated from its mouth.
“Can I offer assistance, my lady?” a voice shouted. It was then that Sansa realized a man was sitting atop the scaly beast.
“That would certainly be kind of you,” Sansa shouted back at the stranger. She thought she could see a warm smile upon his face right before the dragon lifted up and over her, coming to a landing on the cliff above. But as it did so, a terrifying sound came from the waters.
Enormous tentacles sprouted from the waves. The dragon and its rider took to the air again. Sansa watched as they flew out to meet the kraken. Streams of fire rained down upon the watery beast while the dragon tried to dodge its flailing limbs. Finally, with one last awful screech, the sea god’s pet disappeared beneath the water with charred tentacles.
After landing on the cliff above her, she could hear him climb down the jagged wall of rocks. When he reached her, he unsheathed his great sword, the telltale glint of Valyrian steel catching Sansa’s eye. With a striking slash at each, the chains fell away from the rock. He grasped her hand and easily lifted her from her perch. Aiding her all the way up, they finally reached the top where the dark dragon awaited, deep scratches along its scales from the kraken’s barbed arms.
“Can I bring you anywhere, my lady? Home?”
“I no longer have a home. The king and queen murdered my family one by one. They gave our ancestral home to our enemies.”
“Can I bring you to my own?”
“Yes. Anywhere that Queen Cersei can’t reach me.”
With a courtly bow of his head, he helped her climb atop the dragon and situated himself in front of her. Turning toward her, there was no mistaking the warmth and kindness in his smile. “May I ask your name?”
“Sansa.”
“Beautiful name. I’m Aegon. This here is Rhaegal,” he said, patting the side of the beast. “And you may want to hold on tight, Sansa.” With that, wings unfolded and they rose higher with each beat. Sansa’s arms circled tightly around the Targaryen king.
In the years that followed, the Targaryens took back Westeros, Sansa and Aegon married, and they brought forth many loving children. The two had lived one of the greatest love stories ever known. Even the gods had admired it - the Maiden, cherishing their story the most, wanted to honor Sansa’s innocence and Aegon’s bravery. Upon their deaths, the goddess turned them into stars, placing them next to each other in the dark sky, together forever as they should be.
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Chinese Language TV Recommendations
For my Korean TV Recommendations, click here.
*Contains both Mainland-Chinese and Taiwanese programs.
** Updated 05/23/21 with “Miss The Dragon” & “Word of Honor”
A Love So Beautiful
Can the pure love of 17-year-olds endure through all the challenges of college and adulthood?
Chen Xiao Xi and Jiang Chen are high school friends and neighbors who grew up together. Xiao Xi is happy-go-lucky and doesn’t like to study much but she has a talent for drawing. Jiang Chen is popular for his good looks and high grades, but is cold and indifferent to other people.
Their friends include swimmer Wu Bo Song, who will do anything for XiaoXi, the dorky and over-confident gamer Lu Yang, and Lin Jing Xiao, the most beautiful girl in school (who Lu Yang is hopelessly in love with).
How will the realities of life shape the friendships and love lives of these young adults?
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Ashes of Love // Heavy Sweetness, Ash-Like Frost
Jin Mi is the secret lovechild of the Flower Deity and the Water Immortal, conceived before the Flower Deity suffers a fatal wound.
The deity gives birth to a baby girl (Jin Mi) on her deathbed, and foresees the infant will face a terrible trial by her 10,000th year. To save her from her fate, the Flower Deity gives Jin Mi a pill that makes it impossible for her to ever feel romantic love. Upon her death, she forbids anyone in the Flower Kingdom from revealing the fact that she had a child.
Several thousand years later, Jin Mi is a bumbling little fairy trapped in The Water Mirror- a gilded prison where low-level fairies can live in peace. Jin Mi believes she is a small Grape Fairy, and lives a happy (if not dull) life within the Mirror with her friends.
When a charred bird falls from the heavens into the Water Mirror, Jin Mi decides to eat save the poor little ‘crow’– who in reality is Xu Feng, the mighty phoenix son of the Heavenly Emperor. Her decision to not eat save the Fire God will put them at the heart of plots and schemes, romances and adventures spanning the Flower Kingdom, Heavenly Realm, Demon Kingdom, and the Realm of Mortals.
**Trigger Warning: Contains reference to off-camera sexual assault.**
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Dance of the Phoenix
Feng Wu, a former genius girl in the Junwu Continent, was attacked by her old enemy Zuo Qingluan. In the attack, she lost not only her memories and abilities, but her “phoenix blood” which made her powerful.
In order to save Feng Wu her secret tutor, Master Mu Jiuzhou (a hero thought long dead whose soul is bound inside a ring Feng Wu wears around her neck), exhausted his vitality and fell into a deep coma.
The forces Master Mu Jiuzhou were trying to keep at bay are roiling again, readying for war unless Feng Wu can recover her memories, her power, and survive long enough to release him from the ring.
But if Feng Wu at full power couldn’t stop the evil Zhuo Qingluan’s attack and save herself, what chance does “normal person” Feng Wu have?
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Douluo Continent
Tang San is a hardworking and kind young man who was raised by his single father to be a blacksmith to a small village. His demanding father taught him secret techniques and cultivated unknown abilities while refusing to ever allow him to enter the world of the Soul Masters- heroes who use their inner power to defeat monstrous Soul Beasts and collect their power.
One day, Tang San is attacked in the woods by a fearsome Soul Spider and uses his special techniques to survive, drawing the eye of a nearby Soul Master. The man tests Tang San and discovers that while his Soul Spirit takes the utterly useless form of a common weed (as opposed to say a lion or a wolf), he harbors extreme untapped power and potential.
What only Tang San and his father know is that Tang San is a rare Twin-Soul, in possession of not one Soul Spirit- the Blue Grass- but a second extraordinarily rare weapon spirit capable of being wielded either against foes or in protection of innocents.
Unable to deny Tang San the ability to learn to control his power, his father allows him to leave the protection of the village and embark on a journey to develop his powers and perhaps learn the truth of his parentage.
On his journey Tang San will be joined by the mysterious and naïve Xiao Wu- a seemingly unstoppable and optimistic girl with a rabbit as her Soul Spirit and the ability to absorb the life force of Soul Beasts. They are led by a disgraced Soul Master in Training, Yu Xiao Gang, who was disregarded as a janitor all while studying Soul Masters and developing his own radical theories as to the nature of their power.
Tang San, Xiao Wu, Yu Xiao Gang, and the other friends they meet along the way will become a famous team of heroes known as the “Seven Devils of Shrek Academy”, and be drawn into an imperial struggle for power that threatens to consume their entire continent.
Tang San appears to the world as the master of the Silver Grass Spirit, but once that same world realizes the might of the Weapon Spirit he keeps hidden, he will have to fight with everything he has in order to protect what he holds dear.
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Fairyland Lovers
Bai Qi is a “spiritual doctor” who travels the world to rid spirits of their obsessions and stop them from becoming monsters. Eons ago he himself was at the threshold of becoming an Evil Spirit, and was saved by a Divine Warrior who helped him find a way to move past his darkness before tragically losing her life.
Isolated from the world and alone with a sprig of his lost love’s peach tree, Bai Qi meets the sunny but hapless actress Lin Xia. Not only does the tree come to life in her presence- and not only can she use the tools left behind by his lost lover- she also has the same face.
Curious, Bai Qi enters into a co-habitation agreement with Lin Xia and she helps him cleanse souls before they can turn into Evil Spirits. As their lives intersect, a memory that Bai Qi sealed away for over ten thousand years begins to surface.
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Guardian
Super-Detective Zhao Yunlan meets university professor (and powerful supernatural being) Shen Wei and the two men are instantly drawn together by a past one cannot forget and a future the other cannot guess. As they grow closer, they find themselves at the heart of a high-stakes supernatural battle between unknown enemies.
Will the heroic duo’s unique talents- and special bond- be enough to help them outwit the forces of darkness?
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Handsome Siblings (2020 Netflix Edition)
Hua Wuque is a pillar of righteousness and virtue, the only male disciple of the powerful Yihua Palace cultivation clan. An orphan, he was taken in by the clan leader and her sister and raised with only one goal in life: to find and kill Jiang Xiaoyu, a mighty villain and enemy of Yihua Palace.
So who is Jiang Xiaoyu? Also known as Xiaoyu’er, Jiang Xiaoyu is an orphan himself- the same age as Hua Wuque in fact- raised by the five most feared and hated villains in the world within the confines of the Wicked Canyon. Into Jiang Xiaoyu the villains poured their knowledge, tricks, and ruthlessness, seeking to create the ultimate villain. There is only one problem: As he was raised in the Wicked Canyon and surrounded by nothing but villains, Jiang Xiaoyu mostly uses his abilities to… harm villains and protect the weak.
When Jiang Xiaoyu comes of age and leaves the Wicked Canyon (or rather, becomes too much of a trickster for the villains to handle anymore), Hua Wuque is unleashed to venture from Yihua Palace and hunt down his enemy.
But how could someone kept confined in the Wicked Canyon for the first 18 years of his life be a threat to Yihua Palace? And why must Hua Wuque be the one to kill him (under direction that Jiang Xiaoyu cannot die naturally, be killed by someone else, or kill himself)?
There is a piece of the story Jiang Xiaoyu and Hua Wuque do not know: they are orphans of the same tragedy, in which the divine hero Jiang Feng spurned the love of both leaders of Yihua Palace for a beautiful servant named Hua Yuenu. Hua Yuenu was forced to commit suicide and Jiang Feng killed himself rather than submit to the Ladies of Yihua–
Leaving behind newborn (non-identical) twin sons.
Yihua Palace’s plot is a simple (if OTT) act of vengeance against Jiang Feng’s memory:: Force one brother to murder the other, then reveal to Hua Wuque the sin he has committed and let it drive the boy insane.
Will the truth come out before Wuque finds and kills Xiaoyu, or will the evil Ladies of Yihua Palace finally have the vengeance they have waited for for over 18 years? As Wuque and Xiaoyu’s paths cross more and more they strike up an unlikely friendship, even knowing there is no escaping their dark fate.
**Trigger Warning: Later episodes include off-camera sexual assault and on-camera depictions of near-rape.**
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Hi My Sweetheart
Xue Hai is a kindhearted (and extremely wealthy) but naïve man who has been sheltered by his big sisters his entire life. He decides to go to college in China- where no one knows him- under the name Da Lang and with the image of a poor scholarship student. There Xue Hai meets the dominant, friendless, and rebellious Bao Zhu. Naturally the two fall in love, but after 4 years together, just as he’s going to reveal his identity and propose, Bao Zhu viciously dumps him.
Fast forward three more years. Xue Hai has transformed himself into a handsome but ruthless playboy who treats women as nothing more than toys to be used and cast aside. When he chances across Bao Zhu once more, he decides to launch a campaign to destroy her heart as thoroughly and mercilessly as she did his.
Except Xue Hai is missing one important piece of their love story: Bao Zhu only left him to protect him from her domineering mother, and she has been searching for her beloved Da Lang ever since.
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The King’s Avatar
In the online multiplayer game Glory, Ye Xiu is well known as the undisputed master of professional sports- though no one outside of the professional teams actually knows what he looks like as he hides his face from media and fans. A player since he was a child- and raised largely in professional player training camps- Ye Xiu has no understanding of the outside world.
Halfway through the season, the money-hungry company behind his team, Excellency Era, forces him out and replaces him with an undisciplined hot-shot. Penniless and with nowhere to go, Ye Xiu crosses the street and enters the Happy Internet Cafe. The owner is a diehard fan of the mysterious Ye Xiu, and hires Ye Qiu as an IT manager not for his experience, but for his shared love of the game.
When Glory launches their tenth server, Ye Qiu throws himself into the game once more. Equipped with ten years of gaming experience, memories of an unfinished pledge to a dead friend, and an incomplete self-made weapon, Ye Qiu will rise from the ashes, forge a new team, and take back his crown.
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The Lost Tomb**
50 years ago, a group of Changsha grave robbers known as the “Mystic Nine” dug out manuscripts of the location of treasures from the Warring States period, but soon after almost the entire group was hunted down and slaughtered.
In the present, the young grandchild of the sole survivor, Wu Xie, discovers a secret within his grandfather’s notes as well as half of a silk manuscript that may reveal the location of the lost tomb. But there is one problem- the other half of the manuscript is held by a shady organization of tomb raiders eager to break in and steal whatever cultural relics are inside the tomb.
Wu Xie has a “National Treasure” moment and decides that in order to stop the objects in the tomb from vanishing into the black market he will break in first and recover whatever is inside (’I’m going to steal the Declaration of Independence…’).
Wu Xie is helped on his journey by his beloved “Third Uncle” Wu Sanxing, his uncle’s right hand man Panzi, and the mysterious Xiao Ge - a tomb raider who seems to know of traps before they are sprung and whose hand has been mutilated in a way not seen among tomb robbing families in over a century.
They expected to find a lost tomb, perhaps chase away some thieves, and learn about an exciting piece of lost history. What they did not expect was for the tomb to strike back, the dead to rise, and the past to fight and keep what secrets it holds.
Who exactly are this alternate group of tomb robbers? What are they searching for? What exactly is protecting the tomb? Whose side is Xiao Ge truly on? And- most crucially- can Wu Xie survive long enough to find the answers?
** This recommendation is part of a broader series of shows and movies, all adapted from “The Gravedigger’s Notebook” and its sequels::
The Lost Tomb (2015)
The Lost Tomb 2: Explore With the Note (2016)
Time Raiders (2016 movie)
The Mystic Nine (2016)
Tomb of the Sea (2018)
Reunion: The Sound of the Providence (which gets its own recommendation below; 2019-2020)
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Love O2O
** O = letter, not number
Wei-Wei has both beauty and brains. A computer goddess, she aspires to be an online game developer. In her spare time, she plays her favorite online game ‘A Chinese Ghost Story’- where she has made a name for herself as the top female player on the entire server.
After her online husband dumps her, she gets a message from legendary player Yixiao Naihe- asking to become her online husband (marriages in-game offer certain benefits and quest lines single players cannot achieve).
Little does Wei-Wei know that Yixiao Naihe is also her college senior and the most desired man on campus, Xiao Nai.
Will their online chemistry lead to a real-life romance? Yes. Of course it will. It’s in the title.
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Miss The Dragon
As a humble maid, Liu Ying never expected her life to be anything other than ordinary. Content with the world and her place in it, she spent her days tending to injured creatures and assisting her mistress Xia Hou Xue. But when Liu Ying finds an injured little snake and nurses it back to health, she has no idea how her life is about to change.
That little snake turns out to be a thousand year old Draong King named Yu Chi Long Yan. He falls in love with Liu Ying, and decides to repay her kindness by naming her as his queen.
And then Xia Hou Xue is captured by a wolf demon. Liu Ying flips the script- begging Yu Chi Long Yan to repay her kindness instead by rescuing her mistress and then keeping her safe for three lifetimes. Trapped by his word, Yu Chi Long Yan agrees to do so, though he secretly remains by Liu Ying’s side.
Now in her fourth lifetime, Liu Ying is reincarnated as Gu Qing Yan. She slowly becomes aware of his existence in her life- and her past lives as well. After waiting three lifetimes to be reunited with his lost love, Yu Chi Long Yan will fight with everything he has to keep her safe and get the Happily Ever After they should have had three thousand years ago.
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My Roommate is a Detective
Shanghai in 1925 is caught between gang leaders and the European powers colonizing China.
A resourceful young police officer named Qiao Chu Sheng is on the trail of a brutal but devious killer. Realizing that the police force will need some extra help with this difficult case, he decides to form an elite crime-busting detective team. He reaches out Lu Yao, a Cambridge graduate a slick con-man.
Qiao Chu Sheng has learned that Lu Yao has remarkable powers of deduction and a brilliant mind – and believes he can help crack this difficult case. To round off the team, he enlists the help of Bai You Ning, a focused young female reporter for a daily newspaper. A free-thinking, independent young woman, she has a strong sense of justice – and pledges to help catch the killer.
The trio form a small detective squad that specializes in solving strange and unsettling murder mysteries.
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Oh My Emperor
Fei-Fei, a young doctor, is wounded in an accident and finds herself trapped in the ancient and mystical nation of Huang Dao. The people of Huang Dao are ruled by a king born of the stars- the physical embodiment of one of the twelve zodiac constellations. To keep discord from arising among the people, the Twelve Zodiac Masters govern together to keep the peace.
But a thirteenth sign has been forcibly subjugated, it’s Lord executed, and its people scattered to the wind. The lost sign- Ophiuchus- is rising once more- and Fei-Fei is its (unwilling) Master.
It only complicates matters slightly that Fei-Fei finds herself between the handsome and charming Master of Aquarius and his nephew- the cold Master of Capricorn (who is also the Emperor). Can Fei-Fei keep her identity secret long enough to solve the mystery of the Ophiuchus purge- or is Huang Dao doomed to destruction?
**This drama is a showpiece for members of the Chinese pop group X-Nine, do not judge it by the same standards as a traditional drama. Showpiece dramas tend to be a bit silly.
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Reunion: The Sound of the Providence**
Wu Xie, “Fatty” Wang Pangzi, and the quasi-immortal tomb raider Xiao Ge (AKA Zheng Qiling, Kylin, and “Poker Face”) have faced many dangerous tombs together over the past twelve years.
Now, it is time for them to go on their last great adventure as the so-called “Iron Triangle” before Wu Xie sets off on the journey all must eventually make: death. He always thought his end would come in a dangerous tomb, but instead it will be lung cancer that claims his life. With only 3-4 months left to live, Wu Xie hides the truth of his illness from his friends and family, revealing the truth only to Xiao Ge.
Once upon a time, Wu Xie was told that when a man meets his death he must do so with a clear conscience. But something has been weighing on Wu Xie- his Third Uncle’s disappearance at the end of their first adventure. Right on time, a message from his long lost uncle appears, setting Wu Xie on a desperate mission to find him before the cancer eating away at his body destroys him at last.
This will most likely be Wu Xie’s final journey, but he will do anything in his power to make sure his friends and family will be safe long after his time is up. In the final 3-4 months of Wu Xie’s life he will seek to unravel the mystery of the “Thunder City”- starting with the most dangerous tomb he’s ever explored, The South Sea King’s Tomb.
The sound of thunder hides a secret men have killed for, but is there really a way to hear the words of gods within it? Someone clearly thought so, but who? Is Uncle Sanxing still alive, or is someone in the shadows guiding Wu Xie to them?
Wu Xie’s enemies thought he was dangerous before, but now he is a dying man with a mission. There is no telling what lengths he will go to in order to achieve his goals. He might just manage to die in a tomb after all…
** This recommendation is just the latest installment in an entire series of stories adapted from “The Gravedigger’s Notebook” and related novels::
The Lost Tomb (2015)
The Lost Tomb 2: Explore With the Note (2016)
Time Raiders (2016 movie)
The Mystic Nine (2016)
Tomb of the Sea (2018)
Reunion: The Sound of the Providence (2019-2020)
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The Romance of Tiger and Rose
Chen Xiao Qian has dedicated her life to making her dream of becoming a well-respected screenwriter come true. Standing on the production set of sweeping dramas she penned through endless blood, sweat, and tears, Xiao Qian can hardly believe what she is seeing: her work, come to life!
Except it isn’t a set. And her work truly has come to life.
Her script is a simple one: the heirs of two rival cities who seek to destroy one another enter into a doomed romance that will lead to endless betrayals and a war that will kill the male lead, Han Shuo.
There is just one problem- Xiao Qian wakes in the body of Han Shuo’s first wife on the day he will murder her! The only way for Xiao Qian to return to this world is to survive the story, but in keeping herself alive longer the script begins to change, and Han Shuo begins to fall in love with the wrong person.
At first it is easy for Xiao Qian to keep herself alive- just go along with the script! But the story wants to return to the original plot, which means characters who should be friends become enemies, enemies become friends, and Xiao Qian might not live long enough to find her way home.
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The Untamed
On the cliffs of the Nightless City, upon defeating his enemies in a bloody slaughter, the cruel and vicious Yiling Patriarch- Wei Wuxian- threw himself to his death.
Sixteen years later, he is resurrected by a madman and given a second chance to right what went so terribly wrong long ago. Wei Wuxian reunites with the honorable, righteous, and stern Lan Wangji- his confidant, soulmate, and best friend.
How can someone as upstanding as Lan Wangji befriend the monstrous and hated Yiling Patriarch? What turned the happy and popular Wei Wuxian into the man who slaughtered thousands at Nightless by weaponizing the souls of the dead?
And what terrible secret was Wuxian resurrected to unearth?
The past is not always what it seems, and there is no clean line between right and wrong.
**Don’t worry if you’re lost when the show starts, that is by design. Near the end of episode 2 the show will enter a 30 episode long flashback sequence to answer all questions.
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Well Intended Love (Season 1: Drama Version)
Seasons 1 and 2 of “Well Intended Love” feature the same stars playing the same characters, but the storylines are alternate-universes of one another telling the story from a different genre. Each season is wholly independent of one another.
A third-rate actress with leukemia becomes entangled with the handsome but cold CEO Ling.
In order to receive a bone marrow transplant and contniue her career as an actress, Xia Lin enters into a secret marriage with Ling Yi Zhou. Despite the conspiracies and misunderstandings they encounter, the two begin to find true love.
But one question nags at Xia Lin’s mind:: Why did the cold, controlling, and distant Ling YiZhou need her to play the role of wife?
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Well Intended Love (Season 2: Rom-Com Version)
Seasons 1 and 2 of “Well Intended Love” feature the same stars playing the same characters, but the storylines are alternate-universes of one another telling the story from a different genre. Each season is wholly independent of one another.
Rising TV superstar Xia Lin finds herself embroiled in scandal after a run-in with business mogul Ling Yizhou at a party. To clear up any misunderstandings the two prepare a joint press conference– where Xia Lin is stunned by Ling Yizhou’s statement that the two are- in fact- an engaged couple.
Ling Yizhou convinces Xia Lin to play fiancee for a period of one year, after which they can go their separate ways. To save face in front of her fans, Xia Lin agrees. She gradually begins to fall for the lovable and doting Ling Yizhou.
Someone works in the shadows to destroy everything Ling Yizhou holds dear- and the closer he gets to the heart of the conspiracy, the more he realizes Xia Lin may have a target on her back as well.
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Word of Honor // Faraway Wanderers
Zhou Zi Shu has served as the leader of Heaven’s Window for much of his life. A once righteous and honorable sect who acted as an elite Secret Service for the royal family, a corrupt prince has turned them into his personal assassin’s guild. With their oaths to Heaven’s Window as nooses around their throats, most of Zhou Zi Shu’s elders and friends have chosen death over continued service.
Wholly disillusioned, Zhou Zi Shu only wants to atone for the crimes he was forced to commit under his oaths to the prince. He endures the slow execution of Heaven’s Window- a process that sees seven nails inserted into the victim and ushers in a slow and painful death that takes three years to play out.
By gaming the system he helped create, Zhou Zi Shu manages to buy himself an extra year and a half of life to wander the world and wipe some of the blood from his slate.
In his wanderings, he is pulled into a conspiracy surrounding a young boy and meets a strange young man named Wen Ke Xing who sticks to him like glue. Zhou Zi Shu and Wen Ke Xing grow closer and closer throughout their journey to find a mysterious treasure that is rumored to give its owner unlimited power.
But just who is Wen Ke Xing? What is he really after? And most importantly of all- can Zhou Zi Shu really trust his new companion?
#tv recommendations#tv recommendation#recommendations#recommendation#cdrama recommendations#cdrama recommendation#mine#cdrama#c drama
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𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 & 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒.
** this meta contains book, show and personal headcanons following daenerys’ relationship with her dragons. one thing that really stands out to me in the show is that the dragons are literally used as weapons of war, rather than maintaining the relationship that daenerys had displayed with them during the earlier books. yes, they will help her win the seven kingdoms but they are her children, instead of ways of winning battles. crafted and constructed over lots of heartbreak with the help of daisy over on @perzyr ( a literal living dragon encyclopaedia ) so please go and give some love with a follow for top quality dragon lore & content. it’s going to be a long one so if you do read this then get comfortable. i will always reference and inform my writing partners of any important details regarding the dragons, should they be of any relevance to our plots or threads.
give that like button a ♡ if you do read this –-– just so i know !!!
◈ first things first, daenerys is not immune to fire. although in the show, she does not suffer any injuries from the funeral pyre in which she burns drogo, she is given the name of the unburnt because of emerging from the the flames alive, not unscathed. the hatching and birth of drogon, rhaegal and viserion was incredibly unique, a miracle even. three petrified eggs were placed into the pyre of her husband and dragons returned to the world for the first time in centuries. in the books, she loses her hair as a result of being within the flames and much like any other human, sustains at least some injuries. as a targaryen, she can tolerate high levels of heat and resist the pain of being burnt for a short while but too much time in fire can be severely damaging. albeit receiving wounds, they are quick healing given the magic in her valyrian blood.
◈ there is a level of understanding between daenerys and each of her children. although she cannot physically speak to them, there is a bond that she believes cannot be broken between her, drogon, rhaegal and viserion despite eventually becoming drogon’s rider. the bond she forms with them is one that grows with the time she spends nurturing them. to form a closeness, she cooks their meat as they are only babies and even speaks to them in valyrian. daenerys does not only rely on them for warmth but for comfort at times where she is feeling uncertain of the path ahead. dragon cuddles are a thing, it is known. cradling them in her arms, letting them huddle around her and sharing warmth with them, she attempts to create a physical bond between herself and her children. viserion is known for curling up on dany’s chest in particular. whilst drogon and rhaegal tend to occupy themselves more in play, viserion can be found by daenerys’ side as she reads. rather than caging them, daenerys ensures that they have their own safe space they can return to where they are free –-– their own sanctuary almost unless they are travelling. she allows them to fly above her and the khalasar along the red waste but also has a horses cart in which she places them when they grow tiresome.
◈ when it comes to the chaining of viserion and rhaegal, daenerys is at odds with herself. beginning to lose control of drogon and learning that yunkai has returned to their old ways, a weight rests upon her shoulders. jorah mormont has too recently betrayed her and so, daenerys feels control slipping from her fingers. remembering that she is still young and somewhat naive ( despite being a queen ), an overwhelming amount of guilt falls upon her as the body of a child is brought before her claiming that ‘the winged shadow’ was responsible. whilst it is suggested that the death has been caused by the masters in a bid to shame her, daenerys decides that it is a risk she simply cannot take. grudges have been held against her ancestors for the pain they instilled upon their own dragons, confining them to a pit. her liberation of slavers bay has been dedicated to freeing people of their chains and yet, she finds herself submitting to exactly what those of house targaryen did many years prior in the dragon pits. with a heavy heart, she makes a temporary measure to confine them below the great temple though, it is not as simple as what the show depicts it to be and instead, she faces a struggle.
◈ ❝ once, not long ago, she had ridden on her shoulder, her tail coiled around her arm. once she had fed her morsels of charred meat from her own hand. she had been the first chained up. daenerys had led her to the pit herself and shut her up inside with several oxen. once she had gorged herself, she grew drowsy. they had chained her whilst she slept. ❞ –-– the capture of viserion, her smallest and youngest baby. having to lead viserion into the pits personally, it felt as though she was leading viserion astray. an immediate guilt resides within daenerys, knowing that it is only her who has the power to bring viserion into the pit, it felt as though daenerys was leading her to her own demise. she had been named for viserys, the very person who had bargained with her freedom and now, she has in turn, chained the dragon she had named after him into a slave.
◈ ❝ rhaegal had been harder. perhaps he could hear his sister raging in the pit, despite the walls of brick and stone between them. in the end, they had to cover him with a net of heavy iron chain as he basked on her terrace, and he fought so fiercely that it had taken three days to carry him down the servants’ steps, twisting and snapping. six men had been burned in the struggle. ❞ –-– the capture of rhaegal, her most stubborn and defiant child. following the tales of rhaegar, she knew that rhaegal would not go down without a fight, though she did not anticipate the difficulty that would come with it. knowing of the struggle that he puts up, it only stirs more distress within daenerys, a sense of grief she has not felt before. watching the struggle increases her guilt and she cannot face rhaegal, employing members of the unsullied instead to lure him to the pits as she cannot bring herself to face him beneath iron nets.
◈ there are many occasions in which daenerys struggles to live with the decision that she has succumbed to the very thing her ancestors did and in an attempt to quell her own sadness and keep a bond with viserion and rhaegal during drogon’s disappearance, pays visits to them in the pits. though on one occasion, one lunges towards her as teeth snap in darkness, daenerys barely able to make out what is happening. the only thing that saves her is the fiery breath in which viserion releases, lighting a path so that she is able to quickly flee from what turns out to be an attack from rhaegal. the time he has spent in darkness has shaped his vision of his mother, stirring a rage inside of him ( not only for himself but for his sister ). paying mind to the devastation that she has bestowed upon her children, the pit is sealed abruptly once more and daenerys is left with a raincloud lingering above her. she had named viserion to do what her brother could not –-– protect her and that was exactly what viserion attempted to do as a fire lit within rhaegal’s throat, ready to engulf their mother as punishment.
◈ when the fighting pits are reopened during her wedding to hizdahr zo loraq and the sons of the harpy attack, drogon is lured to daznak’s fighting pits by the noise and the smell of blood. no whip is used to berate him or mount him and instead, the bond that formed between them is returned to her eyes as she looks at him in fear. she pulls a spear from his side, teeth bared as he lets out a scream of pain, though he soon realises it is his mother. it is within that moment that she remembers she is the mother of dragons and instead, takes to climb atop of him where she is carried to safety and taken to his lair in the dothraki sea where he has been living in his absence. falling ill and growing weak after eating wild berries and the scraps that drogon has left behind, daenerys begins to hallucinate. not only does she have visions of quaithe and the message she has delivered but she dreams of her children too, chained and betrayed by their own mother. it is in these visions that the impact of her actions begin to stir inside of her, realising that her children were never the monsters but instead, it was her.
◈ freed by tyrion, daenerys and her children take to the skies to defend meereen which is under siege at the hands of yunkai, astapor and volantis who are adamant in ending her ‘reign’. whilst this might not necessarily be a moment of rejoice and destruction for rhaegal and viserion, it is the first time in which they have been free from the pits beneath the temple in which they had been chained. viserion flies in out of loyalty to her mother ( and feeling somewhat responsible for having been chained ) as rhaegal follows closely behind, having grown protective of his sister. following the victory, daenerys dedicates most of her time in making amends to her children she has betrayed and willingly chained.
◈ with viserion, she takes baskets of apples having known it is her favourite food and sits upon clifftops, reading to her in an attempt to salvage the bond they had. she tells her tales of the dragons that lived centuries before them, teaching her of dragonstone and the history of house targaryen’s reign in kings landing, on occasion also speaking in high valyrian. it takes weeks in order to strengthen what she had severed and at times, has to sit with her back to viserion to provide her with some comfort. each day that passes, she inches slightly further forward until one day, realises that viserion is wrapped around her –-– too big to now curl around her neck like she had done as a child. at first, when daenerys goes to touch her, she realises that rhaegal is scared ( particularly if her neck is touched from where she almost strangled herself, worried for her mothers safety as the sons of the harpy erupted within the fighting pits ). instead, she makes contact by scratching at her nuzzle, allowing her palm to stroke between her nostrils until she reaches up to the point between her eyes.
◈ with rhaegal, the process is a much longer and difficult one. as noted in the words of barristan selmy, he was always the more aggressive dragon and quite often, became possessive over things such as food. when attempting to rebuild the bond she had with rhaegal, daenerys ensures to bring him extra meat and cooks it herself, starting a fire and charring it before retreating further away. there is little she can do in terms of comforting rhaegal and for the first couple of weeks, sits with him in silence knowing that no words can convince him of how she believed she was doing what was best for meereen. on one occasion, rhaegal snaps at daenerys, pinning her down to the point of almost crushing her. it is a cry from viserion that tears rhaegal away, the sadness within her windpipe causing him to leave daenerys and fly off elsewhere to escape from his mother. on her next visit, she ensures that viserion is there, becoming aware of the protective instinct he feels for his sister. eventually, daenerys attempts to create toys and little playful games like she did as they were babies. this consists of making balls of ribbon, much bigger than what they once were as drogon joins them too, living in the memories they did when the three of them were newly hatched. the trust between rhaegal and daenerys has never fully returned to what it once was, though she notices that tyrion’s presence instils a sense of calm within him –-– one she has not seen before. it fills her with sadness, having named him for her brother who died on the green banks of the trident, daenerys had hoped she might feel a closeness to rhaegal out of the connection he holds with rhaegar and yet, this will never happen. though, she knows she only has herself to blame.
𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋.
◈ following the chaos in daznak’s pits and realising that spears ( although not deadly ) can cause damage and hurt to a dragon, daenerys readies her dragons to have armour as she prepares to sail for westeros. it is not full body armour but more so protective layers that shape around their throats and shoulders. shed skin is used to form a second layer of scales, used for measurements too. a saddle is also made for drogon, simply to make things safer and to provide him with more comfort as she rides him. more details are later added to their armour using dragonglass mined from the caves of dragonstone.
◈ it is suggested by some that to maintain a relationship between her and the dragons, so that they accept her as their ruler, daenerys uses a whip to control them. when she acquires the unsullied, daenerys is seen mocking the masters by tossing the whip that master krazyns provides her with to the ground. and if this does not promote her attitude towards cruelty and control, i don’t know what does. as much as she would like to be able to tame her dragons, she understands that they are creatures as smart as she. they have their own mind, their own will and it cannot be bent or controlled. she does not use a whip or any kind of weapon to command them but instead, relies on the physical and mental bond that she has instead as a means of trying to show them what is right from wrong. the first time when this is questioned however, is when she locks rhaegal and viserion in the pits below her pyramid.
◈ if more eggs were to come into her possession, daenerys would not be so hasty in attempting to hatch them. she knows that it was a miracle for her own eggs to hatch and would not rush to do so but rather, let the dragon insides grow until they are ready. as she did with drogon, rhaegal and viserion, she would spend time with them and attempt to bond with them. the difference this time around however, is that any babies will have older dragons to look up to –-– to nurture them and daenerys would rely especially upon viserion having shared such a tight knit bond with her since she was small enough to fit in her palm.
◈ if either rhaegal or viserion showed interest in allowing another rider, it would not bother daenerys so much, providing that the person they had shown an inclination to was somebody she too trusts. the dragons and daenerys share a bond ( even if it was severed when she betrayed their trust ) but they have seen many people enter and leave their mothers life. some lost to war and protecting their queen, others with ulterior motives. the dragons have a good judge of character, particularly drogon and viserion who daenerys shares the closest bonds with, simply from the consistent contact and affection they keep. daenerys’ feelings and reactions to things rub off on drogon and viserion, with thanks to the emotional and physical connection she shares with them. rhaegal too is capable of picking up on his mothers emotions, though he usually only acknowledges them if they are of threat to viserion.
#iii. i will answer injustice with justice » metas.#DAENERYS STORMBORN & HER DRAGONS.#i would personally like to shout out daisy#for absolutely ruining me#just a side note that when i recover from this meta#i'm putting your ass on a google doc#fOR DESTROYING MY LIFE
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-`Deity Of Light´- K.D X F!Reader
The threat of rain meant one thing, you were not coming over today.
Kaminari looked up to the clouds covering the sun and frowned. His day off hadn’t gone over like he planned.
First off, his favorite bakery had run out of the croissants he had craved all week, and he had to drink his coffee with a raisin cookie, then when he went home and was ready to cook, his apartment filed with smoke as his pizza was burnt to a crisp. Around noon, when was the time you came around to say hi to your favorite mortal and play Mortal Kombat, the sky turned dark, and the wind picked up.
‘This day can’t go worse.’
As that thought appeared in his head, his whole world was engulfed in darkness. Just what he needed... A blackout. If he was planning to distract himself from your absence with video games or one of those dumb movies he liked, now it was out the window.
It was dumb, really. He still had a hard time believing he knew a real deity. You were such a cool person to hang out with and the fact that you found his plain and Mortal self amusing was surreal.
Almost an entire year had passed since he met you on a sunny day where he was patrolling. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the sounds of sirens and screams of the civilians that were terrified of the villain with a snake like quirk. The heroes were struggling to keep him at bay, it’s monstrous size and flexibility difficult’d things. Kaminari had been injured while attempting to stop him, the villain’s fangs grazed his arm and it left him unable to move from the neck down. He was sure he was going to die under the huge scaly body, and almost all of the heros were in the same position as him.
Kaminari tasted the metallic taste of pure horror in his tongue and as he saw the impending doom of the end of the snake’s tail coming down to crush his body, but then the sky opened up, and in a halo of gold a figure came down, speeding at an alarming rate toward the ground.. Kaminari could only open his eyes in horror, believing that, whoever it was, they there was no chance of them surviving the impact.
At the last second, the figure stopped, hovering a few inches off the ground, above Kaminari, protecting him. You wore a sheer gown that seemed to be made of pure light, feet bare and not a speck of dirt could be seen on your body. With your hair appearing to flow as if it was under water, a crown made of two branches laurel rested on your temples, framing your face.
You were ethereal, and he felt his brain lag, with a similar effect from when he overused his quirk.
With a hand up to the sky you let a blast of blinding light that burned a hole in the snake’s body, preventing it from colliding on both of you. A spray of green blood sprayed, and you threw herself on top of his body, shielding him from the impact.
A sizzling sound came from everywhere the fluid met, and he realized it was acid. And you just had taken a shit ton of it on your back. Wincing, you got up and blasted another attack, aiming to the head this time, while maintaining the protective stance in front of his sprawled body. From that perspective, Kaminari could admire your bare back, where iridescent scars, that sparkled under the sun covered almost the entire surface He was surprised to find them and instead of being disturbing, they had a heroic feel to them. thick trails of smoke rose through the air, emanating from the scorched tears on her skin and golden liquid cascaded down your back, pooling the iridescent fabric of your gown and sticking it to her form.
A deafening squeal of pain reverberated in the air, and the snake’s upper body slithered in agony. Your light had met the snake’s eyes, and you smirked, skin literally glowing from within. But as soon as the corner of your lips went up, they came down, because the snake’s fauces barreled towards both. Grunting, your arms pushed him away, and his heart clenched when you were swallowed whole.
Everything felt lost, the ray of hope that appeared when you hurt the beast, extinguished like a cigarette under someone’s boot.
The screeching sound that the snake released seemed delighted and as its bifid tongue ran through its lips, almost as if it could still taste you on them, Kaminari noticed something bulging, and expanding the skin in the mid drift of the monster.
The surrounding air seemed to heat up, oscillating in waves that disturbed the sight, the image of the snake wobbling, as if it was a reflection of itself in one of those silly mirrors they usually had in fairs.
The commotion stirred something in him, but the monster was oblivious to it all, too focused on its joy and apparent victory to notice or even feel that something was off. At least until a blinding ray of pure white pierced its skin.
The smell of burning flesh and the humming sound of the surge of power rose the hairs on Kaminari’s arms and his stomach dropped at the sight of green blood oozing out and dissolving the pavement below, craters being formed. The wails of the thing grew in volume before it came crushing down, it’s long body twitching for a few seconds until going completely still. Kaminari held his breath, expecting the reptile to lounge at someone, but the only thing that assaulted him was the solemn silence that followed after a shocking event. Even the humming of a fly’s wings could be heard.
His body was still deemed useless, and no matter how much he wished to go in there and rip your body from the beast entrains with his bare hands, he was stuck as a bystander, observing in the sidelines as those heros that could still move took the reins of the situation.
The hushed voices of the pros were not enough to drown the groaning that preceded your emerging from the pile of charred meet.
Fabric torn and body painted golden, there you stood tall and proud, stretching your shoulders like you had just finished a workout.
“Fucking Phyton, and his resolve to make my life even more complicated...” He saw you sigh while trying to wipe the stream of gold out of her eyes. Even battered and torn, you were the most beautiful creature he had laid his eyes upon. “Oh, shit... Here, let me help you ChargeBolt sir.”
Squatting down next to him with the grace of a ballerina,yourr fingers rested on top of his forehead, and a sudden feeling of calmness numbed his mind. With a warm flutter in his chest, he wondered if you were in reality an angel of death, and if what he was feeling was that story he always heard from those who had experienced a close to death experience. Because all he could see was light.
It took a few seconds of his lethargic brain processing to realize. It wasn’t a light what he was seeing per se; it was your body, shining like the sun, but in a way that his eyes didn’t burn while looking directly at it. Images of him laying beneath the sunlight at the beach flashed in his mind, and if he closed his eyes for a second, he had a similar sensation right in that moment.
Then, as if he was a solar panel and you were the very sun charging him up, a wave of energy he never experienced drummed beneath his skin.
Opening his eyes, your face was the first thing that he saw, hair cascading around your head as you leaned over him, and his fingers twitched for him to caress the strands and confirm if they were as soft as they seemed.
Then it dawned on him.
His body no long felt disconnected from his brain, In fact, he felt every single thing, including the goosebumps that invaded his skin everywhere your eyes met.
Tentatively, he sat up, afraid to fall right on his back and make a bigger fool out of himself. After confirming he felt good, even better than before hell broke loose, he opened his mouth.
“Just how many quirks do you have!?” His sentence came out louder than he intended, and he wanted to sew his mouth shut when you flinched back a little, but the serene smile you sent his way eased his nerves
“Wouldn’t you like to know...” You teased, with crinkles by your eyes.
“Seriously, how did you do all that?” he stood up, and towered above your frame “Anyone else could’ve died...”
“Oh! That reminds me...” Interrupting him, and turning around, you willed a scepter out of nowhere and tapped it in the ground with force.
The floor shook and for a second he feared another threat was around the corner. A crack on the floor appeared beneath what was the remains of the villain, and just like that, what once was a frightening monster, now was disappearing to the center of the earth.
Kaminari’s heart stopped for a second as he saw you lean dangerously over the edge of the abyss, and he rushed to grab your arm just in case a breeze blew past and threw you off balance. A zap coursed through his skin once he made contact, and he wondered if that’s what it felt like to be electrified by his quirk.
“Thanks Uncle Dis!” you called out
The ground melded back together in a second and there was no evidence let of it ever being torn.
Kaminari tried to keep his cool, and after living in a world where everything was possible because of the diversity of existing quirks, he thought nothing could ever disturb him anymore. But after only five minutes of knowing you, that was rendered false.
“Okay... Now I would like to have an explanation sunshine.... Who exactly are you?”
“You just said it cutie...” Winking at him and outstretching your hand, you flashed him the brightest smile he ever saw. “I’m Delian, or Smintheus, or Loxias, or Pythan, or Apollo or any of the names you people had given me through the years, but now I mostly go by (Y/n), deity of the Sun, Nice to meet you”
Kaminari Cringed at the memory of what happened next and tried to think of something else to ease the embarrassment that came after your introduction.
Snapping out of his remisicing Kaminari walked outside, sitting in the porche and he noticed the sunflowers you planted on his frontyard seemed to be lacking a bit of water.
He never understood why you had done that, if he had to guess he would’ve said your favorite plant would’ve been a bay tree, since it was the plant most associated with you and all that, but when you brought the four sprouts on your hands a few months prior, excitement making your skin flow and your body to flutter off the ground, he contained his teasing, too entranced by your beauty to say anything to sour your mood.
“Denki my dude! Look what I got for you straight from the underworld!” Your smile lighted up his whole house, literally. And Kaminari felt a blush rise to his cheeks over how pretty you looked.
Now those tiny sprouts grew and got up to his waist, their yellow petals were an unnatural bright yellow, courtesy of Persephone herself. He was ashamed to admit how much he liked those sunflowers, even as much as he liked you.
He was known for having a fascination with pretty girls, but you just went ahead and ruined him forever. Everyone he saw paled in comparison, and it wasn’t fair for the rest of the world. You were literally a Deity. Your beauty was something no mortal could achieve.
And whenever he tried to flirt, you always said something along the lines of
“Nah, you should see Aphrodite, your brain would fry instantly”
The forced easy laugh that usually followed was enough of a proof to know that, no matter how extraordinary you could be, you were still insecure.
On one of your sleepovers, when the sun was down and you were weaker, you shared your secrets with him. How every relationship you tried to maintain failed, every god, demigod, nymph and human abandoning you. You were aware of the Myths humans told about you, but since they said you were Male, he started doubting every tale that circulated with your name.
“I wish you would’ve been around on the golden era... The old olympic games would’ve been your shit, naked wrestling, bodies slick with olive oil...”
“Wow, Sunshine. If you so desperately want to see me naked all you had to do was ask.” Kaminari joked, expecting one of your quick comebacks, but seeing your cheeks glow golden, in the way the deity of light blushed, he felt a flutter on his chest. A small ray of hope.
“Don’t be dumb, Denki. All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t have been as lonely if I had you then.” You rolled your eyes, portraying annoyance, but he knew it was only to mask your embarrassment.
Almost without him noticing, he fell for you, hard. As hard as the Python did under your unwavering power. And the realization filed him with equal amounts of dread and joy.
In love with a goddess, who would’ve thought, huh?
Never in his wildest dreams he saw himself feeling as strongly for someone as he did for you. Yes, the ocassional crushes were there, but they always seemed to have fade into nothing just like an ice cube on a hot summer day.
Kaminari couldn’t even look at the sky without thinking about you. Even when the clouds were thick and the thunders made the glass of his window rattle, whenever he looked above, he imagined you there, looking down at him and winking, as a way of encouraging him in his everyday tasks that seemed so mundane. The life of a pro hero is far from dull, but it still paled compared to a literal deity.
Kaminari sat outside, growling at the dark sky that killed his chance at seeing you. He felt the cold breeze caressed his face and violently rock his sunflowers. They were sad looking at that moment, almost a perfect reflection of how he was feeling on the inside, crestfallen and slumping down, facing the dirt, with no sun to make them happy.
He sighed and rested his head on his bents knees, trying to focus on anything instead of the empty feeling on his chest. He hated being so attached to you, but every time he thought of your face, so close that he could feel the air out of your lungs tickle his nose, the same thought invaded him.
How could he not be?
You were warm and shiny in every sense of the word, Your heart was as gold as your blood and you never showed anything but care and -he hoped- love. Maybe not in the way he wanted it, because hell, the need to hold your hand just because he could, and kiss your lips to see your cheeks shine is all he ever dreamt of ever since he met you, but how would it work?
You were a Goddes, a supernatural being. Immortal.
You saw millions of humans come and go, and the wicked fantasy of you being in love from someone of your past, and never looking at him ever again always woke him up with a startle in the middle of the night, sheets drenched in sweat and heart thrumming in his ribcage.
Another Thunder boomed, this time closer, so close in fact that Kaminari felt the static buzzing on his skin, making him sit straight because of the jumpscare.
His eyes laid on the sky and he scowled once again, the rain clouds were closer and so thick that swallowed any remains of sunbeams, turning everything a somber shade of gray, dulling the colors of everything, including his sunflowers, that now were facing straight at him.
Wait...
Since when the sunflowers were like that? There was no sun for them to seek for. He was disturbed by this, but still, he couldn’t ponder on it much.
The heavyweight of a pair of hands on his shoulders, accompanied by a hushed “boo” on his ear, tore a high-pitched shriek out of Kaminari’s insides.
The sweet sound of your laugh followed right after, the beginning drowned by his terrified outburst, but the end infiltrated his ears and flowed like honey through his body.
“(Y/n)? What are you doing here?” He asked, glancing upwards to the somber dark sheet covering the sky. You were smiling so bright it almost hurt his eyes, but one look over your body later he noticed the charred ends of your dress and the frizz sticking your hair up in all weird directions, leaving you as a bad Simba wannabe. “What happened to you?” Concern laced his voice, and he saw your smile falter. Doubt misting your eyes as your posture visibly tensed.
“Well, it’s actually a funny story...” You laughed shakily, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, going the extra mile to wave a hand, but he didn’t miss the way your fingers shook or the tense lines at the side of your mouth. “Let’s say the pissy prick I call father is against me spending so much time with mortals, and we had a bit of an... arterncate, you could say.” You were a bundle of nerves, and even the usual crown you sported was hanging crooked on your head.
Kaminari felt a cold hand clasping his heart at the implications of that that meant. Your encounters needed to stop, you were there to say goodbye and disappear from his life. He masked his pain with a soft smile and took a step closer, hands going to fix the mess on top of your head.
“It’s okay... I never thought the all mighty Apollo, Phyton, Loxias Del-Delos was it?...” He stopped, brows furrowed as he tried to remember the first time you spoke to him. word by word.
“Delian...” You corrected, eyes soft and tension melting off your face, a small twitch in the corner of your mouth made it look like you were almost smiling.
“Right, Delian, or (Y/N), Or Sunshine... Would want to spend her time playing Mortal Kombat with a loser like me...” His smile was still there, but the corners twitched down for a second, letting you see the insecurity that laied beyond his cool facade
Seeing him like that left you stunned. Eyes shimmering with an emotion he couldn’t quite read, and when his fingers finished arranging your hair the way it usually was, he rested his palms on your shoulders, squeezing a little just to remember that you were still there for a little.
Your fingers enveloped his wrist and the both of you just stood there, lost in the sad atmosphere as the wind picked up around you, and the lights flashed dangerously in the sky. Kaminari felt his chest constrict with the words he so desperately wanted to throw out there, but your fight with your dad sealed his lips.
Now there was no point in trying anything beyond the months of fun and jokes you shared.
“Thank you for teaching me how to use Kotal Kahn, Bakugou is so pissed about how I suddenly got so good at it... Sorry I couldn’t do the same about Raiden.”
“Why is this suddenly sounding like a goodbye?” You asked, with your throat tight and tears glimmering in your eyelashes, like little diamonds suspended forever in there.
“You shouldn’t anger your father Sunshine...” He said, grasping a lock of hair that was flying in front of your face, victim of the merciless wind. His knuckles brushed your cheekbone as he placed the stubborn silky strand behind your ear. You held your breath upon contact.
Your fingers enveloped his, keeping them trapped in between your cheek and your hand, with a grip that would be almost painful if he weren’t used to your unearthly strength.
He watched you crumble underneath his fingers, eyes flashing raw pain behind them.
Then, just like when you had healed him months back, he saw resolve and vigor replace that sad expression, brows furrowing and fire dancing behind your eyes, and it was all unleashed by his gentle hands cradling your face.
“No...” You whispered, leaning back away from him, but still holding on to his wrist like he was a lifeline in the middle of a turbulent sea.
“(Y/N)... I think...”
“No Denki!” She circled around him and stood in the middle of his front yard, looking straight up at the storm above and with cheeks glowing from anger. “You what to know what I think?” She turned to him, pointing an accusatory finger up the sky.
The warning of a flood of lightning made him take a step forwards to warn you, but a zap charred the earth missing his feet by only a few inches. His quirk was electric and a normal lightning couldn harm him, but he wasn’t sure those rules applied with the fucking god of lightning, Zeus.
“I’m tired of feeing like there’s something wrong with me, because there’s not...” The sky rumbled and a flash of blue descended, deathly close to her figure.
Kaminari searched everywhere to find a solution in this situation. Certainly a fight between two gods on his porch wasn’t ideal.
Your scoff brought his attention back to you and he saw your arms flying around, a halo of golden unclasping your body, your emotions breaking your control over your power.
“No, dad, certainly what happened with that demigod years back wasn’t my fault. Eros was just a dick and you know it... Why don’t you make the same scandal when Aphrodite comes down here and mingles with mortals?” Another set of lights burned through the sky and you laughed incredulously. ”Now you worry about the blood not mixing with mortals? Yes, hi... Do you remember Hercules, You Demigod Son!? Stop behaving like a child!”
Kaminari sucked a breath in after your insult towards the god, and rightfully so, because half a heartbeat later, a lightning bigger than he ever thought possible coursed through the sky and impacted with your body. He saw your silouette through the blinding light, and for a moment he feared the worst. He never felt a power like this, every hair in his body raising and a wave of nausea destabilizing him.
“Pretty fucking mature dad, really...” You were still alive, and as he leaned on his knees hunched over and panting another wave of emotion hit him through the chest. Even with smoke flowing up like black tendrils around you from your gown and grime staining your cheeks, it only seemed to enhance the way you shone. “I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either, no one else does! Uncle Dis even said he liked him, and that is saying something... Just please dad. I never asked for anything, just this once. Let me choose who I love...” Your voice was so brittle and frail he believed he had imagined it.
And then he realized... You said it, the word he wanted so desperately to shout on your face but to afraid of the consequences. You loved him... You, Apollo, Loxian, Delos, or whatever, you loved him, and even if you didn’t said it to him, the implication was as clear as day.
Kaminari forgot about everything else. The threat of being reduced to ashes a, the rage of your father above, the way his insecurities had kept him from showering you in affection like he longed to, all of that faded to the back of his mind, the only thing clear was you. You standing in front of him, only a few feet apart.
You, that loved him.
He was by your side, and almost in a daze his fingers found yours, holding them in a gentle yet firm hold. The warmth of your skin soothed his locked joints, and he took a breath in. Opting not to say anything, but let his actions speak for himself.
You looked up at him and beamed, drawing strength out of nowhere just by his sole presence. Both looked up at the sky, that turned a murderous shade of purple, just like the bruising he might have in his body if he survived turning into Zeus shooting toy.
“Father, this is not something I’m backing out of, and since the Olympians came into an agreement of not snooping their noses into other’s business, I’m staying here with Denki as long as I please.” You turned to him, hesitation written all over your face, and a flimsy peak of that ugly insecurity you had showed itself in your eyes. “If you want, of course...?”
It came out more of a question than a statement, as if you were subconsciously begging for reassurance.
He leaned in, his lips grazing the skin of your forehead, soft as a feather, but it left a burning sensation on his mouth. Your cheeks were shining bright, but a dumbstruck smile was plastered on your face.
“That is final, father. I took your opinion into consideration because I respect you, but if you try to do something funny, I won’t hesitate to ask Uncles Dis and Sai to interfere.” The sky grumbled one last time, and Kaminari Imagined it had to be reflection of Zeus own grumble of defeat.
If he admired you before when you took down Python, now he was awestruck at your strength and determination.
You deflated like a balloon and sat down on the grass, where blackened grass stained the skin of your legs. Letting a small incredulous laugh, you looked up at him, eyes open and so full of emotion. The tension that once constricted your whole body was now gone, and your whole body seemed to glow.
“I can’t believe that actually worked...” You muttered, wiping a hand across your forehead but never dropping the smile.
Kaminari sat down next to you and circled your shoulders with his arm.
“So... You just wanted your daddy dear to let you choose who to love?” Teasing you wasn’t the most sensible thing to do after the rollercoaster of emotions you two rode nearly a minute before, but it was his way of dealing with stress. Whatever the reason may be, it was worth if he could get to see your flustered face.
“Yeah, I’ve been feeling some kind f way towards this Ground Zero dude... It may be worth the shot” You teased right back, and in it felt like nothing ever changed between the both of you- even after the biggest confession- everything felt natural, no nerves burning inside other than the usual warm flutter on his chest when he saw your face.
He pondered on saying those three little words, but feeling how relaxed you were, with your face tucked in between his shoulder and neck, breath fanning over his jaw, he resolved against it.
The sense of knowing both of you were on the same page was enough for now.
Groaning, you got up, and extended your hand towards him, pulling him up and letting your touch linger a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Man, I’m beat...” You stretched your back, smiling when a ‘pop’ filled the air. “Can we pretty please play MKX? I need to beat Raiden’s ass right now?
“I always thought you were crazy good at it, but turns out you were just motivated by imagining Raiden as your dad, weren’t you?”
There was no need to respond. The humor shining in the side glance you gave him and your crooked smile said it all.
As you passed by the sunflowers, he saw them turn around, facing you no matter how fast you were going. He stopped in his tracks and observed how they bent in an impossible angle trying to face you.
When you realized he wasn’t following behind, you sent a look behind your back.
“What’s wrong Denki?” You asked walking back up at him, the yellow petals following around like a shadow.
“Can you walk back to the door? I want to see something...” He said, fascinated by the reaction you had over them.
Confused, you did as he said, taking slow strides, trying to figure out what was he on to now, until you followed Kaminari’s gaze and noticed it too. Exited, you ran, twirled and crouched, trying to see if in deed they were turning to you. You giggled like a kid opening a present and turn to him.
“I didn’t know they were always looking at me...” You whispered in awe, caressing the yellow petals fondly. Your eyes gleamed under the sun’s light. The clouds long forgotten on the horizon, letting the rays finally warm up his skin. Your crown was lopped again, but it gave you an air of mischief instead of nerves, and Kaminari prayed his mouth was closed and not gaping like a fish. You never failed to knock the air out of his lungs.
“They’re not the only ones that do...”
#kaminari denki x reader#kaminari x reader#kaminari denki#denki kaminari#denki#kaminari#bnha x reader#mha x reader#my hero academia x reader#boku no hero academia x reader#Kaminari denki Mythology au#denki x reader#femalle reader
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Like Glass
(I think I’m rolling in the word juices again! Only took me about..two months! Eheh.. Anyways, here! You want angst, have angst! *slaps fanfic in your face* I should really post these on AO3 buuut yeah.)
Like Glass
Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition
Pairing: Solavellan
Warnings: Some minor depictions of violence
Death. Death was a concept Fane was all too familiar with, as it was the most natural occurrence that inflicted all beings; spirit or mortal. A life began; a wailing, fragile existence. A death rendered it silent; an inevitable, anxious end. These two things were indicative to the natural order of the raw world, and to potentially obstruct them would tilt the scale even worse than it already was.
Fane knew this. He knew there was no life, no renewal, without death. One did not hopelessly water an already decaying flower in hopes that it would revive itself. No, you allowed it to crumble into dust, rejoining the earth as it demanded. Otherwise, you deprived other flowers of what made them also thrive; an array of colorful blooms then wilting from selfishness. His very existence as a dragon was to keep the scale at an even keel, to keep such irresponsibility at bay. It was true that his specific kin were tasked with observing living, reasoning creatures, but they still felt the earth cry out in anguish every time it suffered. They felt it all, and even if they wished to intervene, they could not if it was deemed a natural progression. Dragons..were not allowed to desire, not allowed to be selfish, unless they wished to see the whole world fall to ruin. However, this once, just this once, Fane had desired to actively intervene on a selfish whim, if only to lessen the pain of another rather than the world. He had desired to lessen Solas’s pain. He had desired to help Solas in freeing a spirit his sky called a friend. But as most things went when it came to his sinful desires, it had gone sour in an instant. Death had come calling, as it naturally did. However, the events that had brought it about? Those were not. No..those events were brought about by ignorance. And now..now he saw the effects of that ignorance. Fane saw the one thing that always followed after death like a shadow; grief. He saw it in the way Solas’s hands shook slightly as the mage’s magic guided the spirit to its rest. He saw it in Solas’s back, the man’s crouching posture seemingly slumping in defeat before it locked up with stiffness. He saw it in the way Solas minutely locked and unlocked his jaw, even as the front of his face was obscured, stormy eyes staying transfixed on the spot where the spirit had been. But the most telltale sign of his sky’s overwhelming grief was his voice as it uttered a farewell to the spirit.
“Dareth shiral..”, he heard Solas’s voice utter, the normally composed tone sounding slightly choked.
Golden emerald eyes slowly shut as Fane took in a deep breath through his nose, feeling a heart wrenching pain in his chest as the elven caressed his ears. He knew, by his nature, that this was the way of things, but why did this anguish feel so wrong, so unnatural? Was it because of his mortal body? Was it because he had a broader span of emotions? He truly didn’t know. All he knew was that Solas was in pain, and was doing everything within his power to conceal it.
No. He’s trying to endure. Just as the spirit had said..
Fane let out a deep sigh at his thoughts before carefully crossing his arms, digging his gauntlets into the leather sleeves of his coat as he willed himself to say something, anything, to ease Solas’s anguish. Now was not the time to dwell on Solas’s unhealthy, but understandable habit of bottling. No, now was the time to be present.
Fane slowly opened his eyes as he took another deep breath through his nose before letting it out slowly, looking down at Solas’s still crouched down form before taking a few tentative steps to bridge the distance between the two of them, “You did everything you could have done, my sky.”, he murmured down to Solas, surprising himself with how soft his voice sounded, but decided to pay it no mind.
He watched with uncommon patience as Solas’s head slowly turned to glance back and up at him. The moment golden emerald connected with stormy blue, Fane felt the whole world shift and plunge into a bucket of ice cold water. Even without his draconic abilities, Fane saw the well of utter sorrow within those sky like eyes. He saw the wobbling of gray as Solas fought to keep stubborn tears at bay. He saw the flecks of muted blue as they swirled with a deep recess of agony. He saw the delicate shards of indigo begin to drown in the want to crumble. But mixed together, Fane saw what he had seen so many times, so many centuries ago. He saw hopelessness within Solas’s eyes. The sight nearly made Fane weep as he felt his mouth form into a hard line.
Solas stared back at him for several moments before quickly squeezing his eyes shut, swallowing hard before speaking, “Now..I must endure.”, voice sounding strained and forced.
Fane felt the hard line of his mouth deepen into an outright frown before he slowly descended to crouch down next to Solas, craning his neck a bit to keep the elven man’s gaze since Solas had turned it from him, “You don’t have to endure this, Solas. Let yourself grieve..”, he tried to coax.
“Now is not the time.”, Solas responded back, tone slightly clipped even as Fane detected the faint wobble in it, “It is never the time..”
Fane let out a quiet sigh, turning his gaze down to the space of ground under his feet, “There will come a day when you fall over the edge, Solas. And when it comes..”, he started gently, once again taken aback by his softness, “..I will be there to catch you, even if it breaks my back to do so.”, finishing the declaration with a low growl, “Even if I were to die again and again and again, I would find you and I would catch you. Never doubt that.”
He knew he was being overly dramatic, but Solas’s own concealed anguish was playing on his own. He needed the other to know he would be here, whatever the era, to support him. His wolf would not wander into fire and brimstone alone. He would not grieve alone.
I vow to you, Solas. Never again. Never again.
Emerald eyes hardened as Fane came out of his thoughts, noticing Solas had finally risen from his spot on the ground. Solas stood over him stiffly, a fist slowly balling into a tight fist before unfurling quickly. Fane trailed his gaze up to Solas’s eyes once more, easily detecting the same grief behind their colors, but..now there was something more in those usually calm eyes. Now..there was a true storm swirling in those volatile grays. There was anger. Solas glanced down at him slowly, face twitching with something akin to uncertainty and sorrow before a stony mask concealed it.
“..Never again, ma’isenatha.”, Solas bit out, voice deepening with suppressed anger as those tumultuous eyes turned on the ones responsible for this debacle in the first place, “Never again.”, a practical growl resonating within his voice as Solas stalked forward.
Fane slowly rose from his own crouched position to stand to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest as he listened to meaningless pleas and pitiful defenses. He stood and he watched with the attentiveness of a dragon as nature took its course. He ignored the hushed disapproval from the others in their party as the sudden roaring of flame drowned them out. He took in a deep breath as burnt flesh and charred bone threatened to turn his stomach. He observed the barely contained panting as Solas’s whole body rose and fell, residual magic coursing through his body from his frenzied actions. He saw the inevitable shift from furious rage to stifling anguish as Solas’s stony mask twisted and squeezed into an expression of utter agony. And in that moment, Fane did not see a monster. He did not see the ludicrous tales of the Dalish about the Dread Wolf. He did not see a ‘god’. He did not see a maniacal creature laughing at the death and destruction.
No. Fane saw Solas. Fane saw his sky with its clear days and stormy eves. He saw..
I see the man that no one else cares to see; a fragile glass about to burst with endless screams.
(And yes, Fane’s endearment for Solas is ‘my sky’ since you know..dragon? I’m cheesy, okay?)
#dragon age#dragon age inquisition#da:i#solas#lavellan#male lavellan#oc: fane lavellan#solavellan fanfic#angst#solavellan hell#here we encourage all people to display emotions#let solas cry 2021#one day I'll stop posting solavellan and dragon age#but not today#writing fanfiction is self care#explore those differing facets!
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Disappearance 4: The Child {Katsuki Bakugo}
A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! This was a chapter I had a lot of ideas for and was very excited about while writing!
Disappearance Masterlist
While Toga didn’t hate their associate’s teleportation quirk, she did miss Kurogiri and his warpgate. He was a much better conversationalist than the skittish bald man in the back of the antique shop above their safehouse, plus she enjoyed the dramatic flair of his quirk more. The dark swirls suited her tastes much more than the bright white glow she experienced now.
She kept a hold on the boy as she blinked away the slight dizziness from the teleportation and took in the familiar basement of the tea shop. They’d only started using this shopping center recently since it had better clothing for the kid’s size. It didn’t hurt that the shop was close enough for a quick getaway if necessary.
Scanning the area as they stepped outside, she did notice the pink and red UA heroes on patrol. The curly pink one was wildly telling a story to a small group of citizens and the spiky red one was walking towards a nearby train station. She made a mental note to alert their associates of the increased hero presence; she and the rest of the League should’ve been told about the higher risk.
She brushed the dark hair forward over her shoulders and bowed her head slightly to hide her current face. These heroes were close to Katsuki Bakugo and could recognize her easily if she wasn’t careful. Still, with a firm hold on the boy beside her, she pressed on towards the mall.
The entire time they shopped she kept a watchful eye out for the heroes but didn’t see them inside the complex. Their intel said that they did patrol around the shops throughout the day but it was possible they just weren’t coming around this part of the mall around this time. Even so, she stayed alert until they finished choosing the boy’s new clothes.
With their purchases in one hand and the kid in the other, she stepped out of the shop and headed towards the door. The afternoon shopping rush was entering and she was thankful there would be more cover as they made their way back to the tea shop. Tomura had said to keep the boy in the sun for a bit to try and see what might happen but she was going to err on the side of caution with the two heroes lurking.
Toga saw the bouncy pink one to her left as she stepped into the crosswalk and kept her head low and the kid close, watching the different shoes blur together as she walked. They were only a few meters from the tea shop, from being safe, when she felt two tugs. One on her hand from the boy as his hand was wrenched from her grip and one on her leg as her foot was held in place and she tumbled to the ground.
The bag of clothes spilled out into the street and she hit the pavement hard, scraping her hands and feeling her ankle pop awkwardly. A woman stopped to help her up but she waived her off as she looked back to see thick white tape wrapped around her foot and sticking her to the ground. She sat up and untangled herself as she looked around for the boy.
Panic was bubbling in her chest at knowing she would be in a lot of trouble with Tomura for losing him, and she turned in place as she scanned the area around her. Her ankle throbbed and the blood rushed in her ears when she didn’t see him, instead coming to lock eyes with the red-headed hero standing at the entrance to the mall.
She knew he recognized her but all she could do was run, the pain sharp as she dashed the rest of the way to the tea shop and leaving the clothing strewn in the crosswalk.
Kirishima watched the imposter flee towards the shop and Mina try to give chase through the crowd. There were more people than expected and they were lucky Sero had pulled off his part as well as he had.
From where he stood he could see Sero approaching with the small boy at his side. He’d wrapped him in the hoodie he’d been wearing for his undercover streetwear and he looked positively tiny in the sea of olive green around him.
When they got close, then knelt down to the boy’s level and smiled warmly. “Hey little guy.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but he simply won’t speak with me,” the man said timidly. “There’s no way for me to determine if this may be a form of selective mutism or the result—”
Katsuki sighed tiredly. “He’s not responding at all?”
“Not verbally. A few times he would give me a nod or shake of the head but to properly assess him I would need more.”
He looked towards the window into the small conference room where the boy sat. He was lightly tracing square and triangle patterns on the table with his fingers instead of coloring with the art supplies the psychologist had initially brought in.
“You got more toys? Like Legos or blocks or something?”
“Yes, I do have some wooden blocks in my bag.”
He nodded towards the room. “Put them on the table closest to the seat across from him. I’m gonna see if he’ll talk to me.”
Moments later Katsuki was sat at the small table across from the little boy who still had yet to speak. Fearful eyes stared back at him for a moment before darting to the right, one hand absently scratching at his arm.
Deciding to try and ease the tension in the room he looked away from him and busied himself with building a small structure with the wooden blocks between them. He started with a haphazard Jenga-like tower, then decided to try a castle with the cone-shaped blocks as spires.
After a few minutes he felt eyes on him, and without looking up asked, “Do you want to play with these?”
From the corner of his eye he saw the dark mop of hair bob once timidly. It was progress, and he slid the blocks over to the other side of the table. When a full moment passed with the toys in front of him, he slowly took them in his hands and looked them over before starting to stack them.
He could only watch the child in wonder, completely in awe at the parts of him that were so distinctly Chiasa. Even with the grease and knots matting down his hair he could tell that it was dark brown like hers. The concentrated pout of his lips as he focused on building his tower took him back to the nights she stayed up late to finish her projects and that same expression was illuminated by her computer screen.
His heart ached in his chest knowing that this boy was the closest he’d been to her in four years but he hoped that soon he’d have them both in front of him. He could love this little boy if he was a part of her—part of him already did, he thought.
“My name’s Katsuki. Can you tell me your name?” he asked, receiving a shake of the head in answer. “I’m a hero and that means I can help you if you talk to me.”
He paused his building and ran his fingers gently over one of the green blocks, hesitating for a few seconds before whispering, “Kid.”
“Your name… is Kid?” Katsuki asked, his tone even despite his confusion and bubbling anger.
“Yes. And Boy.”
“Is that what your mom and dad call you?”
“Yes,” he said quietly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. “You have red eyes like him. But you don’t scratch like him.”
An ice-cold chill ran up his spine as his worst fears were confirmed with two sentences. He felt sick knowing what this meant, what she would have experienced. She would never by choice, not knowing everything that monster had put him and his classmates through for years.
“Is… is your dad’s name Shigaraki?” he asked, knowing and dreading the answer.
The boy nodded. “Spinner calls him that. Toga calls him Tomura.”
“And what does your mom call him?”
It didn’t matter what she called him, she shouldn’t even be near him.
“She’s always ‘sleep when I see her,” he replied, spinning the block in his hand. “She doesn’t talk to him.”
A picture of what this child and Chiasa had been through over the years began to form in his mind and he pushed down the overwhelming urge to vomit. Instead, he sat forward and continued to speak with the child to get as much info as he could.
The bland hallways of Tartarus always unnerved him, but this time he was too focused on the task at hand to dwell on it. He had questions that could surely be answered by the man he sought out, though his annoyance couldn’t be kept at bay when the smarmy grin slid across Dabi’s face.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen any of you UA brats other than Shoto,” he said from behind the glass separating them. “What’s the occasion?”
Katsuki walked past the chair reserved for him and stood as close as he could to the glass, all without breaking the villain’s gaze.
“Ohh, serious business then,” he teased, resting his chin in his hand.
“What was the League planning at the time you were captured?”
Cocking an eyebrow, Dabi seemed intrigued by the question. “You wanna know plans nearly five years old? Didn’t take you for the cold case type.”
“This isn’t the time for games!” he snapped. “What was Shigaraki planning?”
“That asshole was always planning different things, nothing was ever set in stone. Doubt he managed to pull any of them off considering you’re alive and so’s Shoto. Why’s it matter?”
“He’s taken hostages and we need to know everything we can. They’ve been with him too long as it is.”
Dabi’s eyes widened slightly in surprise or appreciation—he wasn’t sure which. “Shit, he really got that pretty brunette of yours?”
“Why did he want her?” Katsuki asked lowly.
“To fuck with you,” he scoffed as if it were obvious. “You helped to take away everything from him—he was just returning the favor. ‘Eye for an eye’ type shit. But since All Might bit it he couldn’t take your sensei like you took his, so he settled for your girl.”
His palms were crackling at his sides, smoke escaping from the tight curl of his fists. Every bit of information brought more questions but he was no closer to finding her than he had been. His entire being ached to scream and blast his way through the glass to wring the villain’s charred neck if for no other reason than he had known that Chiasa being taken was a possibility.
“Where would he take her?” he asked through gritted teeth.
A shrug. “Don’t know.”
“Bullshit,” he growled. “We know the League has safehouses across half a dozen prefectures. Where would he keep her?”
“You said it yourself, they’ve got a lot of safehouses. This happened after I was brought in so I wouldn’t exactly know the final verdict on where she’d be taken anyway, hero.”
“If you knew she was going to be taken you know more than just the fact she’s got brown hair. You’d have to counter her quirk and I’ll bet that needed some special fuckin’ consideration. She’d have to be kept out of sunlight or she’d be able to blow you all to hell within an hour!”
Dabi stretched his arms over his head casually. “Told you: I don’t know where she’d be. It’s been like five years.”
“And she’s been there for over four of them!” he shouted, banging his fist against the glass violently enough to make the villain jump. “I always knew you pieces of shit were low but what Shigaraki’s done to her over all this time? Keeping her captive? Fuckin’ forcing himself on her? Making her have his kid? Is that what the League does now? I never supported your fucking cause but at least you had some lines you wouldn’t cross back then. You fucking—”
“His kid?” Dabi said with a sneer. “That dusty little virgin wouldn’t know where to stick it if a girl had a neon sign pointing to her pussy.”
“Then why do I have a kid sitting at my agency with greasy hair and red eyes that can’t stop scratching at his skin and says his dad’s name is Shigaraki?”
“I wasn’t there to—”
“But this little boy was!” Katsuki snapped. “He’s been there all his life and he doesn’t even have a name; your merry band of assholes just called him Kid or Boy. You may hate being Touya Todoroki but at least you have a fucking name.”
Dabi bared his teeth at the mention of his birth name.
“I don’t even think this child has meet his own mother,” he continued, jaw set. “When I asked him about her he told me that every time he’s ever seen her she’s asleep. He has nothing. No name, no quirk, no hope. And no mother, all because of the League.”
He fixed Dabi with a hard stare, the villain now shifting uncomfortably as he thumbed a staple on his wrist. The silence stretched between them for a moment, and then two, and soon almost ten minutes had passed.
Until a single word was given in a quiet grunt.
“Nagoya.”
A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated!
Disappearance Masterlist
#bakugou imagine#bakugo imagine#katsuki bakugou#katsuki bakugo#bnha imagine#bnha imagines#bakugou katsuki#bakugo katsuki#katsuki bakugo imagine#katsuki bakugou imagine#bakugou katsuki imagine#bakugo katsuki imagine#bnha#mha#mha imagine#mha imagines#boku no hero academia#boku no hero academia imagine#boku no hero academia imagines#my hero academia#my hero academia imagine#my hero academia imagines
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Between Wolves & Doves; Chapter Seven, Savagery.
Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver
Also on AO3-
Trigger Warnings: !!! Violent thoughts in this chap !!! Kylo’s getting somewhat, territorial. Shall we say-
Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.
He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.
He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.
In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.
He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.
He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.
~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~
When he came to her that night, her tears of grief were still drying on her cheeks. Catching in the fires light, like ribbons of sparkling amber.
If he had a soul, it would be crumbling in despair for glimpsing the sight of her like this.
“Oh, My little dove.” He sighs, weary and heart sore for her. She didn’t even have anyone to cry to or to embrace in her sadness. She always had to cry alone.
Tears staining onto the clasping embroidery of her laced pillow. Her supple form curled up into a fitful tense shape on the bed. Her toed off brown boots are strewn on the floor by the end of the bed.
Concern weights down the heavy lentil of his stern brow as he rounds the end of her bed to come closer. His big hand cupping the polished twists of the wood pillar of the mahogany frame. He steps over her boots. Coming to tower over where she rests on the mattress.
She’s still wearing her gown. The ash grey wool she wore earlier today. Her hair is still bound. Though it’s strictness is softened by wisps that have worked their way loose. Spilling over her cheeks and straying across the pillow. Like dark twisted roots.
She won’t wake. She never does. He sets himself carefully on the bed. Feels it give and creak beneath his weight. He watches her rest. Brings his hand up to stroke a thumb across the soft cushion of her damp cheek. Wet and salt clings to his skin.
He whispers to her. “I felt it. I felt your sadness. I felt it reach out to me. Calling to me.”
He leans down and kisses the tear away. When he does, when he tastes that sadness on his lips - a shatter of emotion and memory cracks through him. Like thunder splintering and charring an old oak. He is struck by it. Well and truly.
He can hear her mothers snarls, feel the crush of guilt and righteous anger drowning his sweet little dove. Being told she must obey to her family expectations. Start making them proud. Start thinking of marriage.
He sighs deeply as he pulls away. He didn’t even register the pretty floral of her skin he so loves. Not tonight.
Tonight, he is not a baying monster seeking for blood. He is a suitor who has deeply concerned, rushed to her side as he felt the worst woes of his lover.
He felt her despair. Her dying hope. He felt the waning happiness of their day wither. Like a dried flower hardening up in the frost or the heat. Seizing up it’s bright petals. Or shedding them. He’s felt how her family’s expectations strip her bare and leave her shredded and bruised.
Here, he just feels his jaw grit at the rage of it all. He grows wilder with anger. Can feel the black of it, thick like rotten honey, bleeding flushing into his veins.
“I wonder, do you feel me too? Are you so struck by all the things I perceive?” He asks to her. Not intending at all for his questions to be answered.
Their bond is strong - this cannot be denied. It’s tug engulfed them both from the second their eyes met. That blazing dazzling storm that took his breath away. The tempest of her influence quakes inside his chest.
Yet this...fondness, for her. A mere mortal. A simple, human girl. It is not so perishable. To look upon the last love and bond he has felt in his life, it seems so dangerously frail in comparison. Adoring her is like cherishing a birds eggshell. Like a faint ember glowing, about to extinguish. Yearning and waiting to be made bright.
Humans. All of them are so fleeting. So quick to bud and even quicker to fade. Like a dying little spark. Extinguished before it barely even thrives.
He can feel this spirit. This entwining of their souls. This dense entanglement of emotion. Can sense how it hungers to grow. Like him; it’s a bloodthirsty beast. Demands heart and cartilage and inky black ichor of blood to sustain it.
His yearning is more than he ever thought. And he knows how she wants it desperately also. Wants him. Their feelings have found symmetry in each other. This is the first time a woman has been more to him than a collection of veins to drink off.
“I confess; I care not if you can sense me yet. Because I sensed you the minute I saw you, Iris Ashton. And now I feel how trapped you are.” He explains softly.
“Little Dove. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you freed.” He promises.
He’s stroking her hair back off her face. Trying to soothe away the crinkling frown in her brow. The one that spoke highly of her turmoil.
“I would rip those pathetic beings you call relatives to pieces for making you suffer like this. I wouldn’t even drink them. Dove. I’d kill purely for the pleasure and the sport of it.” He pledges.
Somewhere in his mind, faintly, upon a distant echo of an echo, he can hear his makers voice. He can hear Draegan calling him a savage, chiding him for those words. He always was the one between the two, blessed with more leniency.
“Your mother is desperately trying to keep us apart. It will not be so. I will not stand for it.” He confesses.
“I will not.” He makes plain. Shakes his head. His words are quiet venom with the resolute strength of iron, but he’s softly caressing her cheek. Taking away all the tears and salty sadness with his fingertips.
“I have a foul temper and when people deny me the things I want. They will inevitably lose.” He growls.
He will kill. Maim. Slaughter and hunt without any whiff of so called or feared consequences. He’s a vampire. He’s above emotion. He does not subscribe to petty human clemency. There is no point in mercy being instilled in such savage beasts, after all. It would wither and die in the face of all the foul things he’s committed. The gore. The pain. The massacres. The bloodlust.
“I came tonight because you cried out for me. You cloud up every moment in my head. You live behind my closed eyelids when I rest at night...” He expresses.
He reaches his hand to cover her collarbone. Very close to the space over her heart. Warm skin soothes his icy palm. It’s been so long since he felt the flurry and flush of warmth. He can feel the quivering muscle tremble and tick under her skin. Gushes and guides her blood. The rattle of it pulses and echos through her vulnerable bones.
The fragility of her tiny timpani heart, beating away her time.
“And now your body beats for me. Each pump of your heart I can hear; and it sounds like it’s calling out my name. And I will always answer to it.” He promises. “I cannot ignore it, even should I wish too.”
He cannot fathom the enormity of this strangle hold she has across him. He can only nurture it’s budding into being. He will help blossom and thrive, whatever this may be.
He quirks a slight tip of a smile. It breaks the stoic nature of his scowl hardened face. Like strong waves being dashed on the rocks. It yielded.
“When I think back upon you sitting astride Kana today, it makes me smile. I had not thought you to be such a wild creature so ready to dash the rules.” He says in mirth.
He’d only looked at her and seen the etiquette she adheres too. He was pleasantly surprised to find she was no shrinking violet. He’s enamoured with uncovering more such stubborn wilderness within her.
“How glad I am for it. That little spit of fiery spirit that not even your foul mother can hope to tame. I’ve always been so enamoured with wild things.” He smiles.
He rubs his thumb across her forehead. His own brow creases when he feels the tremble and agony of her aching head. The raw sting of her red eyes. He rubs until that grey nimbus of her pain passes away. Like smoke on the gentle breeze. He soothes it away.
He is sure to put vastly happier thoughts into her head. Plants them there like seeds ready to sprout. He helps her recall every smile they’ve shared. Every ghost of a touch. Every look of their eyes clashing that sent rattles of desire wracking down her spine. His too, though she had no clue as to the potency of her charms.
No clue whatsoever- it’s one of his favourite things about her. Here is a power she doesn’t even know she wields. He will gladly instruct her to see it used.
He lets her see them this afternoon. Riding side by side in the frosty sunshine. Stroking the horses in their stalls. The way he caught her and reeled her in when she slipped off Kana’s back. He lets that warm happiness flow through her like golden ambrosia. The sweet honey nectar of happiness they share together.
He will have more. He will make it so.
He feels how her body is growing colder. He twists around and sees the fire in her hearth is crumbling low. Barely sustained. He crosses and sees to it. Stokes it with the iron poker and piles on more logs to see her kept warm.
Silently he walks back to the bed, to her side. Pulls up the fluffy eiderdown over her where it lay crumpled at her feet. The feathery down of it rumples and crushes and he tucks it around her prone body. Her human well-being, hangs loosely by a fine thread compared to his stronger senses.
He exhaled an amused sound to himself. “And they say I am the creature who bears no soul.” He speaks in detriment to his caring touches.
But so long as he is near, he will not see her suffer. From cold. From sadness. From anything that may ail her.
He has seen worse things than his own kind being blights upon humans. He’s witnessed plagues, wars, outbreaks of diseases too foul to name. The awful crippling frailty of suffering a human existence.
He places his hand on her elbow, atop the covers he shrouded her in. Her dreams eased by his influence. Her strains and stresses plucked away by his hands. He could do more than merely enchant her senses. He could alter them. Make her witness things if he wished to.
“How is it a creature like me can find such solace in even being near you.” He asks gently. Big fingertips of his grooming through her hair. Feeling the spun-bronze soft of it combing through his fingers.
He may never have an answer to that musing. An eternal query for him to ponder over through his ages. All he knows, is that he won’t be kept apart from her. Not for anyone’s wishes.
He stays until a cresting red-gold dawn. Blood and gold copper coins, spill slanted across the sky. The birds outside in Westwell’s meagre garden begin their song to herald to the new day.
He leaves her. Parts with a kiss to her cheek and before he slips from her sight and off into that blaze of a dawn, he leaves his initialled kerchief crumpled up in her hand.
The thought as to her confusion of how it got there, will make him smile. Now she has a token of him. That happy thought keeps him smug in temper, and buoyant for the whole day. He hopes it will jab at her acerbic mother.
Should teach her that no one stands in Lord Ren’s path. And even fewer live to tell the tale of having done so.
~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~
Iris really did applaud her mothers cruel sense of efficiency. Not but the next day, and Sergeant Armitage Hux and Mrs Hux call at Westwell to take tea.
As they alight from their carriage, Iris is sat at the window armchair. Watching their newcomers. A flash of brilliant red catches her eye, stark in the icy landscape of the frosted green and creamy cotswold stone gravel drive.
He wore his full ceremonial uniform under his black cape. Wool coat the shade of split veins. On his head, covering the copper of his short hair, sits a cocked half moon army hat. Fluffy red and white plumage darts up, sprouting from one side. Blood spattered on snowy doves feathers. The ultimate homage to war.
He looks terribly neat and well groomed. Meticulously so. Coat brushed. His cape is spotless. His white breeches are about as pristine as the snow that fell around the estate last night. His black boots gleam. Freshly polished and waxed. Iris bites her tongue when she sees he’s fully dressed for battle. Even his gold rapier sword hangs at his side. Bumping against his hip.
Hux turns and helps his mother down from the carriage. She is a stout woman of late age, with greying hair and a face that always looks pinched. Her pale face hidden in her frilly bonnet. A ruffled frill secured around her neck. A chemisette collar of rippled muslin, peaking in cresting white waves. Tied in a bow around her neck. Brushing under her chin. Collar starched and stiff. Holding her chin precariously high. Incredibly precocious.
Then again, the woman did always adore and admire looking down upon people. Haughtily peering down on her lessers.
Much of her dress is covered by her deep plum pelisse. She has lilac gloves on and is pinching her skirts up. Afraid of the mud. Sniffing in disdain at muddying her rose pink and mauve half boots with it. Iris shuts her book with a harsh snap. A sigh leaves her lips.
She sets her book aside. Mother appears in the parlour. Lifts up the arched curtain to better glimpse at their guests. She turns a casting eye over Iris’s dress.
“Your skirts are wrinkled and your hair is loose at the back. Fix it.” She instructs snappily with quick hurrying. Before turning back to seat herself elegantly on the settee opposite.
Their parlour was not quite the finest room in Britain. But it was cosy. Heavy blue velvet drapes line the windows with gold tassels trimmed on their edges. There is upholstered walnut settees and arm chairs with white and pink rosebud pattern on the seats.
The fire is lit and roaring amber in the austere grey of the stone hearth surround. Mother arranged an ostentatious vase of tall spilling blooms on the French end table across the room, by the door. Perfuming the air with violets and bluebells. Sugared fruit of exotic variety lay in the only silver bowl they have in the house. Polished especially. Desperate to show off their finery.
Mother is fussing with the crocheted lace doily on the table. Tugging it straight. Setting her grey satin skirts to fold nicely and neat around her knees. Tugging on her finest shawl around her shoulders. Hissing at Iris to set her legs straight. For she always sat most uncommonly. With one knee folded under the other.
Iris is in the upholstered linen armchair opposite to the settee. In the chair has seen better years. A twin set. They creak and crack under her weight. But it’s always done that ever since she was a child. It’s her favourite spot. The light is adequate for reading. Until Posy or Flora come marching in and clamour and demand the chair for they have to fix up their bonnets for church on Sunday. Heaven forfend they are seen out in the same bonnet twice.
Luckily today they preen and fuss in the parlour mirror before the housekeeper shows their guests into the front parlour. Posy is in a duck egg blue with a green ribbon at her waist. Flora is almost matching in a cotton white with a peony pink ribbon. They preen a moment longer until the door handle cracks and twists across the room. The two littlest Ashton’s dart quickly to take their places. Squeaking with giddy excitement. Plonking artlessly onto the furniture.
Iris’s mother frowns at her eldest daughters dour smile. She’d tugged her out of bed nearly at dawn this morning. Ordered her up. To bathe and wash and then dress her hair for Hux’s call.
Laced her tight into stays and her whisper-blue silk dress. Barely blue. Like a sky just turning at twilight. It had three quarter sleeves and handsome train. It it showed off the prettiness of her neck and shoulders. Especially when she wore her pearl sapphire earrings. They sparkle all across her neck.
She puts down her book on the end table. And looks up into the parlour doorway as Mrs Hux enters, preceding her son. Their stout almost-elderly matron of a housekeeper, Simpson, opens the door to them and curtseys. Announcing them. “Maratella Hux and Sergeant Hux. If you please, Ma’am.”
Maratella glides in first. Still with her parasol hooked upon the crook of her arm. She snaps her fingers at Simpson to take it and her bonnet.
“I would have disrobed more in the hall. But your entryway is most drafty and I do so fear getting dust on my bonnet. For it will never be gotten out easy in all this fine lace.” Simpson takes her bonnet and her parasol off her. She curtseys to Caroline.
“Mrs Ashton. You do keep such a snug parlour.” And then she turns and offhandedly stresses Posy, Flora and Iris. The whole bouquet. As if suddenly surprised they’re all here. “Oh. And I dare say such a pretty flock of gels.” She compliments.
“You remember my youngest’s. Posy and Flora. And of course, Iris. My eldest.”
Hux nods and lays particular care in Iris’s intended direction. He turns back to Mrs Ashton.
“I feel I must ride into town to immediately fetch the constable. Ma’am. You have been charged with a criminally beautiful set of daughters. Mrs Ashton.” Hux flatters. With an easy charm of a smile.
Two thirds of the Ashton bouquet giggle wildly, enamoured with the praise. The remaining third bites her tongue to guard it. To keep from rolling her eyes.
“You are very good, Sir. Please. Do come, be seated. I have rung for tea.” Mrs Ashton floats delicately to retake her seat. Mrs Hux daintily comports herself next to her friend.
Armitage remains stood. Arms tugged behind. Sword clanging his belt where he stands with a jaunt to one hip one leg kicked out.
“How are you? My dear Mrs Ashton...” Maratella greets. Taking Caroline’s hands into her own. She wore spotless calfskin gloves. Before she unbuttons the pearl fastenings and makes a show of peeling the expensive things off her tubby hands. Delicately pinching each fingertip and caressing the thing off her hand like she was doing it for exaggerated show. She wasn’t. She was merely acting elegantly as she thought she must.
“I am in good health. I thank you Mrs Hux.” She answers. “Your Armitage looks extremely well. London air must agree with you, Sir?” Mother simpers.
“It did serve me most splendidly. Ma’am. But I am more than pleased to be home. And most thankful for your invitation.” He bows politely and his sea foam green eyes flicker over to find Iris. She smiles meagrely at him, averts her gaze.
He cuts the figure of a tall man standing there, behind his short mother with his hands crossed precisely behind his back. Trying to make his lean chest look impressive with all his gleaming medals and polished gold buttons resting stitched to their black braiding wool patches. Soot. Gold. And blood. All in one uniform.
Armitage Hux had missed the main war of late. The Napoleonic wars which happened of 1815, just this last year gone. Iris wondered if Hux really ever equated the finery of such a uniform, with real true war.
Here he is. Trussed up like a clockwork toy-soldier. With his boots shining and his composure spotless. He’s a young man who has not seen the full horror of war. Iris can’t exactly boast of knowing any more than he. But his uniform spoke of such hope. Time will tell if he can seize the bravery needed to march onto a battlefield.
“Iris looks exceedingly well. Do you not think so Armitage?” His mother urges.
“Indeed she does. Most handsome.” Hux says to the matronly mama’s. But he’s smiling right at her. He crosses the few short steps to the unoccupied twin chair where she’s sat by the window. Gracefully deposits himself into the chair.
Iris takes a subtle breath before she turns towards him. Sat demurely with her hands clasped on her knees and her back straight. When all she really wants to do is lounge. And slouch. And do anything to put him off the idea of marriage.
She was doomed to its sentence. She’d have rather sat here today and stuck pins in her eyes. Rather than conform to conversations about the weather, the local gossip, the tea or the snow outside. When all their mothers were really trying to arrange, was, when it boiled down to it? A forced mating ritual between the country gentry.
The way Mama and Mrs Hux are peering at them from their settee, is like they can already envisage the wedding clothes. And the names for the Hux babe they want to see, soiling in its cloth, and squalling loudly it’s bassinet.
Iris is sick to death of all this match making- but. She is the eldest Miss Ashton. She persists. When all she wants is to flee the room screaming.
“How did you find London this time of year? Must be miserably cold and busy.” Iris seeks.
“Yes. It was rather. Lucky my visit didn’t extend for too long. I am not so enamoured of city living. The society may be fine and resplendent. I did not suffer for a dinner invite the whole time I was in town. But the lifestyle suits me very ill. I much prefer my time spent back here at Walford.” He tells.
“And how is your regiment?” She enquires. He answers. They talk about his militia training. His fellow officers. His sword. His commission. They just lapse to the weather. When the door handle creaks again and in comes their procession of maids with the tea and cake.
Assam tea with a side of Cooks buttery baked ginger biscuits. Seed cake, and finger sandwiches. Made of fluffy pillow soft white bread. Filled with sliced tongue, or ham, with cornichon or yellow piccalilli.
Cook has even made her violet macarons. Gorgeous silky little round cakes of smooth, bright purple. Wedged either side of cloying sweet ganache. Almonds and sugar and all things made sweet with violet essence.
Iris knew mother must’ve gone through a fair amount of their family budget for such an indulgent French fancy. Sugar and eggs and coconut didn’t come cheap. Of course she would pour every hope and penny farthing they had spare into this venture. Anything to catch a suitor.
Caroline pours, and Julia hands around the cups. Leaves a macaron perched on Iris’s saucer. Waggles her brows at Iris, poking with good natured chiding fun for Hux, who was sat opposite her. Looking most keen.
Iris sips her tea from her blue and white spode cup and pays their silly maid no mind. Just because they both flutter eyes at anything of Male born, with nice thighs framed by their breeches.
He’s a soldier too? The maids will state that every romantic girl must get her heart broke by a soldier, just the once.
Hux sets his tea on the end table between them. Leaning a tad closer to initiate more intimate conversation.
“Do forgive my speaking bluntly, Miss Ashton. But I believe it is brightening up. Would you care to take a turn on the lawn with me?” He seeks. They had finished their tea. After all. And she must be polite.
“I’d be delighted to. Sergeant Hux.” She accepts. She stands and deposits her empty teacup down. He tells their Mothers of their plan. He sees Iris into the cold foyer and they pull on their coats. She wished she could find something repulsive in him. But really, he is a gentleman. He holds the door. Helps her into her pelisse. He’s not a horrible suitor. Maybe if he was she could hate him more keenly.
She wished she could be repulsed by his every action and snobbery. But he is, genial. He smiles warmly at her.
He takes her arm when they get outside. They walk along the drive in companionable, yet slightly awkward silence. Iris just knows their mothers will be fussing like clucking hens at the parlour window watching them. Planning a wedding for the spring after a suitably long engagement. Posy and Flora will be marvelling at every barest touch they share.
‘Did you see how he took your arm?’ Or ‘How he doted upon you... I should so like for a man to hold a door like that for me.’
Hux breaks the silence. They walk arm-in-arm around the curvature of the frozen pond.
“I know men aren’t supposed to be appraised of such matters. Miss Ashton. And if you’ll forgive me, I shall speak plainly-“ He declares to her.
He brings them to a stop. Ten to rly reaches out. His gloved fingers take her hand. She admires it. The plumage on his hat is battered in the wild wind. The only sounds she can hear is her bonnet ribbons fluttering and snapping on the wind. The birdsong chipping sweetly at her ears. The terrified drum of her heart.
“I came here today with the express purpose and intention of paying court to you, Iris.” He tells her. A hopeful smile on his lips.
His eyes crinkle at the corners with hope. His stark inky cape flaps on the breeze. She smells wool and boot polish. Stuck on the frosty landscape that glittered in his eyes.
Her chest breaks. Crushing in on itself.
She looks up into his face. The sun kissed gold upon her icy-white cheeks. Red tinted from the cold breeze. She swallows. Tipping her head slightly back so she can see his face past the woven peak of her bonnet.
Her mouth gapes and she looks down where he’s holding her hand- and it doesn’t feel right.
She feels like she wants to burst. Needles of hot and ice cold stab at her ribs like ferocious ten thousand little knives. She wants to be sick or run away. This isn’t the pair of hands that should be holding hers.
Sergeant Hux is terribly nice. Courteous and well bred. And more wealthy than her. But- but he’s not...
Lord Ren’s face strikes at her mind with so much power. She almost loses her breath. And her footing. She regains her composure. Even though it feels like something just yanked up inside her chest and tore away her lungs from where they are joined to her throat.
She plasters on a false meek smile.
“I see...” She remarks. Anything more witty or feeling was beyond her. She felt like soon, she’d fade into the air, like smoke. Just drift away.
“I know it is the especial wish of your mother, aswell as mine, that we are to consider each other as potential spouses. And I would very much- I should very much like to spend more time with you, if you’ve no objection?” He asks. Still clasping her hand.
“You are kind sir...” She stutters breath around the words. “Your attentions would be most welcome.” She lies.
She feels rotten.
“I know we know a little of each other. I believe there is some fondness between us. That could grow into respect, and, and possibly- one day, maybe more than that.” He approaches cautiously.
She nods. “You speak very bluntly of such matters. Sergeant Hux.” She says. He speaks as if they are already truths, come into fruition.
“I merely speak what is present. Miss Ashton. My- words are not finely crafted or driven by passion. They do not fall prettily. I am no astounding orator. Nor poet. But I do so believe that we might have a chance of making each other passably happy.” He declares once again.
“You shall never want for anything should we marry. You’d be a Sergeants wife and all that is offered it it’s income. I would treat you dearly, and- admire you as any husband should whilst you see to raising our offspring. These are, after all, matters that fall rightly to women.” He adds.
“Yes, indeed.” She guards her tongue before it becomes uncivil.
“We are invited to the Elton’s musicale, two nights forth. Thursday next. Would you do me the honour of your hand in the invite?” He seeks.
“Well. I-“ she swallows the sticky grey lump in her throat. How she’d love to be selfish and refuse. Her eyes still rimmed and raw from crying over all this last night. Heart sore. A great crack splintering through the middle of it like ancient rusted clay pottery. Her heart so badly wants anything- something more. Someone else.
She can’t do it. Mother would have her crucified. She wants her sisters to have a better comfort in life than what she’s had to suffer with being the family puppet. She wants her father to have new clothes and not have to worry. She wants to see Westwell safe from the bailiffs.
“I should be thrilled to attend.” She smiles. Her shattered heart crumbles that little bit more. Morphs into a wet mush of clay. Drowned by disappointment.
This wasn’t for her benefit- it’s for everyone else’s. And that was no reason to marry. She believes first and foremost in living for herself. Iris so badly wants to live for herself. To be her own person. She does not have that luxury and it’s suffocating.
She agreed because it was polite. Because he was a genial man and she didn’t wish him upset when he’s done nothing wrong, but let himself be manoeuvred into matrimony by his mother.
She agreed. For her sisters. For her father. Definitely not for her mother though. She doesn’t deserve even an ounce of her thoughts or considerations.
She agrees, even though all of Hampshire society knew that the musical performed by the Elton’s made all the local dogs howl. Even though several ‘accomplished’ young ladies of the ton, played their instruments so ill, everyone swore they could hear the thud of the long deceased composer banging their skull in lamentation and sheer agony on the lid of their coffin.
Even though she’ll be sat next to a man who has promised only to love her dearly. He is a nice man. That is simply it. She feels unworthy and ignorant. She doesn’t want the things she’s supposed too.
She’s overwhelmed. Her head is spinning, and her mouth as sticky dry as a chasm of sand. They’re not even courting properly, or engaged and she wants to pick up her skirts and flee across the horizon. She wants to run. To breathe. To be free from this nice courtesy that she doesn’t want.
She wants more out of her life than that of being a broodmare of a sergeants wife. The expectations don’t stop the day she says ‘I do.’ The fetid things will live on and on. Until she becomes the perfect bride. Then the most perfect housekeeper slash wife. Then a doting mother to a child she’s sure she doesn’t want. Fathered by a man who loves her with lukewarm and polite affection.
Can a soul really be satisfied by such a light caress of passion?
Hers is begging and screaming for more. She’s read in books about exotic cities and lands. Blue blue, so very blue seas and oceans, vaster than her comprehension. Wide wide skies filled with sunsets she could only dream of glimpsing at.
She’s read of snowy mountains and thick pine woodland. Air full of sap and snow. Of sunny cities entirely made out of blue bricks in Morocco. Or ones in Asia painted the entire street rosebud pink just for one visiting dignitary.
She’s heard teasing dribbles of exotic accents and tastes and cultures. She wants to see the bursting heated streets lined with saccharine Mango trees in India. Perfume of it in the air, of spices and sweetness. Wants to see the terracotta catholic loud renaissance of Florence. She wanted to see Castles and chateaus and forts and grand ballrooms. And American railways across the plains of the wild west and-
She’ll never have any of those things. Not a one. Her future was written and decided. And it is appearing bleak.
She thirsts and wants things she’ll never see. Such opulence in the world out there. And instead? She’ll be manacled to a husband and the children and the stove in this tiny savage spit of a village. Until old age and death comes to take her away. Return her to the heat and rot of earth and maggots to help fade her to nothing. Until all that remains of her, is dirty bones and her loved one’s scraps of memories.
Hux smiles. Brings her hand up to lay a gentle kiss upon her glove. “I anticipate it eagerly.” He says. She offers a wobbly smile that she tries to make stand strong.
She can feel eyes stabbing into her back - most likely from the direction of the parlour window. Mama and Mrs Hux stood at the parlour’s front facing windows. Appraising their fine match.
But there’s something else- something that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Something altogether much more unwholesome. She feels a cold chill burst and slither up her spine. Horribly slow.
Hux has taken her palm to place it in his elbow once again. And they wander now around the rest of the pond. He remarks how beautiful the great spreading horse chestnut tree must be in spring. Iris smiles her agreement.
Peering around. Everywhere in her garden she looked, all was empty. She can’t see their gardener, Higgins, trimming verges or shrubbery. She looks between the copses of the vast spread of trees that shield her view, past the shrubs and the neat hedges. There was nothing. They were the only two people outside the house, out here.
So why does Iris feel as if they aren’t?
Her eyes catch on the bare mulberry tree, the sprawling trunk is bare and black. Like dead curled up spiders legs. Swaying in the breeze.
A black shape sits in that tree. A raven or a jackdaw bird possibly. Onyx black. Curling feet and a sharp inky beak. Fixated its beady glittering honey-black eyes on the both of them. Not moving an inch. Hunched and peering down over them.
Iris looks at it for a long moment. Watches the wind ruffling it’s feathers. It stays fixing its look on her. And it doesn’t move. Not scared. Not at all intimidated by her presence.
Hux jolts her out of her gawping at an unsuspecting bird. It gives a scratchy caw of a call, and spreads its flapping great wings. Soars up into the icy soft of the pearl sky and soars away over the house.
“Miss Ashton?” Hux asks again. A tad louder to capture her attention.
“Forgive me. Lost in my thoughts...” She laughs explains in mirth, turns back and smiles to him. He smiles awkwardly and ducks his head. Discusses the weather with her once again.
They head back into the house for more tea. Caroline gives Iris such a sickly smile when they come back into the room.
Hux announces to Mrs Ashton that he should like to pay call to Iris and escort her to the Musicale next week. Mrs Ashton accepts delightedly.
Mrs Hux adds onto that enjoyment. “Why, we should get a party together. Such a merry gathering! The Ashton’s and the Hux’s shall all attend. You know we have two carriages, Mrs Ashton. Hux may escort all your lovely daughters. And you and Mr Ashton May ride with me and Brendol.” She organised with a giddy grin. Tapping her companions knee.
Iris stands there next to Hux. Feeling very much as if her life is being lived for her. She has no choice in the matter. She is chattel.
Thankfully, after arranging the outing. Maratella and Hux take their leave. They are going on into Pembleton for a general perusal. And Hux needs more boot polish. And she is in desperate need of new ribbons for her hat. Iris shrewdly eyes the hefty bonnet on the woman’s head, groaning under the weight of lace and ribbons and muslin.
Hux kisses her hand again. Bows to her before he leaves. Iris swallows nervously. But doesn’t let her expression betray it. Flora and Posy giggle and whisper to each other. Flourishing into gossip as he leaves the room.
Iris stands looking at the door for a second after it’s shut. Mother sees them off to the front door.
Iris waits to hear the latch on the front door go. When she does she strides quickly for the parlour door, she yanks it open and tears across the foyer and upstairs. Her feet loudly slap each step as she holds her skirts bunched in her fingers.
When she gets to her room she throws the door open with such ferocity the door handle smacks loudly to the wall. She starts getting at the fastenings of her dress. Unloops them and manages to get down to her chemise and her stays. She throws the fine dress away to crumple to her bed. It balloons on the air and floats gently down. Mourning the loss of being worn.
She is at her wardrobe, ruffling through angrily. She’s so breathless. Her lungs are not getting air. Why can’t she breathe? Her mind is racing a million miles a minute. She’s sweaty and clammy and her temples are pounding straining pulsing. Every heartbeat hurts her head. Throat clawing shut.
She won’t cry. She wilfully clamps her teeth shut-she won’t.
She skips herself into her simple beige muslin dress. And shoved her arms through the old wool blue pelisse. Stabs her feet into her boots. Heads back downstairs with her scarf to hand. Every nerve balances on the precise of a knifes edge.
She gets to the front door when her mother appears, peering into the hallway from the parlour doorway. “Precisely where do you think you’re going?” She seeks. Frowning. Face pulled into a scowl.
“I’ve done my duty for today surely. Have I not? What more do you want from me. I’m done parading myself like a witless idiot. I need a walk and some air.” She offers curtly. Slipping out the front door.
Slamming it shut behind her before her mothers next shrill words pierce her ears. No doubt cursing her daughter for daring to have such an insulting commodity as a functioning brain.
She walks quick. Off up the front drive. Let’s the sting of cold rip at her eyes and her cheeks. Taking deep dragging breaths. It feels like she’d swallowed an entire ream of dressmakers pins. Stabbing and squeezing more pain into her.
She puffs and pants and finally feels like she’s gained some breathing space. Coming into the woods near Westwell and shuts her eyes and lets the sounds soothe her frayed self.
The wood pigeons. A cuckoo’s call. The hiss of leaves scratching against their branches in the wind. High above. The crunch of her boots on twigs and frosted leaves mushed underfoot.
The tactile scratch of her gloves hands scraping across the rough bark of trees around her. She leans back against one of them. Looks up at it’s dead brown leaves. Elm tree.
It’s nice to let something sturdy take her weight for once. She doesn’t often have that luxury.
She regains control of her senses. Of her ragged breath and thumping heart. The cold wind wraps around her snugly. Letting her envelope herself in this silence. Breath escapes silver and wispy from her lips.
A twig snaps far off in the tree’s-
Her eyes shoot open. Scanning all around. Sickly bile rising to the back of her throat. She steps away from the elm tree and lets her eyes flicker all around the woodland. Over the ash brown of the trees and the brush of golden leaves mingled with crystals of frost on the ground.
She turns her head around and then loses her breath. Except this time, it is not of her own making.
There is a dark shape looming out of the trees. A big shape. A monstrous shape. A big meaty tangle of black-grey smudged fur. Pointed ears, a long snout. Eyes standing stark. Eyes that are more golden than a tuscan sun.
A wolf.
She watches as this beast assesses her from afar. Gently picking its paws over the foliage and mess of brittle twigs and mud on the wood floor. It’s paws were as big as dinner plates. It’s not baring it’s teeth at her. She imagines those teeth are bigger and sharper than most silver daggers or pocket knives.
It’s ears are swivelled in her direction. Eyes fixed on her too.
She stays still. Frozen to the spot she’s rooted too. Trying not to tremble in fear as tears, hot and molten silver, fill stinging at her eyes. She shivers with the ache of staying so still. Not daring to move one muscle.
This is the beast that’s been attacking the soused farmhands. The one that’s been hunting for blood. She doesn’t quite appreciate how much of a true statement that is.
When it’s about a foot away from her- it suddenly stops. Raises its lowered head. She sees the long line of its shaggy neck. Fur shining the shade of matte coal. It regards her with casual concern. It’s not growling. Or stalking her every move.
She stops holding such tension in her body. She’s used to the wolf hounds they have on the farm. Shaggy slobbering lumbering dogs who go insane for the dried liver, and fresh bones cook saves for them when she had a haunch of pork.
She remembers how their dogs go apoplectic for them. Gnawing at the fresh gummy blood and meat on those bones. She swallows at the not so appropriate visual of bloodied bones, right at this second. When she could have her throat ripped open by this savage wolf.
She watches as it comes closer by two steps from those big lethal paws. Then it sits.
She swallows. The way she knows canines. Sitting is not a sign of a rabid beast baying for blood.
“You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” Lord Ren’s voice ricochets through her head. Like a distant echo. Smoke on the air. Did she imagine it, or recall it?
What else was it he had said? She can vaguely recall. “Wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them.”
So she does the only thing she can think of. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe she’s putting herself in greater danger? But the wolf’s tranquility makes her brave.
She makes herself look less like a threat. Slowly sinks to a crouch, joining it. Her knees stab into the frosty ground as she sinks down. Coming eye to eye with the creature.
So close now she can see the various flecks of honey in its eyes. Can see every strand of fur where they stand rigid from its sleekly shaggy coat.
She rests fully on her bent knees. Damning her dress. Dancing the wet frost and mud bleeding into her dress. She tilts her slightly head at the wolf.
“Where did you come from then?” She asks it. Seeing the huge ears turn to her.
Where she’s crouched, it’s almost taller than her, sat down. On all fours it would have come up well past her hip she’d imagine. It was no stretch to perceive how this could be the creature that’s been attacking men around these parts of late. It is a brutely sized beast.
Meaty shoulders, a slim body, long strong legs and a powerful tail. Immense and strong.
“I know I should most likely be scared of a creature like you.... But you don’t seem very dangerous, to me... I’m sure if you were hungry enough to kill me you would’ve done so by now.” She counters to it.
It tilts his head and licks its chops. Flashes her the ivory sabres that it had for teeth. She looks down to it’s intimidating big paws. The claws almost bigger than her fingers. Another flurry of fear shivers through her.
“Are you the only one of your kind? You must be lonely. Are there any more of you hereabouts?...” She seeks. Wobbly voice straightening out when she unknots her tongue.
The wolf just sits. And watches her. Doesn’t move. Just looks.
Those gold eyes harrowing in their ferocity. She feels like they burn her. Yet. Why does she feel like she’s seen those buttery-honey eyes once or twice before-
She must be mad. They should call the doctor to come take her away to the nearest mental institution and pin her into a straight jacket. Here she is sat talking to a wolf.
“I know better than any what being lonely is like I suppose...” She adds softly.
Maybe she is insane. She has the oddest inclination- she reaches up. But not before stopping to take her gloves off. She leaves them crumpled in her lap. And extends her hand towards the beast.
She somehow already knows it won’t harm her.
It still sits there. Even as she gets her fingers to stroke the side of its neck. Fur so soft and thick under her palm. Silky smooth. She’d never felt a pelt this smooth.
It makes a deep appreciative growl in the back of its throat at being petted. A deep husking rumbling noise. A chuff of breath.
A sudden noise makes her shrink back. The wolf sharply turns its head. She looks too. A horse and rider galloping through the far lane, off in the woods
By the time she twists back, the wolf is gone. Sprinting off through the trees. Far to the horizon.
A black blur in the woods. And she is alone once more.
~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~
#kylo ren#Kylo ren x oc#vampire!kylo#vampire kylo au#very wolves and doves#adam driver#Lord Ren vibes 🐺#Draegan vibes 🥀#Iris vibes 🕊#vampirelovestory#vampire#demon#ao3 fanfic#angst#lovestory#violence#gore#blood#mentions of death#lust
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31 Days of Wayhaven, Day 15
Prompt: Feral
Rating: PG-13 for blood, brief description of violence
Words: 1,373
Characters: Cameron Buchanan/Penelope Fisher, established relationship
Summary: Cam and Penny’s date gets crashed by Trappers. Penny is not having any of it.
Note: Happens a little before the events of Day 9. Scottish Gaelic translation - mo leannan: my lover, my sweetheart. mo chridhe: my heart
For the @31daysofwayhaven event
Penelope hated Trappers with a vengeance. After the whole thing with Unit Bravo’s encounter with them, the Agency had given all units the go-ahead to use any force necessary when dealing with them, and had clarified that if the situation called for it, that meant using deadly force.
This was definitely one of those situations.
Unit Charlie - Delta, Unit Delta, now - hadn’t even been on a mission, in fact, they’d been told to cool their heels after the last one they’d been on had ended up in near-disaster. With Winona under a mandatory yet temporary expulsion and the rest of them grounded, they’d been at least given leave to stay outside of Agency Facilities, so long as they didn’t cause any trouble.
Technically, they weren’t the ones to cause trouble. She and Cam had actually been on a date when they’d been ambushed, a group of five Trappers taking them down with the same sort of shock sticks they’d used on Unit Bravo. She and Cam had tried to fight back, but they’d kept prodding them with it until both of them had been knocked to their knees. Both of them had locked eyes with the other, silently agreeing to a tactic that they’d practiced over the years: she would roll sharply to the side to distract, then he would sweep out with his foot to take down. For the most part, it worked, the first of the Trappers falling to the pavement with a sick crunch as the back of his head met asphalt. Unfortunately, both of them had been injured in the initial ambush and not as fast as they would have been, causing the four others to react and hit them again with the electric prods.
Yet the Trappers made one fatal mistake: they thought that Cam had been the bigger threat of the two and had gone to town on him. His pained yells and the scent of charred flesh had made Penny see red.
Later, when they were reporting the event to their Agency superiors, Penny would say that she didn’t quite remember much of the fight after that. All she could recall was the fact that she had shifted, an inhuman howl tearing through her throat and leaving her hoarse later when she had shifted back to her human form. Penny had always been in her own head whenever she shifted, but she had heard stories of others, driven mad by bloodlust, who had described the experience as if they were watching a scene happen in front of their eyes, completely apart from what was going on.
It was odd: she remembered brief glimpses of the fight, her silver fur stained red with blood, the scent filling her nostrils and the taste lingering on her tongue. She dimly remembered one of them pleading for mercy, but she had shown him none, tearing him apart with such violence that it made her sick to her stomach to remember, bile rising in her throat as she finished her report. The next thing she clearly remembered was changing back to her human form, naked, covered in blood, and collapsing next to Cam’s unmoving body. He was still breathing, and luckily his phone was undamaged save for a large crack on the glass, so she’d quickly called the Agency to bring a medic and a cleanup crew to their location before any witnesses wandered by.
Report - interrogation, more like, especially when one of the agents who had been assigned to ask her questions about the incident was one she recognized as being brought in for the tough, hard to read suspects - over, Penny was given leave to go back to her room. She quickly passed the door and gave a brief knock on Cam’s instead, waiting less than a heartbeat before slipping inside.
The room was dark and cool, but she could see the shape of Cam in his bed. “Penny?” he asked, his voice thick and groggy with the painkillers Elidor had given him. Luckily, his healing abilities had kicked in and he’d been given a good recovery prognosis, though Elidor had warned him that he’d be sore in the morning.
“I’m here.” She was lucky that she’d been given permission to shower and change into her own clothes someone had grabbed from her room for her, or else she would have been a mess while being questioned and covered head to toe in drying, tacky blood. Luckily, the Agency stocked their showers with products meant to wash blood away so the vampires and other beings who were tempted by the scent were left undisturbed. Had her pale hair been stained with it, she would have been tempted to take scissors to her waist length tresses to remove the evidence of her frenzied rage. “How are you feeling?”
He sighed and the sheets rustled as he moved. “Sore, tired. How are you?”
“Tired.” She kept sick to her stomach and repulsed locked behind her teeth.
He patted the empty space beside him. “There’s room for two.” He winced as he moved to give her space and she quickly slid under the bedding to lie on her side facing him.
“I was afraid,” she whispered, hands reaching for him.
Cam held onto her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “I’m here, mo leannan. I’m not going anywhere.”
She curled her hand to trace the curve of his cheek, fingers gliding over his jaw. “No, I wasn’t afraid of you dying, well, I was, but that wasn’t what I meant.” She looked away. “I was afraid that you wouldn’t want me after.”
“Penny…”
“I was a monster, Cam. The things I did…” She took a shuddering breath. “I wasn’t in control of myself, I was feral, ripping those people into shreds because they hurt you.”
“Then the fault of that lies on me, not you. Had I not allowed them to get in as many hits as they had, you wouldn’t have had reason to fight the way you did.”
Her eyes snapped open and she shook her head. “No. Don’t blame yourself for what happened. They thought that we were easy targets and…”
Cam reached out and pressed his forehead against hers. “If I’m not allowed to blame myself, you aren’t allowed to blame yourself either. Those Trappers were after supernaturals, and they found them. What happened to them was a risk that they took, and luckily for us, it ended the way it did.” It didn’t take much to lean in to brush a soft kiss across her lips, and even though his body protested, he pulled her closer still until their bodies were touching. “You’re no monster, mo chridhe, and don’t ever think that I wouldn’t want you.”
There was such a swell of emotions in her chest, but she didn’t know how to express them. “Get some rest,” she said instead, pausing long enough to give him a lingering kiss, her fingers sifting through his hair. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
He grinned against her lips. “You only say that because I have a private bath with plenty of hot water to spare.” Cam laughed as she softly smacked him in the shoulder.
“It’s a perk,” she mumbled, moving so she could rest her head on his shoulder, her leg curving over his and her arm draping over his chest. “If you’re feeling better tomorrow, I may even share the hot water with you.”
Cam pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together over his heart. “Best incentive to get better if I’ve ever heard one.” He gave their joined hands a squeeze. “Sleep. I’ll keep the nightmares at bay.”
Penny snuggled closer, tipping her head to press her lips against his collarbone. After being partners for so many years, Cam knew that she had a tendency to have nightmares after particularly violent missions, even ones that didn’t end with casualties. That he would worry for her well-being, even as he recovered from his own injuries, made her love him all the more.
She fell asleep in his arms, and for the first time in a long time, slept completely free of nightmares.
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Turn left for one of my favorites, "and counting": what if Wolffe manages to save Plo, but his injuries cause him to lose contact (permanently or temporarily) with the Force?
Ah, well now we’re in a different story altogether. Be warned, it may not be a kinder one.
count the cost
Wolffe lives. It is the worst thing that has ever happened to him.
Plo’s ship loses an engine to the first shot and veers off course. The second strikes near the cockpit and fire spreads forward; then the ship carves a line through a building and it doesn’t really matter what was burning first because everything is burning, ship, Jedi, the tears running down Wolffe’s face, the sudden silent spot in the back of his mind that had been both fear and forgiveness a moment before. On the ground, tucked away in the command center, Wolffe watches the only person he has ever known how to love die because good soldiers follow orders and the Jedi were ordered to die for the Republic.
But Wolffe is more than just a good soldier; he is a man as well, and he learned to be a man not only from the Cuy’val Dar but from Plo as well, and perhaps Plo has been the greater influence. Good soldiers follow orders; good men follow their hearts, and Wolffe’s heart cannot bear to walk away from its partner without knowing for certain that spark has extinguished. He follows the smoke to the crash site, into the canyons far beneath the city, and the trail of debris leads him to the remnants of a ship that had been Plo’s pride, still smouldering.
This is what changes: Plo is alive. He is a burnt husk of a man, raw and weeping and insensate with pain, but he is alive. He is missing all of one leg and three-quarters of the other, and his arms are mangled and charred from the fire, and his mask has fused to his face, and if he could speak over the agony perhaps he would have had something to say about the decision that lies before Wolffe. Perhaps if Wolffe were more of a Mando, he would have made a different choice.
But Wolffe is a man who is looking at the tattered remains of his heart, and he has lived his 13 years a protector to all that he loves, and he can only see that Plo Koon, his beloved first and all else second, needs protection and shelter, so that is what he seeks.
-
Wolffe steals an entire pharmaceuticals cabinet from medical and loads it into the ship he has chosen for the journey to safety. He takes the Dorin gas cylinders as well, and every spare filter he can get his hands on, though he has no idea how to change a filter on a mask that won’t come off. He takes food and water and a hermetically-sealing tent, and he’s almost done pilfering the supply of disinfectant when he’s caught and has to get them both off-world in a hurry. They are in hyperspace on a direct route to Dorin before Wolffe realizes what he has been missing:
Plo is gone.
Plo has been a constant presence in Wolffe’s mind for years now. They have been bonded to one another by the Force, and even though Wolffe is as near Force-blind as can be, he knows what Plo’s presence feels like, however drugged, unconscious, asleep, even comatose. He is not silent. He is missing.
He rushes to the back where Plo is laid out on a table, strapped down with pain medication dripping into his veins. The monitors say he lives. The harsh death-rattle of his breathing says he lives, but still Wolffe cannot bring himself to believe. He steps forward, desperate, lays a finger to Plo’s neck, and everything erupts in red-white-nothing.
-
When Wolffe wakes again he is on the floor of the bay, his blacks soaked through in sweat and his throat hoarse from screaming. Every one of his muscles is sore, and it does not feel like punishment enough for what he has done.
Plo lives, and his world is fire and pain. He is blind, and deaf, and all that is left to him is his Kel Dor telepathy. The Force has abandoned him to his fate. He can only experience the world through another’s eyes, and he cannot bear to be touched. He has been saved only to be condemned, and cruelty of cruelties, Wolffe was judge and jury.
The stars streak by in the cockpit viewport, and Wolffe curls up in the pilot’s seat - the seat that should be Plo’s by right - and cries. He has never felt so alone.
-
The Kel Dor are horrified when they see what has become of Plo. Fire has always been something of a foreign entity to them; an intellectual danger, not a visceral one. There are no burn wards on Dorin. They offer everything they can anyway. Swathed in bandages and sunk under by the constant drip of sedative and narcotics, Plo looks nothing like his former self. He has had three surgeries in three days, and between them he is suspended in bacta so what little of his skin survived the burning can regrow for harvest and grafting. All the while, he screams at a volume so loud the healers have to block him from their minds when they work on him lest they be injured as well.
Wolffe sleeps by the tank in his sealed suit. If he could only touch Plo, if he could only reach him, let him know someone is with him - but contact is an infection risk, and the healers won’t allow him to self-flagellate. The closest he can get now is in the brief moments when Plo is being transferred in or out of bacta, and even then he is watched like a shriek-hawk so he can’t harm either of them, even if perhaps he already is.
The healers know - and Wolffe does as well - that Plo is unlikely to survive. Not with almost all of his body charred, not with his Force sense ripped away, not trapped in an unending hell of agonizing moments strung together between doses of medication. The healers know also that Wolffe is the only person left in the galaxy who might have any right to speak for Plo now that the Jedi have been purged from existence, and Wolffe has lost too much to be able to see that letting go could be the kindest thing to do. He has never imagined continuing in a world without Plo in it.
-
The thing he has not considered: he may not have to.
-
It is several months since the Order and the Order’s fall, and word has trickled out of a man with a wolf’s face and a man who should have died, and if Wolffe had anything left in him he would have thought about it, he would have known to keep moving and keep quiet, but there’s only room in him for his fractured soul and everything it takes to keep him alive. He knows now he was chasing a fool’s dream. Plo burns with infection now, and the grafts are failing. He still hasn’t awoken.
It won’t matter; the Empire’s newest attack dog is on its way. There is word of this too: a monster in black with breaths like a machine and a blade of crimson that trails violent death in its wake.
Wolffe sits in front of Plo’s tank, Plo’s saber in hand. He’d retrieved it from the wreckage, and these many weeks it has rested on Wolffe’s hip. A lightsaber is its master’s life, and for how poorly he has taken care of Plo, he will not allow himself to neglect this aspect of his duty as well. The metal thrums with life, a living warmth sinking into his hand as he examines it. This saber was Plo’s first, painstakingly repaired and brought out of retirement after its destruction early in his training, and the one that Wolffe learned to fight with. He imagines its hatred, its resentment of him for his failure, and accepts it as his due. But he thinks also that however much it hates him, it still loves Plo, and to that end, it will help him make this stand.
Plo deserves better than to die violently at the hands of a traitor.
The lights flicker and dim, and all that is left is the glow of the tank, and in front of it, Wolffe is silhouetted in the pale blue light. There is the screech of distorting metal, and boot-falls on steel, and Darth Vader is there.
Wolffe rises to meet him. For you, my beloved, he thinks, and thumbs the ignition.
#plo koon#commander wolffe#promptfic#swcw#ploffe#plowolffe#turn left#Anonymous#keep 'em coming#this isn't my fault#i was dared
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“Are you testing me?" For whoever strikes your fancy!
I chose to go with my dear albino fire mage, shey, and varian! (Post WoD and Pre Legion because I'm still emotionally compromised from all that thank you.) Thank you so much for sending me the prompt! 💖
Shey grumbled, the fire that she summoned swirling around them in a protective wall sending wild shadows as she pressed her back against one of the few people she trusted in all of Azeroth. She hadn’t brought her staff for their little excursion, thinking it unnecessary for a horse ride through the forests of Elwynn.
It had been her king’s idea, Varian claimed they had been apart too long between her work with ending the war on Draenor and his managing things back home, they both needed, deserved, a break. A moment of peace to just step away for a little while and enjoy some time alone.
But the day had other plans for them it seemed as she allowed the flames to die out slightly to take a shot at a nearby creature as the corrupted beasts that had jumped them stalked the perimeter. The shot had missed but it still made them back off a bit as she strengthened the flames once more, sweat beading at her brow.
“Any ideas?” She heard Varian growl out as he swung Shalamayne at one creature that had forced its way through the barrier, striking down the smoldering thing before it made it more than a step in.
“A few.” She shot back, “but nothing helpful while I keep this up.” She watched one of the creatures circle around, clambering over the fallen horse that they had ridden out. “You?”
“Nothing you’ll like.”
She shot him a look.
“Lower the barrier and cover me. I should be able to distract them while you-”
“Distract?!” Shey kept most of her focus on the spell that kept the monsters at bay as she turned on her lover, “You’ll get yourself killed if you try to take them on yourself.”
“Wasn’t that your plan? To try and take them all out in one blast?”
She grumbled, but couldn’t say that hadn’t been one of the plans that had crossed her mind.
“Then let me get their attention, gather them all in one spot.” He grinned proud and almost feral, a look she hadn’t seen in quite some time.
She shook her head, “Varian that’s not.” She sighed, “No. that’s a terrible idea.”
The flames flickered, dying down slowly and causing the pair to start, readying themselves as the spell weakened.
“It’ll work.” He stated as he readied himself, holding his blade before him and preparing to charge. “Trust me.”
Shey grumbled as she gave up on the failing spell, letting the shield fall as she gathered her mana, muttering as her king charged through the fading flames with a shout, cutting into the nearest creature and getting the attention of the rest before the first had even hit the ground.
"I swear you're testing me." She ground out as she started reciting the words for the spell she had in mind. Normally it was too long to use when she fought alone or without a trustworthy shield, and while she trusted Varian with her life, each attack he barely parried or dodged set her on edge nearly making her mess up the pronunciation of the words.
She wasn’t the type that used long-winded spells or much less ones that actually required her to speak the words to cast, but to make sure she didn’t screw up and hurt him she had to be careful, be perfect, be something she hadn’t had to be since studying under her masters on Dalaran.
She once more wished she had brought a weapon of some sort.
One word left of the spell and she held it back, waiting for an opening. Watching as Varian slashed at one beast and kicked at another. He had blood splashed across the leather armor he had opted to wear for their ride, the color marking it as having come from the creatures and not from the man himself. Even still the were cuts on his face and tears on his clothes.
Even with all this and the voice in the back of her head screaming at her that she should be in the thick of it as well she held back, waiting.
Waiting.
He swung in an arc, slicing a creature in half and squatting down to roll out of the way as another tried to catch him unaware. As soon as he had started to roll to the side Shey spoke the last word, releasing the spell on the creatures.
A wave of superheated air shot forward towards the mass of creatures that had already started after Varian. The first to be hit hadn’t even sensed the danger as it charged forward only to cough out a deluge of flames and collapse as it burned from inside out.
As the rest started to realize what had happened to the first it was already too late as they were hit by the spell and fell one by one in similar ways, the last falling inches away from Varian as he sat in the grass, blade held before him a look of surprise on his face as Shey hurried over to his side.
“That was…” He huffed and made a face, obviously impressed but a bit disturbed by the sight.
Shey knelt in the grass grabbing his face and kissing him hard before checking his injuries. Nothing major, thank the Light, but still. “You idiot.” She shot at him as soon as she knew he wasn’t in any more danger. “That was too reckless. What if you-” She hugged him tightly, practically growling in annoyance.
He returned the embrace, “I knew it would be fine, you were there to keep me safe.”
She leaned back, shooting him a look. “You aren’t supposed to make that difficult for me.” Her expression softened as he chuckled and leaned forward to kiss her softly before pushing himself to his feet and surveying the destruction.
Reaching down to help her to her feet he looked over the charred corpses of their now fallen attackers, letting out a heavy sigh at the sight of their fallen mount. “We should head back, it’s a long walk.”
“I can open a portal, I’m not that exhausted.”
He gave her a loving smile and shook his head.
“Don’t want to lose the chance for a little more time free from the throne?” She said as she stepped up to his side.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, “Or some time alone with you.”
She hummed, and returned the gesture, leaning on him as they started their long walk home.
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