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marlasomething · 11 months

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The Street Where You Live (Bugborg Week - June 16)

Summary: Nebula is tired of Mantis being an useless student, so she decided that, instead, is going to waster her time with hear with small talk…apparently, none of them are good at speaking in a chill manner.

Relationships: Nebula/Mantis

A/N: Written for day 5 of @bugborgweek2023

Prompt: Based on a song

Word count: 920

CW: parental abuse, childhood trauma, mentions of death

Also on AO3!

Nebula didn’t understand why on Earth she had said yes to this job offer. Yes; she wanted to be able to leave home as soon as possible, and it wasn’t as if she had many talents apart from physical defence and formal etiquette (things that happen when your father is a mafia boss), but she had never been good with nice people of around her age…

Still, there she was, in front of a smiling girl a couple of years younger than herself, sitting in the most uncomfortable position imaginable while wearing green raggedy clothes. Between her posture and the outfit…she got why people called her Mantis. Also, she wished she could be squashed as easy as the insect, since this was already their fourth session and she couldn’t even choose the proper spoon for soup.

Still, she actually felt pity for the girl; all her siblings had died either under mysterious circumstances after having tried to face their father or in the line of duty while trying to make him proud. Mantis’ only reason to still be alive was that the 1920s weren’t exactly a progressive time, and his father wouldn’t allow a girl to either become part of the Army or the Police Forces, nor give her enough free space to get a formed opinion that would make her want to rebel against him.

Nebula hated his father; he was abusive and there was barely anything good to be said about him even outside of how he treated his multiple suspiciously adopted children, but, at least, he valued them having a mind of their own and didn’t care about their gender or interests under the sheets , as he called them.

“Ok, we are getting nowhere and after this I have to go and try to stole a prisoner from my sister so my father actually realised I am the best out of the two of us. Maybe I will kill him, just in case he decides to speak well of Gamora. He won’t be the first idiot falling for her…wonder why” she reflected out loud while sitting down. “…what do you like doing?”

“What do you mean?” the younger lady was clearly perplexed by the question.

“What do you like doing? For example: I like fighting and not having useless conversations”.

“This is a useless conversation, and that is not something you do. That is something you avoid doing…wait, do you only like the stuff your father thought you?”

Nebula scoffed.

“As if you were any different, Miss Perfect Mantis Planet” Mantis lowered her eyes, and Nebula thought she had hurt her with a far too brutal honesty. Then, before she could even form an educated opinion whereas that made her feel good or bad, the other young woman kneeled on the floor and dismantled a couple of wooden panels, to show a complete painting set, showing drawings of faraway lands.

“When I was little, my dad was an ambassador and we travelled a lot . I wish I could travel again…I really don’t care where, though I’ve heard Seville in Spain is really nice and hot; I am tired of London’s clouds. I also draw; feelings, mostly. I just…put the colours where the feelings would go. Of people, or for people. I like to make people feel things ; like I make you be frustrated”.

This shouldn’t have been enough for Nebula to open her absolutely hardened heart but, here was the thing: she was so unused to people being honest without being scared of her, or purposely cruel to her, that the difference was enough for her to do something that would commonly be absolutely out of character for her.

“Yeah, you are pretty good at this…I…I might like when…when I got people that also want my classes, but the self-defence ones, the crap that is actually fun and not only for appearances. Especially when it is when actual kids, not like you, I…think I kind of like kids”.

“I do too, but at a distance. Except for the girl of my bodyguard. She is really kind, and strong. Maybe you would get along. See? They are here” she pointed at a painting of a very muscular man with a woman and child, not small by any measures either. It was painting in warm, peaceful colours.

“Wait, why is it in this colours? Your bodyguard is pretty infamous for his violent temper and this, this brings me…”

“…peace, I know. Because that is who he really is, but don’t get it mistaken: there is also some aggressiveness painted into it. The only reason you don’t get it is because it is already too deep within you, but, don’t worry. I think your palette wouldn’t be as violent as you think either. Maybe…yes, a lot of blue”.

“A lot of blue for the murderous ginger? Yeah, sure”.

“Yes, sure . Now, let’s talk illegal, it’s always fun” she sat somehow in an even more uncomfortable position and, holding her head in between her hands, asked “what was your favourite place to go drink while pretending to be within legal age? I need names”.

Nebula contained a cackle and answered. Perhaps, this class would be a bit longer than usual.

Back on the street, Nebula observed the panel with the name of the street in which the Planet Household was situated “Gunn Street”.

She let a sight scape. She would be walking around said street much more from that moment on.

#bugborg week 2023 #bugbord week #bugborg #mantis #nebula #mantis x nebula #guardians of the galaxy #mcu #marvel #fanfic #writing

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fandom-puff · 3 years

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Family, Duty, Honour (p2)

Pairing: Tyrion Lannister x reader

Warnings: pregnancy/pregnancy symptoms including vomiting, prejudice towards dwarfism (discussion as to whether Tyrion and YN’s child will inherit his dwarfism; not a widely accepted condition in Westeros), childbirth, details of the death of Joanna Lannister (dying in childbirth/traumatic birth), reference to miscarriage

(Part 1)

Gif creds to owner

“Pardon me, Milord,”

Both Tywin and Tyrion turned around to see a young girl, one of your handmaidens, hurrying towards them, remembering a clumsy curtsey in her haste.

“Speak,” Lord Tywin said sternly, and the girl paled briefly before turning instead to his son.

“It’s Lady YN,” she said, and Tyrion instantly stood up straighter, even more on edge. “She’s… sick, my Lord. Can’t keep anything in her stomach, and just now she fainted,”

“Where is she?” Tyrion asked urgently.

“Her bedchamber, Milord. We got a squire to help her back into bed,”

As Tyrion made to hurry after the girl, Tywin’s hand rested firmly on his shoulder. “I will send the maester. He will prove whether or not you have done your duty to this family,”

***

“YN, my dear, can you hear me?”

Slowly, your heavy eyelids slid open, and you turned your head to the source of the noise. Smiling weakly, you squeezed your husband of two month’s hand.

“Are you alright, my lady wife,” he asked you gently, brushing his lips over your knuckles.

“I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy. Must have stood up too quickly,” you said gently, but you did not soothe Tyrion’s worry.

“Your handmaiden said you’ve been ill?” He prompted, and your cheeks heated slightly.

“It’s probably just… my women’s troubles,” you said quietly, still unused to talking about such delicate matters with anyone other than an old septa.

“Or lack thereof, lady Lannister?” The maester spoke up from the end of your bed and you frowned, about to say there really was no need for all this fuss. “The maids say your linen has been clean since your wedding night,”

Clean linen.

Those two words instantly reminded you of when Cousin Cat came to stay at Riverrun with her brooding husband. She had stayed for over a month, and halfway through her stay, you heard gossip of clean linen as you wandered the corridors of your home. Later on that year, she had birthed another child for Ned Stark.

“Does that mean…” you began.

The wisened maester smiled at your bewilderment. “Potentially. If my Lord and Lady are agreeable, I would like to examine lady Lannister to be certain,”

Tyrion smiled gently and kissed your hand once more. “I will give you some privacy, my dear,” he said, and once you nodded, he left the room to bang on the door to his father’s office.

***

“Have you put a babe in her belly?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes at his father’s callousness. “She is being examined as we speak,”

“Good,” Tywin said, hardly looking up from his paperwork. “You’d best hope she is with child and not ill. There aren’t many noble families willing to pawn off a daughter to us,” Tywin sighed and gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit,” he said. “You clearly have something more to say,”

Tyrion was silent for a moment. “I do not want to lose her. She is young. Too young for… this,”

“She is only a few years younger than you. And besides, that didn’t stop you consummating the marriage, did it?”

If anything went on in Casterly rock, Tywin Lannister certainly knew about it within a day.

“No, it didn’t,” Tyrion said. You were nineteen after all, and you had consummated your marriage out of duty to your families.

The night-time visits, on the other hand…

“I’m scared that a baby will… that it will kill her,” Tyrion blurted out, and he could have sworn he saw some semblance of sympathy flash through his father’s eyes. “I am scared that my child will be too much like me. That it will rip her in two and kill her. That it won’t even live in her womb. That it will suffer. That… that she will suffer,”

Tywin stared long and hard at his youngest son, his bastard in all but name as far as he was concerned and sighed. “So am I,” was all he said, before gesturing to the door. And as he left the office, Tyrion knew that Tywin did not care for your suffering, for his suffering, or even for the child’s suffering. He cared only that his legacy remained.

***

Casterly Rock was alive with gossip.

No matter which corridor you walked down, people would stare, both openly and discretely at your belly, which barely showed thanks to the layers you wore (Tyrion insisted you wrapped up warm whenever you walked through the gardens, lest you catch a chill). You could not go a day without the maester inquiring about your general health, and when your swollen ankles were brought to your husband’s attention, he had the cobblers fashion you a pair of comfortable, yet fashionable flat shoes.

***

You were laying in your husband’s bed one night on the sixth moon of your pregnancy, a hand resting on your bump. “Leave the books, husband, and come to bed. I need you to tell your child to stop kicking me so we can all go to sleep. He seems to only listen to you,” Tyrion looked up from his books and sighed, shutting them over and coming to bed, his hand resting over yours. “You’ve gained a sudden interest in midwifery, I see,” you teased, but when he did not smile at your jest, you frowned. “What’s bothering you, husband?” You said gently.

“I…” Tyrion fumbled for the words, his eyes firmly on your belly. “I am frightened, YN,” he said quietly. “That the baby will… will have… will be a little too much like me.”

Of course. You cursed yourself for not even thinking that this could be plaguing your husband. You clasped Tyrion’s hand in yours. “Tyrion… even if the baby is born a dwarf, we will not treat him the way your father treated you,” you insisted, drawing small circles on the back of his hands.

“But what if it kills you like I killed my mother,” your heart ached for him, and you tipped his chin up to face you.

“Then you must promise me to love this child regardless,”

Tyrion’s heart ached. Neither of you had wanted this marriage, yet in the few short months you had been wed he had become fond of you, affectionate. He wanted to protect you from the horrors of a kingdom still reeling from the Rebellion that saw the end of the Mad King. He wanted to see you happy and comfortable and healthy. He would spend all of the gold in Casterly Rock to ensure your safety, despite the fact that your marriage was merely one of strategy arranged by his father and your uncle. You were still his wife, the most precious thing in his life.

But over the past nine months, he could do nothing to alleviate your discomfort. He could only hold back your hair and rub your back as you vomited, the only thing you could seemingly keep in your stomach was dried bread. When you could manage dining anywhere but your chambers, he ordered for the things that turned your stomach to be kept well away. When your legs and feet ached, he could only rub them in hopes of soothing the throbbing. When the baby kicked like mad at night, he rubbed your swollen belly so that you could rest, if only for a few moments at a time.

He watched as the veritable mountain that was your bump sapped you of your energy, and he knew there was nothing he could do to restore it.

And when the time came for you to birth the child, he knew his heart would ache even more as you laboured for hours in agony, with him unable to do anything to take the pain away.

***

You went into labour at night, your sharp gasp of pain as you heaved yourself out of bed waking your husband.

“My dear, are you alright?” He asked urgently, not groggy despite the fact he had been snoring like a boar just thirty seconds prior. As he lit a candle, he saw you grasping onto one of the bedposts, lips pressed together, suppressing your groan. “I will be back in a moment, YN, okay? I’m going to get help,”

“Hurry,”

True to his word, Tyrion returned a few moments later with a few sleepy maids and a septa, who laid fresh linen over the bed and began to send for boiling water. The maester was hot on their heels, scrambling to loop his chains over his neck, before shooing Tyrion and the maids out of the room.

Your groans and cries of pain permeated the walls of your bedchamber and down the hallways of Casterly Rock, and by sunrise, coins were being exchanged on the outcome of your labour. The smallfolk crowded near the walls of the castle, eager to call out prayers in hopes that the rich old lions felt generous after the birth.

Tyrion paced just outside of the room you were in, and every time a maid went in with fresh, boiled water and clean linen or came out with bloodstained cloths and empty bowls, he asked urgently how you were doing, but no one gave him an answer.

The septa left the birthing room, walking straight past the father of your child to… the grandfather. They talked in quick, hushed voices, that could not be heard over your pained cries, but Tyrion caught the two of them looking over their shoulder at him several times.

As the septa went back into the birthing room, Tywin walked over to Tyrion. He seemed to be in no apparent rush, his steps stately. Tyrion resisted the urge to scream at his father, to curse him for tormenting him while you laboured.

“When you were brought into the world,” he began, voice level and low, so Tyrion had to strain to hear what he was saying. “You were born, for lack of a better term, arse first. But then your shoulders got stuck inside the womb, and when you finally emerged, you dragged half of your mother’s womb out with you,”

Both men paled. Not only were they weak stomached when it came to the secretive world of a birthing chamber, but Tywin was plagued with memories from twenty or so years before, and Tyrion was plagued with guilt for killing his mother when he was a newborn, and fear that his child would do the same to you.

Tywin continued. “But the Septa has reported that the child is being born head first, as it should,” Tyrion nodded slowly. Tywin was about to continue when the door opened again.

“Pardon, Milords,” a maid carrying an armful of bloodied linen said. “Lady YN has asked for Lord Tyrion to… support her. The maester has permitted it, so long as Milord stays at the top end of the bed,”

Tyrion was frozen for a moment.

“Go,” Tywin said lowly, giving his son a small shove. “Your lady wife needs you now,”

Tyrion looked over his shoulder, and he was sure he could see a small glimmer of… sympathy in his father’s eye. Kindness even. And it was this look, paired with the shift in the way you screamed that had him running into the birthing chamber.

“Tyrion!” You sobbed, one hand reaching for him, the other reaching above you to grasp at the headboard. One of your trusted hand maids, who you had brought with you from Riverrun was at your other side, pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Tyrion hurried to your other side, just in time for the maester to tell you to push, and the child was at last parted with your body.

All was silent for a tense few moments, until sharp cries filled the room. You could hear the cheering from the corridors.

“A boy, my lady,” the maester called out, and you sobbed for joy. “A healthy son. A little on the delicate side-”

“Is he-”

“No. He is not like you, my Lord. I delivered you and your siblings, and your son is exactly the size your brother was when he was born,”

“Can I hold him?” You whispered, your arms reaching out.

“Of course, my lady. He is your son,”

The child was handed to you, nuzzled against the bare skin of your breasts, his little cries soon petering out to soft snuffles of sleep. The maester left to deliver the good news to the Lord of Casterly Rock, but your world consisted only of Tyrion and your son.

“He’s perfect,” he said, letting out a relieved laugh. “And he’s going to tower over me when he’s a man grown,” You gave a laugh, happy tears streaming down your cheeks as you rested your head on his shoulder. Tyrion pressed his lips to your temple. “You wonderful, wonderful woman, I love you,” he murmured. “I swear to you on the old gods and the new that I will protect you and my son from all harm,”

You rubbed your son’s back gently, not wanted to disturb his sleep and you looked up to your husband. “Thank you,” you whispered. Tyrion, my Lord husband. My love,”

Tags: @sociallyawkward-princess @lazyotakujen @janelongxox @honeyofthegods @lxoxtxtxi @fullmoonshadowwrites

#tyrion lannister imagine #tyrion lannister x you #tyrion x you #Tyrion x reader #Tyrion Lannister x reader #request #2021 #family duty honor #part 2 #got #game of thrones one shot #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine

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astriefer · 3 years

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Just Let Me Breath With You

Pairing: Thomastair

Word count: 3033

Warning: CHAIN OF IRON SPOILERS, injury, blood, mentions of trauma

It all happened in a swift blink of an eye. The demon attack, the fighting, it all passed in a great swipe of Thomas's boleadoras.

The attack was surprising - not because it was an attack, but because it was close to the stronghold of London's enclave- the London institute. Demons lurked in the road, near Fleet street. A get-together at the institute was held that gray, hazy day in London. What precisely they celebrated was beyond Thomas; what mattered was that old and young Shadowhunters as one joined the battle against the horde of Achaieral demons. Their numbers were the larger he has seen ever since the Mandikhor. It didn't pass smoothly - some injured, although Thomas hadn't registered who. During the fight, Henry or Christopher threw at the demons one of their newest innovation. He noticed only a blur, a small grenade-like object, thrown close to where he was fighting one of the demons. He tried to stop the nasty-looking Achaieral demon from flying - with Thomas himself- when smoke swirled from the thrown grenade. There was a hollow thud of metal hitting something, an explosion followed afterward, and the demon disappeared. Maybe it was better not to inhale, but he was surrendered by the weird, thick smoke. He wasn't blown up from his inside out, so he considered it safe enough. As for now, the gates of the institute were behind him, hanging open to carry wounded and hurtling carriages.

Thomas's hands were sore and calloused as he rubbed them against his neck. He swayed slightly, an expression of a fool sprawled over his face. He surveyed his surroundings in bewilderment. Soon enough, worried and relieved faces gathered around him. His friends and family crowded him, mumbling altogether to make no sense at all. It felt utmost importance to note to himself not all of his friends and family truly were there. Matthew wasn't, and so was Cordelia. He heard the word "overwhelmed" in all the havoc. He didn't understand what they were talking about - surely they had been fine if they were running around the way they did.

He kept his eyes on them, trying his best to decipher what they were saying, but his gaze inevitably slipped away from them. He caught a brown blur of torn red jacket, grey pants, and tousled dark hair. That instant, the world turned down, and all left was him and this man in another corner of the institute. Even the voices surrounding him ceased to exist.

On the spur of the moment, he briskly departed from his family and friends and walked to him, barely restraining himself from storming toward him. A hand rested on his forearm - an attempt to stop him - but he shook it off without glancing at whomever it was. Sensing his intensive look, Alastair stared at him with a puzzled countenance. The short man was sitting against a wall, letting another Shadowhunter draw an iratze on his left arm. Thomas remembered Alastair charging to battle, now and in other battles they fought side by side, and relief I've washed him because he didn't seem to be wounded. By the time he reached them, It didn't matter who the other person was. The moment he captured Alastair's forearm, he broke into a run, not bothering to look at anyone as they hastily evaporated from the forecourt. Bad-mannered indeed, but Thomas was sure whoever that was would've understood urgent matter to talk with Alastair if he had known.

The tall man led the other through hurrying servants and leery eyes. Thomas almost knocked over a few people, but he did not find himself to care much more than mumble a half-hearted 'sorry'. He hadn't let go of Alastair, just loosened his grip slightly so he could slip his hand into Alastair's. His hold was firm nonetheless.

"Thomas!'" Alastair called out and caused him to turn his head over his shoulder. By the look of annoyance on his face, Thomas assumed the other man called his name a few times. Or perhaps, it was a result of being publicly dragged by Thomas for no apparent reason. Then he understood. Alastair had to run in order to follow him at this pace. For the first in entirety, Thomas cursed Alastair's shorter legs; but he quickly took it back because Alastair was, of course, the most beautiful the way he is. e slowed down his pace enough for Alastair to walk beside him, still dragging him after him. He felt a jolt of surprise Alastair didn't fight him about that, that he just let him take him to wherever he had in mind. Perhaps he was too stunned to really do anything else but stare at Thomas.

Thomas hadn't stopped to ponder over his good luck and no fuss from Alastair's side. He navigated through the maze of rooms and corridors, guiding Alastair to a casual unused guest room. He thrust the door open, let Alastair and himself enter before releasing his hand and shutting it close. He couldn't quite catch his breath.

He spun around to confront Alastair. Beautiful, he thought. The man in front of him was beautiful. Alastair - with torn clothes and dirt on his face - looked as charming as ever. In the last rays of the London sun, Alastair's eyelashes cast shadows upon his face. His cheeks seemed a bit red - was it because of Thomas or because of the previous fight? - and he chewed his lower lip. Thomas had the sudden urge to raise his hand and separate his lip from his teeth, pass his thumb on the soft mouth of Alastair Carstairs. The older man clearly tried to look expressionless, but he could see he studied him with concerned eyes. Thomas saw the question in them as well. Out of self-awareness, he looked down at his own clothes; they were rumpled and he lost his waistcoat in the fight, leaving him with trousers, a jacket, and a white shirt. All stained Ichor. He peered at Alastair, his clothes, and Alastair again. He must have looked like a corpse. Alastair, however, kept his captivating eyes on him, endearing-looking with his normal composed facade slightly off.

Alastair's stopped biting his lip and opened his mouth to talk, yet before he could voice a word, Thomas stepped closer and buried his face in the soft hair of Alastair Carstairs. He relished the feeling of Alastair close to him, of his smell and heartbeat and warmth. "You're here. You're fine."

His voice was just above a whisper, but it filled the quiet room. "I wanted to talk with you for days now." Alastair's breath hitched. He hadn't pulled away. He hadn't tried to push Thomas aside. It was Thomas who backed away from their position. Alastair tilted his head up to look at his face and gasped loudly when Thomas crushed him in a hug. He groaned in pain, and it struck him Alastair had been injured.

"You are hurt." Thomas's voice was almost offended. He loosened his grip on Alastair, whose hand came to rest protectively on his side, where his bruise must have been. Thomas recalled all of sudden he had been given an iratze. Was his wound worse than just a bruise?

"It's nothing," Alastair wheezed and took a careful breath.

Their gazes met for a long moment. Alastair didn't squirm. Thomas leaned forward leisurely, testing his boundaries. When his lips collided with Alastair's forehead, he let out a sigh against the soft skin. Alastair stood strained at first, then slowly relaxed. it had not even been a week since the sanctuary, since Belial and his schemes, since Cordelia and Matthew disappeared to Paris. Alastair was avoiding him like the plague, and Thomas couldn't blame him much. He wished he could. It hurt seeing Alastair and knowing he could not be with him the way he craved to be. He suspected Alastair would back away soon, leave him alone in this room, disappear without a second glance. Come and leave like in a dream. Like in their time in Paris.

Then, "I am glad you are okay as well."

Thomas's heart skipped a beat. Or a few. He abruptly ducked his head into Alastair's neck, close to his pulse. His body lost its tense as he devoted all his heed to the marvelous sound of Alastair's heart, beating strong and fast, addicting to Thomas's mind. Not a minute later he felt small palms pushing against him gently. He drew away begrudgingly.

His eyes were unclear, while Alastair's were shining brightly. Too brightly. He lifted his arm to touch the side of the fair hair on Thomas's head. When he lightly caressed it, Thomas winced. Letting his arm fall to his side, Alastair said, "You are hurt too. You need treatment."

Alastair dismissed his injury because he didn't want to worry Thomas and make it about him; Thomas dismissed it because he didn't want to be away from Alastair. His head was throbbing; it didn't matter. "It's nothing." he tried to enfold the small figure in his arms once again, but Alastair didn't let him. Thomas didn't try again, just silently observed Alastair. The dark man's eyes were conflicted as to if debating over himself what to do now. He sighed. "We can't, Tom. Please."

It was like a heated knife to his heart. He swallowed tightly. "I know," he forced himself to speak. "I am - I keep remembering all you are. All I love about you. Your hair," he counted and planted a kiss on his damp hair. Alastair looked at him, surprise written over all his face. "Your haughty smile, your dark colors, your eyes-" sparks of gray in a pool of black that reminded him of a starry sky. "Your lips," He closed his eyes. "your heart, so wide and loving, despite how much you try to conceal it. Your stubbornness, kindness, and selflessness. Your love for mundane movies and history and art. All of it. The feeling I can twirl around you for hours without getting a tad bit tired."

"Thomas," Alastair whispered.

"You deserve to be happy. I wish you would let me show you some of it," he continued tentatively. The man in front of him stood rigid, and it made sprouts of doubt rise in Thomas's chest.

"Thomas. No. No. We cannot. Don't act like we- as we could ever happen. Don't say those things to try and convince me we can be more than heartbreak for each other."

The knife twisted. Thomas blinked. "I am not telling this to try and win you over, Alastair," he said slowly. "I am telling you this because you deserve to know. Because I want you to know how much you mean to me," he inhaled, feeling a bit lightheaded, and went on. "With my friends, I always hide this part of me. The part you take in my life, in my heart. I can be all I am with you. You understand me so easily, that it takes my breath away. I- I am not as good at words as James is. I am not as wild or charming as Matthew. I am not as talented as Kit. I am me, and with you, I feel it's enough."

"Tom, it always has been enough."

Thomas sucked in a breath. How could he say this and expect Thomas to keep his face straight and his heart in control? He tried to push Thomas away but didn't let him think less of himself. He didn't let himself what he deserved, what they both did, because he believed they would both end up hurt. "I know so many things are - complicated," Alastair snorted at that. "But right now, everything is lucid, with you here."

He gazed deeply into those dark eyes. They held depths inside them he wanted to learn off by heart. Depths he wished to explore but could not reach.

Alastair shook his head and stubbornly kept his gaze at his dusted shoes. "You think we have reason by our side, but all we have is the burning yearning and stolen time." He knew if he let himself fall this time, he could not stand back. He would lose himself those kind hazel eyes, his deep voice, his brave heart, in everything that is Thomas Lightwood.

"We have more than this," Thomas declared. "I trust you."

Alastair piped his head up, "What?"

"I trust you," he repeated."And I want you, Alastair. I know you do too. But I want you to trust me as well. Trust me when I say I will never say those things just to make you give in and be with me. I am saying them because they are the mere truth and because I care for you."

Alastair glanced away hastily, eluding his eyes. "You are in no condition to make this decision. You- We can't -"

"But do you want us to be? Do you wish us to be together? "

Electricity filled the room, and both couldn't take their eyes off the other. Thomas knew it wasn't fair of Alastair to ask such a question. He knew on his flesh what it is to admit- even simply to oneself - you want something and believe you would never have it. That is how Alastair seemed to perceive them - a false fantasy, a feverish dream that would never come true. Thomas knew as well that Alastair had made it clear he didn't think they had a future, and making him fumble with those pieces of broken fantasy could hurt worse than words could. Yet, a part of Thomas couldn't help but wonder what the other had been through to be so hesitant to let himself be happy.

Do not say it's not possible on my behalf, he wanted to shout. If you wish to break my heart, do it because what you want is not a future with me in it.

"Yes."

Relief came so fast he felt abashed. His heart pounded ear-piercingly through his body. "Tell me," he asked gingerly. " Will you allow me to kiss you?"

Alastair drew in a sharp breath. Color flooded his cheeks. "Thomas..."

Thomas searched his face, which for so long was emotionless when he saw him the past week. He saw the hurt - how much it must be for Alastair? he pondered - and the fear. The dark-eyed gentleman wouldn't believe Thomas's words. He wasn't sure he could trust him with his heart. For now, he shall have the certitude for both of them. There was a voice telling him he wouldn't have come to Alastair after the fight if he could think clearly. He pushed that part away, locked it in a cage, and threw away the key.

He swallowed down the odd, stinging feeling of being rejected. "Will you allow me to embrace you, then? " Just let me breathe with you. Let me hold you in my arms, to reassure us both, to know you are here. "You don't have to. I swear to it." He took a step back to prove his statement.

The judicious decision was to ignore the offer. To turn away from Thomas and all the comfort he had to give. Alastair was on the verge of tears. Thomas hated those tears were because of him. Because of them. Alastair opened his eyes and hummed acquiescently, soft and low.

The shreds of resistance left Alastair's body as Thomas swooped him into a hug. His big hand passed his head on Alastair's back, between his shoulder blades, and to his lumbar. He absentmindedly caressed Alastairs's side, touching Alastair's wound lightly. The smaller man shied away from the contact but immediately calmed back into the hug. He stifled a whine, and in the back of Thomas's mind, he knew they both had to get checked on. Thomas put his cheek on the other man's forehead. He closed his eyes and let out a pleased noise. Alastair's arms slowly cloaked Thomas's waist, holding him close.

"We should return," Alastair whispered. A few minutes had passed. They were alone, far away from anyone who might hear, but the moment was so dreamlike and tender both were afraid to break the air around them. That alternate reality they formed in this godforsaken room, for a glimpse of a moment.

"I find it so tremendously difficult to do," his breath felt heavy; so did his heart. "Because I don't want to ever let go of you."

He heard Alastair gasp, and Thomas's own breath was quivering. The pulse beating deep in Alastair's chest raced, and Thomas was sure he could listen to it forevermore. The hug felt more private than a kiss, more overwhelming and welcoming and warm and protecting and trusting. "I missed you."

"Tom," Alastair's voice was suffocated, and thick from emotion, as if he was a boat that slowly sank because it's full of water. Thomas tried to retreat, suddenly fearing he passed the line. He must have passed it long ago, and yet Alastair let him, despite his own warnings. Thomas was about to apologize when he felt Alastair's hands tightening around him, and then the blazing understanding hit Thomas that It was Alastair's way of telling it was fine. Haltingly, he returned to their previous position.

They were hugging, nothing more. But the proximity made Thomas feel a sense of internal peace, like a calm wave hitting the sand lightly. It made his lungs protest because he was out of breath. How could he ever let go? It was better than nothing at all, better than air and staring long at the wall of his room. It was Alastair, and he was ready to take every drop given to him. Yet, because it was Alastair, he could never get enough. It was hard to capture it - the soft looks, the thumping hearts, the yearning and the hurt. Thomas's cheek was still pressed against Alastair's forehead. He shifted to hide his face in his strands, dark like the night, soft as a feather. Alastair's smell was intoxicating. The words slipped his tongue before he knew it. "I am glad I am here with you."

There was a beat of silence. The voice of the man he loved - Thomas almost startled himself by the heedless use of the word love - barely reached his ears.

"I am, too."

116 notes · View notes

mandoinevarro · 4 years

Text

NO REFUNDS

Words: 5.1k :))

Rating: E, baby

Warnings: Smut (surprise surprise), bad words :0, masturbation, a biiiit of praise kink, face fucking, cumplay? let me know on the comments, etc. etc.

a/n: Happy Star Wars day!! The first few lines of this are an attempt at dumb comedy, but humor me a little and you’ll get a reward (smut) along the yellow-brick road

Finally, the lanky kid behind the counter stops air drumming with two chicken bones gnawed dry and trails his dopey eyes from the gloved fist on the table, up a bracer, and along a flexed arm, until they settle on the Mandalorian helmet staring him down and waiting for an answer. The employee removes the music bandeau from around his ears and settles it down, its noise so loud Mando can hear it from where it lays. The kid scratches the whiskers of facial hair growing patchy on his cheeks and thoughtfully nibbles on one of the bones, trying to figure out what one does when a client shows up.

“Uh, what?”

“I need to speak to the owner,” the Mandalorian repeats slowly.

“Oh, uh.” Mouth gaping like a fish too stupid to know it should fear hooks, the kid calmly turns his attention to the four walls of the hardware store, searching for guidance in the fluorescent signs hanging around the room and dictating the store’s rules like they’re ancient scriptures:

NO CHILDREN

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

NO IMPS

NO REPUBLIC OFFICIALS

NO REFUNDS

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

“You, uh,” the kid continues, lingering on that last stanza and flicking open a dusty agenda that probably hasn’t been touched since the war ended, “you got an appointment, uh, sir?” He drags a greasy finger down the planner, squinting at nothing and pretending to read the page that Mando can clearly see is empty.

The bounty hunter sighs, holding on to the last reserves of patience that hang precariously on the cliff of his self-restraint, threatening to let go and leave him to his own anger. “No. But she’ll see me.” You better. You better fucking see him. “I was sold equipment here a few days ago, some of it faulty. I need to speak to her.”

The navigator. The fucking navigator. Of all the bunch of overpriced, black market scraps you’d somehow convinced the Mandalorian to buy from you last time, it just had to be the navigator. He still has his old blasters. Pumps are cheap. Even the deflector shields he could’ve done without for a couple of months. But the fucking navigator. The lack of droids on the Crest means that Mando relies solely on the navigator to set coordinates. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to find his way out of a system, let alone make hyperjumps. Even worse, the model is so old, its glitching isn’t recognized by the control panel, so he had to hover around the atmosphere of this damned planet for three days before figuring out what it was, throwing off his schedule and losing track of two bounties in the process. All because you sold him a damaged version of the one part he can’t do without.

But your gaping-mouthed kid worker seems too unused to visitors to really care about Mando’s request, too entertained nibbling on a bare bone and eyeing the costumer in front of him as a knowing smirk cracks his lips and he says, “I dig it.”

“You…you ‘dig it’? I don’t…”

“The whole, y’know.” He draws circles in the air with the bone, signaling the beskar armor while he wipes the sauce around his mouth with a sleeve. “The, uh, Mondolarian vibe you’ve got going on. Very retro, dude. I dig it.”

Mondo…? Bewilderment overshadows irritation for a second, and Mando focuses all his energy into searching the kid’s vacant eyes for a sign of intelligent life. “I…I am a Mandalorian.”

Fucking stars above, it’s never easy with you. If not your endless teasing, it’s the exorbitant prices, your unwillingness to compromise, or your scurrying around so he’s forced to play cat and mouse with you. Your latest impossible challenge for him to tackle is, apparently, getting a straight answer from the obtuse employee you must have handpicked from a catalogue of idiots to torture Mando. Maker, he’s surprised your store hasn’t gone bankrupt yet. He can’t imagine anyone else in the galaxy putting up with your whims. And he only does it because…well, because…

After dedicating a couple of seconds to crafting the perfect response for what appears to be his very first client, the kid muses, “Well, shit, what do I know.” He flashes a toothy smile as he rereads the dogmas on the walls. “Says nothing about Mondolarians here, but, uh—”

“—Look,” Mando bargains with your gatekeeper, trying to level the exasperation escaping the vocoder, “I only have one faulty part. Let me talk to the owner, and—”

“—Shit. I bet it was the microvalves.” Your staff of one hangs his tuff of hair in shame, swaying it limply from side to side, before staring straight at the visor apologetically. “My bad, dude, I’ve been trying to get them right, but I always fuck them up. It’s hard, y’know? Red with red, white with white. Why not red with white? Or—”

“—No. What? No. Listen to me. You sold me a busted—”

“—I sold you?” the kid scoffs, his eyes suddenly snapping wide and offended, ignoring Mando’s clenching fists, which usually make normal people cower. “Excuse me, mister Mondolarian sir, but I don’t, uh, don’t recall selling you shit, in fact—”

“—Not—not you personally, the store, look, just—”

“—in fact, I’ve never even met a Mondolarian before and you’ve, uh, no right—no right— to judge my microvalves that I worked hard on—”

“Let him in.” Your voice carries its usual amusement as it cuts between the Mandalorian and the kid, breaking off the bickering from both ends and drawing their attention to the melody’s source. You lean on the doorframe leading to your workshop, holding a pair of pliers in one hand and a wrench in the other. Grease is smeared on your face, where teeth bite down on a playful smirk and the twinkle in your eyes speaks of terrible intentions—like always. You tilt your head back to the room behind you. “C’mon, Mando. Let my receptionist work.”

With a sigh, the hunter moves towards the separate room, not before glancing back at the receptionist, who throws him one last disapproving look and wraps the bandeau that never stopped blasting music around his ears.

“Why do you keep him here?” the Mandalorian grunts as you push yourself off the doorframe to move inside your studio.

You shrug. “It’s him or droids.”

Mando trails after you inside the cramped workshop, filled to the brim with piles and piles of sensors and motors and all the other scraps from dubious origins you collect, fix, and resell. He closes the door behind him and pushes a large tube hanging from the roof to the side to walk closer to you.

Facing him, you plummet on your wheeled chair with a sigh, your arms dangling off the armrests, still holding the wrench and the pliers, like you’re the monarch of your little kingdom of junk granting him an audience.

There, Mando finally gets a good look at you, and—much to his annoyance—you’re as lovely as always. Glistening and greasy, you’re still beautiful with oil stains on your skin and fat droplets of sweat trailing your temple. You beam at him from your squeaky throne with that faint grin that attracts nothing but trouble. Maker, no wonder you always manage to talk circles around him. But not this time. This time he won’t fall for your little games. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t. Tonight he’s walking out of here with all of his money, no matter how much you bat your pretty eyelashes at him.

The Mandalorian squares his stance and straightens his back in a futile attempt to intimidate you, strutting ahead firmly and pointing an accusing finger at your face.

“You sold me a—”

“—a busted navigator.” You roll your eyes and push yourself to your legs abruptly before the hunter can get any closer. He stops dead on his tracks. You wave the wrench and the pliers in the air like the conductor of an orchestra. “I sold you a busted navigator.” The vowels are dragged out with an exaggerated tune to make fun of him. “Yeah, I heard you the first four thousand times, Mando.”

Without looking, you drop the pliers to the side. They land dead center on an open storage box. Perfectly. Almost rehearsed. Something clicks. The Mandalorian suddenly finds the missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t know needed solving, and he feels his shoulders deflate and release some of the anger that drove him to your store in the first place.

You peacock closer to him, one foot in front of the other and swaying your hips as you look down to the wrench in your hand. “But, you should know by now,” you murmur once you find yourself only inches away from the beskar, your voice morphing its earlier mock exasperation into the tone you only use whenever you two aren’t talking business. You look up at him, failing miserably at masking the mischief in your eyes. “I don’t do refunds.” You lift the wrench and grin as it taps the beskar breastplate lightly with a tink.

And before you can blink, Mando’s hand flies to your wrist to clutch it roughly, squeezing without hurting you, but with enough strength to force your fist open. Just like he knows you like it. The wrench falls to the floor with a bang that makes you jump. It’s Mando’s turn to smile when he pulls you by the wrist to press you closer against him. The cocky glint in your eyes dulls into confusion.

“I never said it was the navigator,” he informs you lowly.

You tense under his grasp and shift your jaw. “You knew I’d come back,” he continues, encouraged by your grimace. Staring at your feet, you half-heartedly try to wriggle away from his grasp, but he grabs your other wrist instead and holds you flush against the cold beskar. “Okay. I’m back. Now give me my money.”

But his satisfaction is short-lived, because if there’s anyone in the universe who knows no shame, that’s you. So you simply bite your lower lip and move your head from side to side to shake hair and embarrassment off your face. When you look up at the visor again it’s with that brazen insolence that secretly gets the Mandalorian going like nothing else in the galaxy.

“A girl gets lonely in here,” you purr. Your wrists relax, and make no attempt to pull away. “Can you blame me for wanting you back a little earlier?” Your plush lips curl into the perverse smile of someone who’s holding all the cards, making heat rush involuntarily to his crotch. And it drives him fucking insane. He could have you tied, shackled, or bent over, and you would still sneer at him like you had him wrapped around your finger.

At his silence, you wedge a leg tightly between his thighs and massage it against the bulge between. Your gasp in fake surprise when his length hardens at the first hint of a brush, too unused to any sort of physical contact to remain neutral to your bold caresses. He bites down hard on his lip to suppress a moan. He won’t give you the satisfaction.

Mando’s learnt, though, that his restraint only feeds your audacity. Only makes you taunt him more. His lack of response spurs you on, and you crane your neck forward to lick a slow line along the beskar of the chest. You blink at him playfully as you go, stuffing your tongue back into your mouth once you reach the top edge of the breastplate.

You must find it funny. How his ribs expand and contract in anticipation. How he tends to roll and unroll his fists in an attempt to suppress the instinct to throw you on top of the table so crowded by clutter that he can barely see the surface beneath and fuck the smirks off your face. How he always gives in. How he stiffens both scandalized and impossibly aroused every time you introduce him to some newer, filthier act. You must think it’s so fucking funny.

And as much as the bounty hunter wants to shove you back against your crumbling wheeled chair, he knows you’ll only enjoy it more. So he simply lets go of your wrists and steps back.

“I’m only here for my money,” he lies.

The vicious grin grows wider. “Oh, so you’re making me work for it tonight.” You step back and lean against a table with your arms crossed over your chest, purposefully pushing your tits against the cleavage. Mando shifts in his place. Licking your lips until they glisten, you give him a once-over. You study him inch by inch, and an uncomfortable rope knots in his stomach when he realizes that this is how his bounties must feel when he watches them wordlessly.

Your eyes settle on his visor, and a decision seems to cross them as you walk over to sit on your creaking chair. “Or maybe you just want to hear me beg.” You part your legs wide and clutch the armrest with one hand while the other disappears under the waist of your pants. The contour of your hand shifts up and down slowly inside the crotch of your trousers, and your lips crook into a full O as they release a deep, foul moan. “Is that it?” Your eyes are glossy and malignant, trained on his visor. “You want me to beg for your cock?”

His leather gloves ball into fists, trying to coax blood into his head and away from his…well, his other head.

Yet you hold him in place with that sinful stare and the lewd whimpers that you know get him off, and yes, fuck yes, he wants to hear you beg and sob for him all night as much as he wants to clog your throat with his shaft and make you swallow your teasing.

But he can’t let you win. You can’t scam five thousand credits out of him and expect him to throw himself into your arms no questions asked. He wants to put an end to your little tyrannical rule on his cock. And he wants his fucking money back.

So the powerful Mandalorian watches helplessly as your hand quickens under your clothing and you throw your head back in ecstasy. That fucking smirk doesn’t leave you, though. Even less so when your palm picks up some speed and you hear his breath hitch involuntarily at the visual, loud enough to override the vocoder.

“C-come on, Mando, don’t—” Your hand sinks deeper into your pants and you hum at the adjustment. “Don’t you wanna teach me what—what proper cos-costumer service looks like? Huh?”

His cock jumps in his pants when you say his name in a wanton gasp, and Mando can see you’re sweating and moving your hips faster against your palm. He’s so hard it hurts.

Your smile falters and you frown impatiently as the pent-up tension threatens to snap in your body.

“Don’t cum,” Mando blurts before he can stop himself.

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t give you what you want.”

Your movements halt on command, and the hunter almost envies the control you have over your own body to be able to backtrack on the very edge of your release. You hold your hands up in triumphant surrender as you watch the Mandalorian approach and stop just a breath away from your body. He stands tall before you, crowding you with his size and turning down the volume on the nagging voice that reminds him that he’s letting you win.

Eyes on the prize ahead of you, you lick your lips and snake a hand beneath your sit. You pull a lever and the chair plummets a few inches until your mouth is directly in front of the rigid tent growing in his pants. Expert fingers undo his belt and lower his fly, but, stars, nothing is fast enough when Mando already feels the veins of his cock growing thicker and thicker. Skipping all formalities, your hand sneaks inside, cups his balls, and pulls all of him outside. He groans when you grab his shaft and squeeze hard from base to tip, your bare palm catching awkwardly on his equally dry skin. Mando melts into the sensation all the same, but you seem displeased with your palm’s lack of fluidity.

“Fuck. Hold on.” A pair of fingers disappear into your mouth and down your throat as far as they’ll go. You choke on them dramatically and your eyes water slightly, but they shine when the two small intruders drag outside your mouth, pulling a thick string of elastic spit with them and dropping it on his shaft, pulsing with anticipation. You lean forward and look up through your lashes as you unroll your tongue slowly and more gooey saliva dangles from it. It’s too dense to spill onto its target, so you pluck the heavy ropes from your mouth and smear it manually on his cock, while a thread of it hangs on your chin.

“Fuck.” Your tiny clenched fist wakes up every nerve in his body as it drags up and down his shaft, obscene and perfectly lubricated. Mando’s hips buck into its grasp involuntarily, so suddenly that you flinch at the unexpected jolt. It’s a small comfort for him, to see that he can also surprise you. But then you’re giggling again, locking him in place by grabbing the buck of his belt with your free hand.

“Eager,” you remark. You lean forward and place a chaste kiss on the tip that digs into his spine. Maker, it was barely anything, but he’s so hard and your mouth is so close. “Aren’t Mandalorians,” you tease, “supposed to have self-restraint?”

Mando’s only answer is a low groan and a gloved hand that tangles on your hair and pushes you forward. You resist, though, instead wrapping a fist around his base and dragging your hot tongue up his underside, stopping just before the tip. A tortured whimper echoes around the helmet, and the Mandalorian is not sure if you could hear it because his muscles pull tighter, drawing his attention to his cock and your mouth and the fact that the latter is not wrapped around him for some reason. As if you could read his mind, you suddenly engulf him whole. Spit gathers on the edge of your lips as you suck on his length, swallowing around the tip and swirling your tongue around his girth.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking g-good at this.” You hum in response, sending vibrations through his shaft that make his knees buckle. He always forgets how good it feels with you. He forgets that you take him perfectly like all your holes were made for him to fuck. That you make his blood run hot with every swing of your tongue and every spasm of your cunt and every insolent remark that escapes your lovely mouth, now busy pleasuring him.

You settle on his head and suck on the bulb, hollowing your cheeks to let him feel the delicious inside of your mouth. Mando grabs handfuls of your hair with both hands, still trying to extinguish little whimpers before they leave his throat. And you can tell. He knows you can tell because determination clouds your eyes as you yank him closer by the belt. You drag your tongue in a circle around the ridge of the head, before dipping into the slit on the tip and finally earning a punched out groan and some beads of precum as a reward. Somehow, you moan and chuckle at the same time, opening your mouth as strings of spit fall to the floor.

“You’re hard, Mando,” you coo, pumping his length while you rub it on the side of your face, “throbbing and so, so hard. You should’ve come to me sooner, baby. You’re desperate.” You suck on the head again, and the Mandalorian’s grip on your hair turns to steel, pulling you into him and no longer asking. Moaning, you let him, taking him as far as you can and wrapping a fist where you can’t reach. Your other hand releases his belt and snakes down to your lap, fumbling with the waistband of your pants.

Somewhere in the swamp of sensations drowning his thoughts, an idea flashes in Mando’s head, and he holds on to it before you can suck it out of his tip. One glove lets go of your hair and quickly grans the hand lowering into your heat to resume touching yourself. His cock still in your mouth, you look up at him with furrowed eyebrows and a silent question.

“You can’t c-cum,” he explains, forcing words out of a throat that right now only wants to moan, “un-until you give me my—my refund.”

You groan and roll your eyes, taking your mouth off him with a pop. “Fuck no,” you breathe as you pump him faster and harder, almost making Mando lose his resolve. Almost. His hold on your wrist tightens. “It’s store policy.”

“Y-yeah?” You continue sliding your fist along his shaft, as you lean forward and lower your face to start lightly licking his balls. The room spins around Mando, and his grip on your hair pushes you into him until you suck on one ball gently. “Is—is it store p-policy to—ngh—to f-fuck your clients?”

You chuckle against his taint. Your head straightens to set your attention back on his tip, where he’s leaking an almost embarrassing amount of precum. A thumb brushes over his slit, gathering the pearls and bringing them into your mouth to taste him. The way you rub your core slightly against the chair is sneaky enough, but the Mandalorian catches the movements and tugs your hand and hair tighter as a warning. Your shoulders slump. “I’ll give you half,” you offer.

Mando guides your hand lower and curls it around his swollen cock, silently begging for your attention. His hand wraps over yours as he squeezes your fist and drags it along his shaft at a pace of his liking that sets his insides ablaze. “Eighty.” The helmet falls back as he revels in the wet sounds of your hand sliding back and forth his cock and giving him a nice enough memory for when he inevitably goes back to the Crest and is forced to take care of his needs himself.

You let him guide you, cupping his balls with your other hand and swirling your tongue around his darkening tip. Mando’s chest trembles with a long moan at the toe-curling feeling of your warm spit and your clenched fist working so hard for him, until you drop him from your mouth and answer, “Seventy.”

“N-no, I—”

“—Seventy,” you repeat and twist your hand away from his grasp, leaving his seeping cock throbbing and abandoned, “or you don’t cum.”

Fuck, he was close. He was so fucking close, before you turned the tables. Like fucking always. A part of him cradles his already bruised pride, shaming him for—yet again—not being able to hold it together around you. But his cock tugs harder. More insistently. It pulls every fiber in his body and screams at him to give you whatever the fuck you want.

“Fine.” He nods his head once, before his better sense can convince him otherwise. “Seventy.”

A full, beautiful smile that almost makes Mando forget he’s getting scammed graces your plump lips. You waste no time shoving your hand inside your underwear again and moving your arm frantically as you give him a couple of throaty whines. You open your mouth as wide as it’ll go and blink up at him, inviting him to take you however he so pleases. He tangles his fingers on your hair and shoves you against him as you wrap your lips around his cock and muffle your mewls on it.

The Mandalorian starts fucking your face, getting his money’s worth as he moves you back and forth. Your eyes water and you gag with every shove, but you work earnestly for him, hollowing your cheeks and moving your tongue and pulling just about every trick on your toolbox to make Mando’s eyes roll to the back of his head.

And stars, even through your pants and his helmet, he can still smell your arousal. He hears the wet squelching of your fingers working your pussy fast and if he could only get a look. One look is all he needs to cum, he’s sure, one fucking look at your clenching cunt and he’s done.

“F-fuck, l-let me see,” he pants, “let—let me s-see you—see your p-pussy cum, just—fuck—just a mo-moment, please, j-just…”

Tears from all the gagging fall out of your pretty eyes as you open your mouth and stand up, taking your trembling hand outside to fumble with your trousers. Your thumbs are hooked under their waistband and push down slightly before you suddenly stop and stare at the Mandalorian gulping all the oxygen he can get and waiting for you. “Sixty,” you say carefully.

Too intoxicated with you and too focused on the blood beating hard on his cock, Mando couldn’t care less. He doesn’t give a shit about percentages or money or parts or whatever half-forgotten excuse he had to come here tonight. All that matters and all that’s real is whatever he needs to climax, and if it means letting you win, so be it. “S-sixty. Yes. Whatever. Just—just take your fucking pants off.”

One swift movement and your pants and underwear pool around your ankles. Yanking hard on the hem, you manage to pull the right leg off your boot. You don’t bother with the other one, letting it hang on your left leg as you climb back on the chair, spreading your legs and hooking one thigh over the armrest to offer him the best view possible.

Mando’s cock threatens to spill at the sight. You’re fucking soaked. Your folds are blushed and slick and swollen with all the blood accumulated on your cunt. Three fingers rub your aching clit and everything around it with messy strokes, as you stare at the bounty hunter with raw lust and moan for him loud and clear, and this. This is worth the fucking navigator.

As soon as his shaft ghost over your face you lean into it and reach for him with your mouth. Mando takes your head between his hands and resumes his previous brutal pace, his eyesight now directed at the way your cunt spasms and seeps more juices with every circle you press against your lips. And, fuck, you’re taking him like you’re hungry for his cock. Pushing harder and further and faster despite the gagging, you’re making Mando see blotches cloud his vision and feel how his muscles turn into hot, thick magma. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he can’t hold it in anymore. His balls start pulling up as a warning and you’re sucking harder and mewling around him.

“I—I…I’m gonna—I—”

Mando can’t find enough words to put together for the life of him, but you nod and manage a chocked “Mhmm” and bob your head to the pace of your quickening fingers and stars oh fuck—

The wave of his climax hits him hard on his back and makes him curl around you. He braces himself against the top of your chair and the change in position makes his cock slip outside of your mouth, but his vision goes completely black and all he can feel is the rush of pleasure crushing his bones into dust. Maybe your name is falling from his lips, but he can’t be sure. The never-ending spurts of cum falling somewhere hoard most of his attention, and he focuses on that thick and heavy release, so rare for him that he puts his mind into savoring every second.

It’s not until the echoes around his ears dissipate that the Mandalorian hears you’re still whimpering. Hunched over you, he opens his eyes just in time to see you gather some of the seed that he spilled on your neck and bring it down to smear it over your bundle of nerves, rubbing it one, two, three, four times, before you’re sobbing long and loud. Your hole tightens around nothing, your forehead resting on his cuisse, and Mando thinks he could get hard again just from the image.

You both stay like that for a while, curled into each other and panting in turns, until Mando gathers all the energy left in his system to pull himself upright and shove his softening shaft back into his pants. It’s only then that he sees just how much of a mess he made: Cum landed everywhere. It hangs thick all over your face, on your neck, on your hair, on your clothes. He blushes darkly and he’s about to open his mouth to apologize, but you sense it. Somehow. You wink and brush off his shame with a smile and a wave of your hand, standing up to get dressed. But Mando’s quicker. He kneels in front of you and gently raises your underwear until it hugs your hips, wishing for a fleeting second he could press a kiss on the supple flesh there. You grab his pauldron for balance to sneak your foot into the pantleg that Mando holds open for you.

For once, it’s he who breaks the silence. “I…I do want my sixty percent, you know.”

“Of course.” You smile sweetly at him, reaching back to your work table to grab a clean rag, rubbing it against your face and neck. “I’ll even throw in some free microvalves for good measure.”

—

Taglist of two so you can keep each other company :) : @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon

#the mandolarian #the mandalorian x you #the mandolorian x reader #the mandalorian x ofc #the mandalorian smut #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mando smut #star wars smut #star wars day #his fucking microvalves that he worked hard on

1K notes · View notes

imaginejamesandsirius · 3 years

Note

Hey I just read like all of your one-shots (or whatever you call them) and they are amazing and very well written, so I was wondering if you could write one where it’s slytherin!sirius and gryffindor!james but instead of James being in love with lily it’s Sirius. So he’s always like flirting with him and everything. Only write it if you want to or if you feel comfortable writing it, and if you have time. 🥰

"Prongs? Mate, are you listening to me?" Remus said.

"Uh-huh," James said, but he was so clearly lying. He wasn't even looking at them, he was looking at the entrace of the Great Hall, peering at everyone who walked in. Big mystery who he was waiting for, Remus thought, rolling his eyes. He perked up as soon as one Sirius Black walked through the door. "How's my hair?" he asked, ruffling a hand through it.

"It looked better before you messed with it," Peter muttered. James either didn't hear him or was ignoring him, which was just as well, because he was busy making sure his glasses were still on his face-- as if he'd be able to see anything without them.

James got to his feet and tossed them a, "See you soon!" as he made a beeline for the Slytherin table.

"Prepare yourself for rejection number... what are we up to? One hundred and seventy-three?" Remus said.

"It'll be number six, if he actually bothers to ask him on a proper date this time," Peter said.

Remus was looking at James as he practically skipped over to Sirius, but Peter didn't care to watch. "Proper date? During breakfast? That's not Prongs's style." Sure enough, the grin on James's face was more look-at-me-I'm-so-charming and less asking him on a date. It was horrible that Remus could tell the difference between the types of smiles he had when it came to flirting with Sirius-- Remus wasn't even on a first name basis with him, but for all the times James had waxed poetic about him, Remus felt he was allowed to call him that instead of Black.

"Sirius! How are you this fine morning?" James asked, sitting down on Sirius's free side at the Slytherin House table. He liked to think it was fate that there was so often a free spot next to Sirius.

"Fine," Sirius said flatly. "Did you need something?"

"Can't your company be reason enough?"

"Did you need something?" Sirius asked again.

"Er, I suppose," James said, thrown off by Sirius seemingly not caring about his presence, but Sirius didn't know why he would be.

When, in the entire time of them knowing each other, had Sirius been happy to see him? That he'd showed, at least. It wasn't his fault that he liked attention, and James always gave him plenty of that. He didn't want to encourage him though, because things had been... tense with his parents lately. They wanted to know why he hadn't dated any of the eligible pureblooded girls in arm's reach, and they got suspicious when he dodged as many times as they asked.

"There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up," James continued.

"I am aware."

"And- well, I was wondering if you would like to go with me."

"No thanks," Sirius said.

"Ah, a slightly longer response than last time. I think I'm growing on you."

"You most certainly are not," Sirius lied. "Shouldn't you run back to your friends and leave me alone, now?"

"If you insist."

"I do."

"Alright then," James said, getting to his feet. "Hogsmeade isn't for another week or so. You can let me know if you change your mind."

"I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you."

James only smiled at him before leaving.

Sirius sighed. He really should do something about him, but there were two problems with that. 1. He didn't want James to stop and 2. He'd tried to get James to stop in the past, to no avail.

"Your greatest admirer is here," Severus said as they were all sat in the Three Broomsticks at a table.

"Bloody brilliant," Sirius said. He didn't need to look to know that it was James.

"Can't you tell him to sod off?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You think I haven't tried?"

"If you hexed him more, we wouldn't have this problem."

"Think back to fourth year and tell yourself that again." Fourth year had been Sirius was in quite a bit of denial about himself, and James had been a challenge to that. Unfortunately, James hadn't been very bothered by getting hexed on the regular, so nothing had really changed. He'd kept slightly more distance that year, but physical distance only so that he could put a shield up; not the kind of distance that meant he left Sirius alone.

Severus made a face. Clearly, he remembered it as well.

Sirius didn't bother to hope that James wouldn't come up to him, because any time he thought that, he was always wrong. What Sirius didn't say to anyone was that he was sure it he complained to Professor McGonagall about it, she would take care of it for him. Everyone had a healthy fear of her, and if Sirius were truly bothered by James's constant flirtation, he would be able to stop him. He liked the attention simply because it was attention, and he liked the flirting because of who it was coming from. The first, he had admitted to Regulus when his brother bothered him about it. The second, he would keep entirely to himself. Sirius was the heir of a Great House, and he was expected to marry and have children of his own. If his parents caught wind of him trying to stray from that path, their reaction would be... unpleasant. Of course, Sirius only had Severus to tell, and Severus wouldn't tell his parents-- if only because his parents didn't like him for being a half-blood-- but with the way information traveled, Sirius wasn't going to risk it. Also because Severus rather hated James. A most unfortunate situation, but there was no helping it. Sirius had known what his life was going to be like pretty much since the moment he was born.

As if on cue, James made his way over. He even offered Severus a smile-- that wasn't returned-- before turning to Sirius. "Hullo, Sirius."

"Hi," Sirius said, because ignoring him was just rude.

"Can I buy you a butterbeer?"

Sirius raised his glass and gave it a little shake to draw forcus to the fact that it was still half-full. "I'm all set, thanks. Don't your friends miss you when you do this?"

"Do what?"

"Ignore them to come talk to me."

"Nah, they're fine with it. I think they like the space, actually. Gives them time to talk about what a tosser I am without me overhearing," he said with a grin.

"Charming," Severus said under his breath. Sirius kicked him under the table, which earned him a scowl as well as silence.

"Hey Sirius, go on a date with me?" James asked.

Sirius didn't miss a single step as he kept walking down the corridor. "Nope. Shouldn't you focus on asking out someone who's attainable?"

"I would never dream of settling."

Sirius kept his face blank instead of grinning like an idiot the way he wanted to.

"When was the last time someone told you how handsome you are?"

"I don't know, when was the last time we spoke?" Sirius asked, not looking up from his parchment.

James laughed. "Does that mean you'd like to date me? I'll compliment you all day every day, if that's what you want."

"Never said that was what I wanted," Sirius said, although, yes, that was what he wanted. Particularly with James. He'd like to do quite a few things with James, but thinking about that would be torturing himself. He couldn't have him, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Then what do you want?" There was no denying the flirtation in his voice, but Sirius was going to ignore that.

"Right now? To finish my assignment."

James tilted his head to get a better look at his parchment. "Is that the essay for Professor McGonagall?"

"Yes."

"Cool, I need to do that too," James said, and sat down on the other side of the table. He started unloading his bag, and Sirius figured it would be more trouble to tell him to leave than to just finish his essay. Besides, he was getting close to finishing, and if James was starting it right now, then he'd leave before James was done and that would be a problem solved.

"Sirius! What a pleasant surprise," James said.

Sirius groaned and thumped his head forward so it was pressed against his knees. "Believe it or not, a man sitting in an unused corridor doesn't want to make polite conversation."

"Er, you alright?"

"Peachy," Sirius said flatly.

James sat next to him, leaning against the stone wall. He nudged Sirius's knee with one of his own. "You want to talk about it?"

"With the golden child?" Sirius snorted. "No thanks."

"Problems with your parents then? Regulus has said they're a bit- strict."

"One, strict is a kind word for it, and two, you and Regulus don't speak to each other."

"Is that an order?"

"It's a fact. He finds you annoying."

"Good to know," James said mildly. "But I overheard him say it to one of his mates. You're right; we don't talk."

"Mm."

"So? Did you want to talk about it?"

"No offense, but I think speaking to you would only encourage you."

"Encourage you to have a friend? The horror."

"You know what I mean."

A pause. "I do, but would it really be so bad if you did encourage me? I'm not half-bad, which you'd know if you ever gave me a chance."

"Giving you a chance would mean pissing off my parents, and I do have to live with them. So thanks, but no thanks."

James gave him a look that was far too serious and assessing.

"What?"

"It's not like we'd have to get married just because you went on one date with me."

"I'm aware. My parents aren't. Unless you're going to be the one to hammer that into their heads, I'm not risking it."

There was a long pause, and Sirius didn't know if James was going to press his case further or leave. There was also a decent chance that he'd decide to switch the topic. Sirius didn't know which option he was hoping for.

"We don't have to tell anyone," James said quietly.

"Even your mates?"

"I think they'll be happy to finally have me not talking about you."

"And you could actually do that?" Sirius asked, turning his head to look at him. "You'd be able to not talk about it? Because it's not a bloody joke. If we go on dates and my parents find out, I'm as good as dead."

There was a twitch on James's face when he said the bit about his parents, but he didn't say anything about it. Sirius didn't fool himself into thinking that that meant James would forget about it. "I can keep a secret."

"This is such a bad idea," Sirius said, leaning his head against the wall.

"Is that a yes?" James asked, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

"It's a reluctant yes, with stipulations."

"I can handle that."

"It's amusing that you think so," Sirius said. Severus was his only friend for a reason, and it wasn't solely that Sirius was picky as hell. James would probably find out, a couple weeks in, that chasing Sirius was a lot better than having him.

Sirius knew it was stupid, and he knew that it was stupid while he was doing it, which was a whole other level of dumbarse for him to reach.

He snuck out of Grimmauld Place to go see James. It was summer, and his parents liked to manage his schedule during all hours of the day. He couldn't leave with a vague excuse-- even Regulus couldn't get away with that, and they were less controlling of Regulus since he was younger. If he wanted to see James over the summer, his only choice was to sneak out in the middle of the night.

He knew where James lived, but he'd never been there before. The good news was that James had extended an invitation before the train home, so he wasn't showing up unwelcome. Unannounced, yes, but he was welcome. It's not like he'd been able to send an owl earlier, asking if tonight was okay.

Luck was on his side, thankfully. He made it out of his house without incident, and into James's room without waking anyone. James was already awake, so he didn't count. It was also a good thing that he didn't have his mates over, because that would've been hard to explain.

James grinned, moving over to help him clear the window. "Hey."

"Hey," Sirius said, giving him a quick kiss hello.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming over?"

"My parents read all my letters that are unmarked or from people they don't approve of." Which was to say, they read all of his letters before passing them on to Sirius, and he wasn't sure that they gave him everything. Severus had mentioned something off-handed last year, as if he'd already told Sirius about it. Sirius, of course, had had no idea what he was talking about. "Sending you a letter would've been almost as suspicious as if you'd sent me one."

"I would've sent you one if you hadn't told me not to," James said.

"I know," Sirius said with a grin. He meant to get comfortable, but he pulled James back to him and kissed him again-- with a lot more tongue this time. "That's what's so great about you," he said, stepping back to pull off his shoes and take off his jacket.

"I'm great because I listen to you?"

Sirius untied his hair and ran his fingers through it. He wrinkled his nose when he felt more tangles than he'd bargained for. "You're great for a lot of reasons. That was just the one that was topical."

"Can I quote you on that?" James asked. "James Potter, great for many reasons."

"Quote me as often as you want, so long as you don't mention I was the one that said it."

"Right, our little secret."

"Our big secret," Sirius corrected. "Which you knew and agreed to before anything happened."

"Not complaining," James said, then made grabby hands for Sirius.

It was such a James thing to do that Sirius laughed as he stepped closer, letting James wrap his arms around him. "Missed you. Spending so much time apart is horrible. We should show up at Hogwarts and make classes start earlier in the year so we can sneak around there. Much easier than sneaking around like this."

"You mean because during the summer, only I can sneak out to see you?"

James nodded. "It's really not fair to make you do all the work."

"Well if you would buggering kiss me, it wouldn't be all the work, now would it?"

"Mm, true," James said, then leaned in.

Sirius had fallen in love with him. The stupidest thing he'd ever done. He'd known it was a mistake as he did it, but he leaned into it. No regrets.

#prongsfoot #marauders #james potter #sirius black #fanfic #hogwarts time #slytherin sirius #getting together #secret relationship #siriuslystarbucks #dobbysmaster

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hungarianbee · 3 years

Text

sightless but steady

A/N: I wanted to try my hand on Warritt the All-Seeing for a while now. Writing a blind character who’s not *really* blind is both fun and a challenge. I have a lot of feelings about the Viper witchers, and so I snuck a lot of headcanons (about Ivar, Warritt, Letho, Auckes) into this piece. You can read about them in detail at the end of the fic. TW for: mention of non-descriptive torture

It is a relatively quiet night at the Blood Gate Keep. The young adepts went to sleep hours ago, safely tucked away in their quarters. To the average witcher, Gorthur Gvaed lays dormant, echoing the silence of its occupants.

But not to Warritt. In his room, the Viper bundles himself in furs, sitting in front of the lit hearth with his back to it. The fire’s heat seeps into his bones, touching his exposed neck, and he tilts his head back into the sensation. To him, the keep always feels just a tad cold. It’s nothing, compared to the Bear’s Haern Caduch or the Wolves’ Kaer Morhen in winter, but the Vipers’ mutations keep their temperatures lower than the other school’s.

As he flicks his fingers, his magic activates the Supirre Sign again, keeping it steady with years of practice. Just like that, the night comes alive around him.

Beneath the sound of the firewood cracking, he notices that there are rats in the walls again, scratching at the stones with their tiny claws. He makes a mental note to alert Evil-Eye to their presence later, then moves on. A floor beneath him, Gerring of Kharkiv is playing with his knives, just as usual. The fast tack-tack-tack reverberates in Warritt’s ears as the knives embed themselves in the wooden surface of the upturned table. A mouser’s yowls break it up, and he pushes the Sign further, taking note of the steady heartbeats of the snakelets. As he concentrates, he feels several that are too fast to be asleep. Auckes, he thinks. And Letho.

Warritt shucks his furs, taking one with him and folding the rest on his unused bed. With a reverse Igni, lowers the temperature of the hearth, leaving the wood smoldering. The smoke of it settles in his barely open mouth, sticking to his palate. Throwing the fur over his shoulder, he opens his door, just as Ivar Evil-Eye takes a corner in his direction, the scent of blood and iron trailing after him like an avenging wraith.

Up until this point, the Viper Grandmaster was pacing his office, as was his bad habit, then changed course, and took a detour around the Keep to the snakelets’ sleeping quarters. To air his head, most likely, and to make sure that everyone was safe. That Letho was safe. There is a lot of weight on the witcher’s shoulders that he refuses to share with them, he knows. Some days, when the pacing gets agitated and Warritt can hear his rapid breathing when he talks his way over an issue, he thinks that this will be Evil-Eye’s end. A fire can only burn bright for so long without kindling.

“Master Evil-Eye,” he greets quietly.

The thumping of Gerring’s weapons stop. A shift of skin on fabric as the man looks up, breathing carefully steadied. He’s listening. Warritt minimizes his Sign to the palm of his hand. He’s been told the yellow glow is quite noticeable. “Anything I can help you with?”

Evil-Eye shakes his head to himself, but breaks the motion midway. A heavy sigh. “I can’t deal with the brats tonight,” he admits. His tone is weary. Warritt tries to imagine what his expression must look like, but it’s been too long and the visuals appear murky in his mind. Something that might match the scents of frustration and fatigue. After all, Evil-Eye doesn’t have to hide from him; he can’t see. Then, the taste of ash ignites, becomes spicy with rekindled rage. “Did you know about Letho of Gulet?”

He can’t even finish the sentence as Warritt flashes his fangs at the leader. The hiss that leaves between his teeth rattles in his throat. “No! I would have stopped Daibesyck. Any of us would have. And you know that.”

In his rise of emotion, his Supirre sputters out. He casts it again with one hand, the other going up to rake through his curls.

Evil-Eye stands still, like a statue. Then a new tension enters his shoulders, and he turns away. “I’ve dealt with Daibesyck,” he states. Disdain colours his voice. “The worm wanted me to thank him. To acknowledge what a marvelous achievement he did, finding the perfect subject for his little successful experiment.” He breathes through his venom. “I paid him in kind. He stopped screaming a few hours ago.”

Warritt’s face tightens, even as dark satisfaction courses through him. He knows. He heard. But it wasn’t aimed at him; it’s a confirmation for their little eavesdropper. This time tomorrow everyone will know that they are one mage down.

“How’s he?”

Evil-Eye cracks his neck to the side. “He’s feverish, still. He asked for you.”

“Then I will be there.” And that’s that. Warritt lengthens his steps, taking the fur beneath one arm, the other still pulsing with Supirre. The Grandmaster matches him until they reach Letho’s quarters, where he lags behind, stopping just by the door.

The blind witcher makes his way to the bed. The scent of sickness leaves a sour note on his tongue, but that’s not his main concern. Because in this close proximity, he’s sure of it - Letho’s usual outline changed.

As he climbs into the bed he bundles the furs under Letho’s bald head, hoping that his own scent will ease the young witcher. A stone sits in Warritt’s stomach; last time he’s been in his presence, the kid had a crown of soft curls. His calloused hands slide on broad, impossibly muscled shoulders that emanate a heat that is uncharacteristic to witchers, then cup the back of Letho’s neck gently.

“Letho,” he calls, and the snakelet twitches under him, turning towards his chest. He can barely fit. A soft sound escapes him, almost a sob, and his hands come up to shield his still sensitive eyes. Warritt immediately releases his Sign to plunge the room in darkness, shushing him. “It’s Warritt, bud. I am here, just as you asked.”

“Warritt,” Letho parrots back, slurring. Without the Sign, Warritt is not prepared for the fingers prodding at the heavy scarring by his eyes, but he lets it happen anyway.

With impossible strength, Letho pulls Warritt down and curls his arms around him in a constricting hug. Warritt stifles his wheeze, breathing through it, and he presses closer still, wrapping himself around the kid as much as he can, tucking him under his chin and tangling their legs. One of his hands comes up to squeeze Letho’s nape. The pressure seems to calm the young witcher, and he mindlessly bites down on Warritt’s leathers on his shoulder, just to hold him still. Warritt notes absentmindedly that Evil-Eye slipped away when he wasn’t paying attention.

They stay like that for a long time. Eventually, Letho’s breathing evens out, slipping into an uneasy sleep. His muscles twitch and release, and Warritt rearranges them so he’s plastered to the snakelet’s back, hugging him tightly, not minding the cold sweat.

“Auckes,” he calls softly. He hears the creak of soft leathers in the rafters as the boy shifts warily. He drops down, landing without difficulty.

“Bloede,” the little snakelet curses in Elder, silently but with feeling. “How did you know I was here? You didn’t even use your Sign.”

“Language,” Warritt chides. “You were so loud I could hear you from a tower away. You were lucky Master Evil-Eye was in a cordial mood, he would have had you for breakfast.”

“Not true,” Auckes sulks.

The boy’s radiating disbelief warms him. He gestures with one hand, beckoning, and Auckes slips onto the bed, curling over Letho. The boy shakes a little and Warritt scents the residue of distress on him, so he presses a warm hand between his shoulder blades, drawing slow circles.

Auckes presses into his touch, then blurts out. “If I asked you, would you shave my head?”

Warritt doesn’t stop his motions, despite his surprise. “Why would you ask that?”

For a long moment, Auckes doesn’t say anything, just clenches his fist in Letho’s sleeping shirt. He smooths the soft material between his fingers anxiously. “Letho cried ,” he whispers it like a secret, and his tone belies his astonishment. Letho never cries. “He saw his reflection, you know.”

“I don’t know, Auckes,” prompts Warritt gently, lying through his teeth. “Why would he be upset because of that?”

“He’s big. And bald. He tried to hug Serrit and hurt him. Twas an axi-” he trips on the word in his haste, then tries again, slowly. “Ac-ci-dent. He didn’t mean it, I know. It scared him. And Serrit said that he wasn’t mad, so it’s okay.”

Warritt hides his sad smile, endeared by Auckes’ sharp perception and big heart. “Aye,” he breathes.

Another beat passes between them.

“I want you to cut my hair, so Letho knows it’s okay, too. That he’s not alone.” Auckes’ voice is so very small, like the breeze in Tir Tochair’s sheltered meadows.

Warritt’s throat constricts. His fingers follow the thin braid that hangs on each side of Auckes’ face, then cards into his soft ponytail.

“Alright,” he rasps. “Alright.”

--------- * ---------

Note: Auckes canonically can speak really good Elder. The little curse word “Bloede” can be translated to “bloody hell”.

Headcanons:

Warritt is the big-brother of the keep - he’s both a blind badass and the resident kidwrangler (and everyone clearly knows it)

Warritt is a genius - this is kiiind of canon, but regardless: he has an unorthodox thought process; he likes thinking outside of the box, and that’s how he isn’t bothered by his blindness and modified an already existing Sign (Supirre in canon; and also Igni in this fic)

Vipers are not shy of physical touch, on the contrary! - a little bit of cutagen here; Vipers like to coil up together in almost constricting hugs. Even those who haven’t gone through the Trials adopt this habit; the physical touch (hugs) is something they can claim as their own good thing

Letho went through the Grasses twice, like Geralt (aka twicegrassed) - compared to the rest of the School, Letho is an outlier. I explained his proportions with him surviving the Trials twice

Ivar was unaware of the further experimentations, and he flipped - a hc i adopted from @lookoutrogue. Ivar himself went through multiple Trials, that’s how he ended up with his mutated eye. My throwaway mage OC, Daibesyck was tortured to death because he went over the invisible line Ivar carved, hurting one of his own and disrespecting his authority

Auckes shaved his head in solidarity for Letho - originally i thought he would have done it when he was older, but tiny Auckes said no, i wanna do it now

Gerring of Kharkiv wasn’t supposed to appear, but he didn’t budge. So I guess now he’s an insomniac old witcher who likes to waste time and furniture with knife-throwing *shrug*

#my shit #the witcher #warritt the all-seeing #ivar evil-eye #letho #auckes #gerring of kharkiv #school of the viper #continent cake shop #little auckes made me cry #tell me what y'all think #i'll crosspost this into AO3 in a bit

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jessicajonesrp · 4 years

Text

He’s backkkk

It took some careful planning, but eventually, Rikarah had what she needed to be able to bring Kilgrave back to life.

She already had a safe and secure location where she would be uninterrupted during times of needed concentration- her open rented home, just outside of Manhattan. She had never bothered to inform Phillip that she had a rental house; it seemed a better bet to keep the information of her multiple living quarters, unused for most of the year, to herself, just in case. Phillip had been far from discreet, and there was a reason Rikarah had chosen a secondary lodging outside of the business of cities such as NYC, Hell’s Kitchen, Harlem, or Manhattan itself. She was a loner at heart, but her interest and her focus tended to be on others, and it was necessary to spend most of her time among them in order to know them and their lives. This distant secondary home was to be used only when necessary, to recharge, or for specific situations such as this.

It hadn’t been difficult to obtain a picture of Kilgrave. After the incident on the dock, he and Jessica and Patricia Walker had been all over the covers of newspapers everywhere, so it was a simple matter of a few clicks on a smart phone to find and save a picture of the man in question. It had taken more time to obtain something with Kilgrave’s DNA. Rikarah had attempted to trace the location of his body- somehow she suspected he had been neither traditionally buried nor cremated, and it was her guess that he was likely being used for scientific experimentation or study, legally or otherwise, within the government or whoever else had been the highest bidder of access.

With some creative thought, she had been able to trace back several of Kilgrave’s last known addresses, including the childhood home of Jessica Jones, which was unfortunately no longer standing after its bombing. Nevertheless, Rikarah had discovered that the “Kilgrave survivors” group Jessica had formed over a year ago, with the intention of drawing out Kilgrave and gaining information on him, was still active and meeting regularly.

It hadn’t been difficult to insinuate herself into the group for a few weeks as a new member, pretending to be one of the traumatized survivors of the incident of Kilgrave-directed violence on the dock the evening he himself had died. Rikarah had enough research information to be able to nod along and briefly and tearfully provide her own version of events. Meanwhile she took note of the people who had spent prolonged time with Kilgrave- being his driver for a week, forced to let him live in their home for longer, or forced to wait on him as a cook, bartender, or masseuse.

Those were the ones that may possess something that would carry Kilgrave’s DNA, even now. Those were the ones that she made the effort to befriend, to offer a shoulder and a listening ear. And a few episodes of feigned attraction and friendship had been enough for one clearly still traumatized older man to allow her into his home and his bed, and with minimal encouragement from Rikarah, to lead her in a tour of the house Kilgrave had made his lodging for a time- the house the man still lived in.

“It was terrible,” the man told her, actually tearful as he shook his head, eyes cloudy as though reliving what he spoke of. “I couldn’t leave the house, I couldn’t speak or even move without him giving me the okay to. He used my house as though it were his, and then one day he just left and didn’t come back. I was terrified that he might return, any moment, and I couldn’t predict when or do anything to stop him. He didn’t even take all of his things with him, and I was afraid to do anything to get rid of them, or even move them, in case it made him angry if he did come back. I know he’s dead now, but even now I’m afraid to touch his things. That’s pathetic, I know, but it’s the truth.”

It was pathetic, in Rikarah’s view, but it was also fortunate for her. Because among Kilgrave’s “left behind things” were a comb, toothbrush, and some clothing including socks and underwear. All certain to contain Kilgrave’s DNA.

She had charmed the man with sympathetic words and touches, assuring him of his bravery, lying without a flicker of remorse about her own supposed fear. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes for him to be convinced that he was now strong and brave enough to let some of those items go, “just a few to start with, the ones most associated with him personally”- and that she, Rikarah, in spite of her own fear, cared enough about his healing to be the one to take them away to make sure they were disposed of.

She still couldn’t believe the man was gullible enough to fall for such nonsense. But he had actually leaked tears and hugged her, thanking her for her empathy and giving him the chance to start a new life.

Ironic, and amusing, really, that in all actuality, she was bringing back what he feared the very most, all in the name of helping him put it behind him.

So armed in her remote rented home with the personal objects of Kilgrave’s and a clear picture of his face, Rikarah sat cross legged on her bed and emptied her mind of all thoughts but those of her intention. She stared at Kilgrave’s picture, her hands stroking over each object containing his DNA, and pictured him awake, alive, and whole before her. She imagined the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing, every synapse and nerve once more sharp with activity and use. She envisioned the blood running through his veins, and as her own small body grew taut and gave off fevered heat with the effort of her actions, she reached out for the knife beside her knee. Grasping it in her left hand, she slashed a shallow x over each of her palms, and then at the surface of each of her feet. Hands shaking slightly, she smeared the blood over the comb, the toothbrush, and the clothing, combining their DNA.

With a final shudder of effortful focus, Rikarah spoke aloud Kilgrave’s name. She could feel the air grow thick and strained, as though holding something moving and living and shifting in shape, and she slumped back, exhausted, against the bed, watching with satisfaction as a human form began to slowly knit itself into view in front of her.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. The revived bodies started first with skeletons, then filled up with internal organs and muscles and sinew, before finally being knit over with skin and hair and the other details normally seen on the outside. It was no different with Kilgrave, and eventually, there he stood, naked, panting, and wide-eyed at her bedside.

Rikarah smiled, more in self-satisfaction at the accomplished task than at the sight of the man’s naked body. She didn’t consider him overly impressive in his physique, but he would do. It was the man and his mind, not his body, that mattered. She more than anyone knew it was a mistake to overlook people for their physicality.

“Where the bloody hell am I?” Kilgrave sputtered, disoriented, seeming to struggle to draw in breaths. His lungs, being new again, were likely still adjusting to breathing. “What’s the matter with me? And who the fuck are you?”

When Rikarah didn’t immediately answer, too tired to bother, Kilgrave straightened, pointing a finger at her, and took a menacing step forward, raising his voice. “I asked you a question, are you deaf? Answer me!”

“I’m sorry, Kevin, but I don’t take orders from anyone if it doesn’t suit me, and certainly not from you,” Rikarah said coolly, lifting an eyebrow from her supine position on the bed. “As you quite literally owe your life to me, I would expect a little more respect and gratitude, but I’m a patient woman. I’ll assume you’re rather in shock at the moment, given you’ve just gone from bones and brain mush to a living body again, and let the rudeness slide.”

Kilgrave’s eyes bulged, and he recoiled, alarmed as much by the nonchalant response he had just received as the strange situation he had found himself in. To speak an order and have it not obeyed immediately was beyond his comprehension.

“But I told you to do it!” he almost whined, staring down at the small and clearly unintimidated woman resting on her side in the bed. “I told you to, and you just- the only person who could ignore me was Jessica, and-“

He stiffened, his face paling, as he pointed an accusing finger at Rikarah again.

“Jessica did this, Jessica used that sedative thing on me, didn’t she?! You’re with her, you’re one of her people!”

“Certainly not,” Rikarah corrected him, exhaling with a weary and somewhat impatient sigh. “Jessica knows nothing of this- yet. As far as she believes, you are long dead, and she is glad of it. After all, she was the cause.”

She sat up, watching wryly as the realization and the memory of his own last few moments of life, just before Jessica snapped his neck, came back into the forefront of his thoughts. Rikarah gave him a few more moments to process this against the obvious reality of his current status of being alive before addressing him again.

“Yes, Kevin, you were dead, and for over a year now, too. You would have stayed that way, if not for myself and my own unique abilities. Some gratitude and a certain level of loyalty is not unwarranted.”

“I was dead,” Kilgrave repeated, the words stunned, almost disbelieving. “And you’re saying- what, that you resurrected me? You?” He snorted, looking Rikarah up and down dismissively. “No offense, love, but you hardly look the type to have that sort of power.”

“And Jessica does?” Rikarah countered. “I’ll grant you that she has the advantage in height, but she’s of a smaller frame even than myself, and what she may have over me in physical strength, I can outdo in the sheer enormity of my ability. She may be able to kill someone with a punch, but I’m the one who can bring them back from the dead. If you ask me, I have the greater power, and therefore, the greater true strength.”

Kilgrave looked her over again, more carefully this time, assessing rather than dismissing her. He took a step closer, still seeming not to care for his nakedness as he narrowed his eyes at Rikarah, anger losing out to eagerness in his eyes.

“You know Jessica,” he asserted. “Where is she?”

Rikarah wagged a finger at him playfully, a small smile curving her lips.

“Am I really so uninteresting, that I bring you out of death, and you would forgo all details to chase after another woman? Perhaps I was wrong in my interest in you. Perhaps someone else is more deserving, and you can simply go back to where you were before.”

“Wait, no, that isn’t it, love,” Kilgrave backpedaled, his smile at Rikarah forced at first as he raked a hand through his hair, then more genuine. “Of course I want to know how you managed this, and of course I’m glad for it. And I certainly want to know how it is you don’t listen to a thing I tell you to do,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rikarah, before addressing her again. “But if you know Jessica, then you must know something of our history, and why I would want to know where she is. She’s the one who killed me, you know. She’s the one-“

“That,” Rikarah interrupted, to Kilgrave’s barely contained outrage, “is in the past. The present is right here, with me, in this moment. Choose wisely, Kevin Kilgrave, and choose now, while you still have the choice before you. You can realize that I am no ordinary woman you’re dealing with here, that you owe me your life and your loyalty, and I owe you nothing and cannot be ordered into anything you may want from me. Believe me, I hold no liking for Jessica Jones, and as long as I am the woman who comes first and foremost in your world, I care little for how you choose to play with her. And I am certainly not opposed to letting you know every detail of what you have missed knowing of her life over the past year that you’ve been dust and bones.”

She paused, tilting her head, and gave him a moment to consider, before concluding, “Or you can choose to be foolish, ungrateful, and quite frankly, a bumbling, pathetic corpse, stumbling off on your own in a world that has moved on without you. You would have none of my help or my connections, none of my knowledge, and you would displease me greatly. When and if Jessica Jones kills you again- and she would, you know, if you just pop up on her in her new life without my assistance- then you can be certain I would not lift a finger to bring you back. So, then. What shall it be? I would think the decision obvious, but perhaps you’re not as intelligent as I believed.”

For a moment Kilgrave stood there, motionless, perhaps still in shock, or perhaps genuinely weighing out his obsession with Jessica and his desire for revenge against the logical reasoning of Rikarah’s words. But then he nodded slowly, reaching forward to take hold of Rikarah’s hand in his.

“Well, it would indeed be a fool’s errand to let a woman like you slip out of my grasp. Why don’t we start over with introductions, and perhaps something in the way of an explanation.”

And as Rikarah began to speak, giving Kilgrave some if not all of the answers he craved, she noticed his body relax further, his expression growing more and more fascinated as he came to understand more of the extent of her actions and her power. It wasn’t quite the way, she was sure, that he had looked at Jessica, but for now, it was enough.

It was enough, in fact, that after he had dressed in some of his old clothing and taken time to familiarize himself with Rikarah and her home, that Rikarah was willing to give him the phone number, if not the address, of Jessica’s new workplace, Heroes for Hire. And she sat back, interested and indulgent, as he placed a call, from a cheap prepaid phone she had bought in anticipation of his need for one.

It was Trish who answered, her voice bright and cheerful as the company’s head. “Heroes for Hire, we provide help, heroism, and honorable services for those in need in a time where true heroism is more needed than ever. How can we help you today?”

“Ah, Patsy,” Kilgrave purred, snickering to himself when he heard Trish suck in a sharp breath, immediately recognizing his British accent and self-satisfied tone. “So good to hear a familiar voice, but unfortunately, yours has never been the one I wanted to hear, and you prattle on enough as it is on that bloody talk show of yours. Give the phone to Jessica. Tell her she has a message from an old friend, would you?”

“This isn’t funny,” Trish said tightly, her voice controlled but barely keeping back anger. “Whoever you are, pretending to be that man is not a joke, it’s cruel, and-“

“Ah, but this is no joke, Patsy, can’t you recognize your own would be lover?” Kilgrave asked rhetorically. “Have you had so many men now you can’t remember the voice of all the ones whose throat you stuck your tongue inside of? Let me help you out, then. I’m the one who told you to put a bullet in your head. Fortunately enough for you, that doesn’t appear to have worked out, I never did find out why. Care to explain it to me, Patsy?”

He and Rikarah both heard Trish suck in her breath on the other side of the line. He doubted that this incident in the bunker was something anyone but she, Kilgrave, Simpson, and Jessica were aware of- and out of the four of them, both men were dead. Or supposed to be.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice softer than before. “What do you want?”

“Unfortunately, Patsy, for me to really make you do what I’d like to make you do, you’d have to be a good bit closer to me than a phone call, something about pheromones,” Kilgrave said casually. “But I do have other ways of making you do as I’d like you to. Put Jessica on the phone, or I will have six people show up at her doorstep and cut your name into their own foreheads. If she tries to stop them, they will cut her as well. Is that something you want to have on your conscience, Patsy? For a simple conversation?”

The line went silent for a few moments. When Jessica came onto the line, her voice was hard and cold as steel.

“Who the fuck are you, and just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, playing this kind of sick joke?”

“And hello to you too, Jessie,” Kilgrave exclaimed, putting an exaggerated bounce to his voice. “No joke, you never did have much of a sense of humor to waste any on. I won’t say it’s good to hear from you, since I had to get murdered, raised from the dead, and then still call your sister first and threaten her for you to speak to me, and I must say that hurts a man’s feelings.”

“You’re not him. You can’t be, you’re just some sick asshole who needs to fucking go put his dick in a-“

“Oh, Jessie, I can see your language is as filthy as ever, every bit as appalling as your fashion sense. Let’s cut off all the protests of my supposed death and just check your office email, shall we?”

Five minutes before the phone call, Rikarah had shot a quick video of him smiling and waving into the camera, with the date and time of the video clearly time stamped at its bottom. With a few clicks, he sent the video to the public Heroes for Hire email address, cutting off the call.

“But don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll hear from me again soon. If you miss me before we meet again, you have the video for comfort’s sake.”

As Kilgrave hung up, glowing with renewed feelings of power over the fear, rage, and helplessness he had stirred anew in the two women he had just spoken to, he sent a genuine smile in Rikarah’s direction, who returned it in kind.

“You know what, I like you, Rikarah Pallaton. I think we’ll get along just fine after all.”

#jessica jones roleplay #Jessica Jones #luke cage roleplay #Luke Cage #trish walker #trish walker roleplay #kilgrave #kilgrave roleplay

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hoodie-2 · 3 years

Text

Hours had passed since the "math duel" and the sun had began its descent, setting the town ablaze with a warm orange glow. Krel had spent a portion of the evening exploring, or rather wandering, throughout more of the town, observing it's people. Many of the humans were out in pairs at this hour, some of the pairs had included smaller versions of themselves in whatever activities they were partaking in. He had spied a young pair of, well, human girls at the park, almost identical except in the tones of their skin and the color of their hair, and a pair of adults he assumed were their parents seated on a bench not far away, sitting at polar ends from each other on the bench conversing on their communication devices, otherwise leaving the two children on their own.

The girls themselves didn't appear perturbed or at all bothered by their parents behavior, more entertained by the images on the platform they made with the unusual writing untensils in their tiny hands. Well, all Earthly untensils were unusual in Krel's perspective; pencils, pens, markers, but ones that the two girls used were different even from those. These were maybe the length of an unused pencil but far thicker than a marker and... powdery? His head tipped as he watched one blow away part of her line, the colorful powder pushed into the air in one big gust, as she redrew the line. Her fairer toned sibling patted a hand on her clothes, a blue colored handprint left behind on the green fabric. Both girls took notice of the mark and giggled, the first girl Krel was watching pressed a hand to her own clothes and left a pink handprint similar to the other's blue. The action brought a smile to his face, it has been a while since that happened.

He eyed the girls' parents again. Would it be rude if he just started talking to the children? Their parents didn't seem to be very attentive at the moment. Doesn't that sound familiar? But he was curious about their weird, colorful writing tools. Hm, maybe if he just kept a decent distance as he spoke to them. He didn't want to come off as strange.

"Excuse me," he approached the girls, kneeling to their height at what he believed was a respectable distance. Both girls looked at him, shifting as if they were preparing to run at the first opportunity, Krel wasn't exactly surprised by the reaction seeing as a lot of the commercials on the picture box involved something called 'stranger danger' and he was, afterall, a stranger to them. But he pointed at their drawings, from a closer examination the colorful etchings turned out to be crude imitations of other Earth creatures, a lot of them with long ears and roundish tails and a few like clouds with legs. "What is that you are writing with?"

The wariness in their eyes wavered as they looked down at the drawings around them and then at the untensils in their hands.

"You mean chalk?" The yellow-haired one asked, pointing her free hand to the blue powdery stick she held.

"Chalk," Krel echoed thoughtfully. "And you, ah, draw with it?"

"Yea, dummy," her sister answered. "Haven't you used chalk before?" They gave him identical looks of confusion only someone their age could.

"No, actually, I haven't." Krel answered back quietly. "We don't have anything like 'chalk' where I am from." He looked down at their drawings again, noticing colors other than pink and blue, there was a yellow circle he figured was the sun judging by the green landscape below it and many other colorful dots he supposed were plants. His head tilted so the image wasn't completely upside down in his perspective. "You have some very pretty drawings."

"Do you want to try?" The yellow-haired girl asked, holding out her chalk stick to him.

He eyed the shrunken piece of blue in her open palm. "A- are you sure?"

"Sure!" The girl chirped, a smile spreading over her features, a matching one on her sister's as well. "We do this all the time, its fun."

Krel took the chalk from her, rolling it and turning it in his hand, blue powder stuck to his palm wherever it touched. He looked up to see the girl reach behind her sister and pull out another stick of chalk, purple this time. They went back to scribbling on the bricks around them. He watched as their creativity grew and spread, narrowly crossing over each other's work and somehow still blending together.

Looking down at the emptiness around him where their chalk hadn't yet touched. What would he draw, he wondered. Things considered artistic escaped him, even on his planet; he couldn't understand poetry, the closest he gets to crafting is inventing gadgets, even basic drawing on a telepad wasn't something he had much skill in. What could he draw? Well, shapes are pretty simple.

He started with a triangle, Earth's history was full of them according to Kubritz and her research teams. Ancient tombs and monuments to societies that have long since passed, the triangle was acknowledged as the strongest structure, those words rang true clearly. A square, the basic form of most present day structures; there wasn't anything too spectacular about it, a little more space than a triangle, sure but meh. Then a circle, a shape Krel was most familiar with, there wasn't a screen or viewing monitor in Akiridion-5 that did not have circles, and even then there were links that connected them to more circles. On Earth, circles meant unity to some and a means of 'alien' communication to others - Kubritz.

"Can't you draw?" The brown-haired girl asked as she crawled over to look at his work.

"I am not very talented." Krel admitted. "But drawing with chalk is fun."

"Try drawing your family." Her sister suggested as she joined them. "That helps me sometimes."

Krel hummed at that logic. It was sound enough, even if he was currently at odds with his family and it was an extremely delicate situation. But they are human children, it was probably best to go along with it.

He started with Aja, forcing himself to recall her human form; it wasn't perfect, especially since he was limited to one color but he knew. Next his mother, whose disguise he's only seen a handful of times so this may be a little more difficult. That was nothing to drawing his father. How does one draw face fur?

The girls giggled at the etching.

"That one looks like a monkey." The yellow-haired one pointed to his etching. His gaze roamed over the attempted drawing and felt laughter bubbling in his chest.

"It seems you are right." Oh, how was Krel going to look at his father's face without laughing now?

He looked around them, seeing that the sky was gradually getting darker, getting closer to the time that younglings would be taken back to their homes. The girls' parents were still occupied with their own priorities, poor girls.

"I suppose I should go," he sighed, giving back the chalk he was given, "you will be going home soon." Krel did not expect such saddened expressions at his words.

"Do you have to?" The brown-haired girl asked, watching him stand up.

"I'm afraid so." He dusted the blue powder on to his jeans. "But I'm sure we will see each other again."

"Really?" The yellow-haired girl asked excitedly.

"Of course," Krel chuckled. "I wander around when I have free time." He watched as they shared a look, tipping his head as they stood as well, the yellow-haired one picking up the blue chalk and holding it out to him again.

"My name's Abby," she said, bouncing a little on her heels as she shook the chalk at him.

"And I'm Gabby." Her sister added proudly. "You can have the blue one, then we can draw again next time. Right?"

A smile pulled at his lips again. It would be a shame to see their faces fall again in sadness. He took the chalk from Abby. "That sounds fun. My name is Krel, it was nice to meet you both."

They waved at him as he walked away, pocketing the chalk he was gifted. Maybe he can find out where they get it next time so he can obtain more himself. He admired the blue powder that tainted his palm, opening and closing his hand, it was somehow amusing how the color clung to his flesh. It was almost as if his real body was peering through, if only.

After a bit of wandering, the sky growing darker, and some of the street lights were blinking to life Krel found himself at a back alley behind some stores that surrounded the park, if his memory of the town map was correct. It was empty of any lifeform that was human as he stepped in, looking around at his surroundings carefully; four-legged creatures that he was told were cats saw his approach and ran off into hiding; even smaller creatures scurried away behind them, leaving Krel alone with the garbage bins of two different sizes, the walls of the buildings were clean aside from the occasional stain near the bins or moss that grew more toward the ground.

He wasn't sure what compelled him to do so but he pulled the piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote the equation from the math duel, following it with his correct work and answer. Satisfaction washed over him as he wrote his answer, the right answer, his original answer. He was still a bit stuck on his why's during the duel, he knew he did a good thing for Seamus so what did it matter anymore. Why did Seamus stare at him when it was over?

Krel's hand moved to write another equation, it was more complex but watching the letters and numbers come into being it made sense to him, it always made sense to him, similar to cataloging past events and his planning for the future. It was comforting as he continued the equation, spreading it further along the wall, blue clear against the red brick but still convoluted. Had he been less taken in with his work he probably would have felt more guilty about how much of the chalk he was using up. He didn't notice the approaching person behind him until they addressed him.

"Kubritz?"

Krel whipped around, instinctively taking up a defensive battle stance startling the newcomer. That was... Seamus? And was holding an item in each hand, they didnt seem to be weapons though so he could relax somewhat. Not completely though, he has noticed around the education prison that some human males in their age group tended to be, well, boorish and found amusement in harassing other males they perceived as weak, and Krel's human form unfortunately suited that perception. Primitive. He'll be sure to correct that.

"Uh... hey," Seamus waved one of the things he held, the action stiff. His eyes flicked beyond Krel, looking over the equations behind him. "What're you working on?" His gaze followed the equation to the start, lingering on the work shown. "Looks complicated."

"You have no idea." Krel wasn't trusting this interaction, not that there was any reason to.

"Hey- Look, you can relax, uh, whatever move that is," Seamus gestured to Krel's posture with whatever it was he held. "What is that anyway? Judo? Jujitsu?"

Krel eased his stance but kept a leery eye still on the human. "Nothing you have ever seen, I assure you." He answered in little more than a monotone.

"Ookay...?" The human coughed, taking a few meeger steps toward him with a hand extended outward. "You want a burrito? I dunno if you've eaten yet or anything but it's an idea right?" He gave a pitiful laugh as he stopped only a few feet away, the thing in his hand slumping over his fingers like it was trying to slip out of his grip.

As a being of energy, Krel had no need to consume organic materials, but he has been curious. On another hand Earth has a history in poisoning consumables for enemies, again not that it should affect him, maybe.

A sigh escaped Seamus, seeming to notice Krel's reluctance. "I just want to apologize for my behavior." He said, "You didn't deserve it. You earned the grade fair and square."

"I suppose I should say that I'm relieved you've gained some sense." Krel retorted, not completely convinced.

"Okay... I earned that." Krel saw Seamus' grip tighten around the 'burrito', his restraint was admirable. "But you didn't have to let me win, so why did you?"

Krel finally took the burrito, examining it for a moment before tearing the aluminum wrapping like he's seen other humans do and bite into it. The texture was strange, soft, soggy; the taste was savory, it was weird feeling the crunch of vegetables but overall it wasn't bad but he didn't have much in expectations, so, another point for Earth.

"Wanna sit?" Seamus gestured to the the sidewalk. Krel didn't object, taking another bite of his burrito and joining him on the cold cement just a yard or so from a flickering lamppost.

"I had nothing to gain," he answered finally, getting a startled look, "from winning the math duel. Nothing to lose either, unlike you."

The human's head ducked almost sheepishly. He must have recalled how loud his father was in bellowing their agreement. If it could have been called that.

"Again, I'm sorry," he declared. "My dad just has high expectations. Very high."

"Understandable."

"Is it really?"

Krel frowned at him. "Just because my parents are not present does not mean I don't have my own problems with them."

Seamus' face turned even more guilt ridden. "R-right, sorry," he stammered, a red hue spreading over his features. He was quiet for a moment, taking large distracting bites of his own burrito. The silence allowed Krel a moment to gather his thoughts about the present situation, and possibly plan for what could happen next. Maybe he could somehow make Seamus an ally, like Aja had with the majority of their peers, to keep his disguise here. It certainly would make things easier than researching every tidbit about this mudball to blend in while Morando outsources the search for Gaylen's core. The question was how to do so.

"You," Seamus spoke up again, breaking the silence between them, "you came from a warring country, right, like Aja Tarron and her family?"

The words brought a bitter curl to his lips. Her family, may as well be, ironic, consider she used to run away from her family at every opportunity.

"Yes," Krel answered softly. "Maybe even the same country, if luck would have it." Some luck that would be.

"What happened? I-if you don't mind me asking."

The expression on Seamus' face was different from before; softer, solemn, perhaps even sympathetic. It's been a clear background to his class that Krel escaped from a war torn country with no family besides Morando who was discharged due to injury during the fight. Could this be the opportunity he needed to make Seamus his ally? To make a 'friend'? In one quote Krel had heard, he now understood. When opportunity knocks, it would be wise to open the door.

"I-it all happened so fast," Krel began, quickly coming up with details to twist the story from the traumatic reality. "It happened on the coronation day for the royal heirs; my parents both had high political and military positions so my sister and I were allowed good seats to see the crowning," he kept his voice low, allowing some of the emotion he kept at bay to fill his words, "everyone was excited, we all had high hopes. The princess hadn't made her appearance yet when the attack happened." Krel swallowed thickly as the real memory came to mind. The running, his parents ordering him and Zadra to find Aja, falling behind, and being left behind. "It was chaos; people were running everywhere, trying to find each other and to find shelter, soldiers and their weapons, the cannon fire..." his eyes were leaking again, it was too much already with so little spoken. What was wrong with him? "I- I was too slow, my... my parents- my sister, gah, what is wrong with me?" He took the fabric of his shirt, quickly trying to wipe away the streaming liquid, his chest felt heavy, his core ached. Krel hadn't felt like this since he first found Aja and their parents on Earth. His head hurt.

A hand touched his shoulder making him freeze up. "It's okay." Seamus' voice was calm, relaxing even. "You've been through a lot, huh?"

Krel sniffed, trying to regain some composure before answering. "You have no idea."

#tales of arcadia #3below #krel tarron #aja tarron #general morando #morandos prodigy au #king failkov #queen coranda #seamus johnson #trollhunters #space camp #this is getting so long so imma make a part 3

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sanktaleksander · 3 years

Note

What about, the prompt number three for Brank? *Puppy eyes*

I’m sorry this took forever but I really loved writing this even when I wasn’t making much progress. I hope you enjoy it!

Brank + 3. touching foreheads

Read on ao3

Billy hated hospitals. He hated everything about them, from all the people always coming and going, the oppressive and glaring fluorescent lights overhead to the constant lack of quiet, be it from the sounds of beeping machines or humming equipment or just the constant sound of conversation. Even the smell, so bracingly potent in its cleanliness seemed to put him on edge. It probably didn’t bother most people, but everything about this place made Billy uncomfortable and ill at ease from the moment he knew he’d have to go inside. Places like this, any clinical setting really, reminded him too much of his past, especially around the time he’d found his mother, practically on life support after she’d nearly drugged herself into oblivion one too many times. The place she was in now still made him uncomfortable, as though he could smell the scent of people’s suffering just from entering the building. Just one more reason he preferred not to see her.

Today though, today he was here for a different reason and if it had been for any other reason, he probably wouldn’t have come simply to avoid stepping foot in another hospital. But he wasn’t here for a friend or even a family member, he was here for someone far more important than either of those designations.

Billy had taken care of everything personally as soon as he’d been given word. He’d made sure the room was the biggest and best available, had only the best staff on duty with more just a call away if need be and he was sure he could have a jet waiting and ready in under 30 minutes if shit suddenly decided to hit the fan, which Billy always assumed it would even if it never really did. It was the soldier in him he supposed, always having to be prepared for the worst case scenario. He’d learned a long time ago that it paid to have all your bases covered and he was definitely a man with the means to do exactly that.

The ride in the elevator was excruciating, both because of such an enclosed space and the length of time it took to move up several floors even though in actuality it probably wasn’t any time at all. Mostly though, it was because of the series of knots that had formed in the pit of Billy’s stomach, starting the second he got the call. After that, he’d started ringing contact after contact to get everything in place here before ultimately making the trip here himself.

Finally, Billy reached the correct floor and found it blessedly less crowded and a bit quieter, mostly because Billy had demanded the best and was willing to fork over the cash for a bit of privacy. Still, his heart sped up as he made his way down the hall, his expensive Louis Vuitton’s echoing against the tile with every step.

There was a rather broad man in a black suit standing in front of the door at the end of the hall. His arms were crossed over his chest and his gaze steely. If he was listening to the chatter he was surely hearing from his earpiece, it registered no change in his expression. Billy didn’t have to say a word, the man knew who he was just from sight alone and immediately stepped aside, opening the door and allowing Billy to enter before closing it once he was inside.

The room was silent except for the steady sounds of the machines that were inescapable in a hospital. It was a rather large space for a hospital room, with an oversized couch and several chairs, some decent wallpaper, and windows that overlooked the city.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

Billy had avoided looking at the man sitting in the hospital bed until then, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when he finally managed a look. His eyes landed on the other man’s face, saw the myriad of cuts on his body, some deep enough to require stitches while others were simply bandaged. Not that Billy could see most of his body, just his face, and arms, the rest covered by a gown and the thin blanket that had been placed over him. Still, Billy could see the beginnings of bruises along with other abrasions. He worried about the injuries that he knew he couldn’t see.

It took a moment for him to find his voice as he took everything in. “It’s you. For anyone else, I wouldn’t have but you’re not anyone else.”

“So I’m royalty now, huh?” Frank’s voice sounded rough and more than a bit tired, but just the sound of it made Billy’s heart beat faster, even as he remained rooted to the spot, still taking in the state of the other man. Leave it to Frank to try and make light of his current situation.

Billy sighed softly then, taking a step toward the bed. “You act like I should’ve done nothing.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal, Bill. Whatever happens to me isn’t your fault.”

“But you could’ve died!” Billy burst out, drawing back a second later, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. “We’re all going to die sooner or later. You’re still making more out of this than you should be.” Frank insisted. Billy let out a noise of disgust. “Oh spare me that bullshit. Just because we’re all going to kick it one day doesn’t mean we should just act like we have no control over our lives. We shouldn’t just let shit happen as it may, paying no mind to our own safety, just asking for the universe to come and off us.” He shook his head before meeting Frank’s gaze. “Is that what you want? Do you have some sort of fucking death wish that you haven’t told me about?”

Frank scoffed. “You know it’s not like that. I do what I do because I have to, because nobody else will. You know it’s a little more dangerous than some office job.”

“I do but you’re not an untrained idiot who decided to do this for his own jollies either! Would it really be so hard to be a little more careful? Every day I wake up and wonder if this is the day I’m gonna get a call that someone found your maimed corpse in some burnt out warehouse!” Billy was trying so hard to rein in his feelings but this was Frank and nobody else got to him quite like he did and it didn’t help that Frank didn’t seem to understand why Billy would go to such lengths just to make sure he was okay.

“And so what if I end up dead, Bill? You’d be fine, you’ve got everything anyone could possibly want and if you don’t, you’re more than capable of paying someone to get what you want. The whole fucking world is in the palm of your hand. Compared to all that, why do I even matter?” Frank asked him, watching Billy with almost curious eyes, unused to seeing the other man this way. For a long moment Billy stood silent. His gaze had moved from Frank to somewhere on the floor, but it soon returned to his face and Frank wasn’t sure he quite understood the emotion he saw playing in Billy’s eyes when everything about him was normally so guarded.

“Don’t you get it?” Billy finally asked him. “Don’t you understand that without you, I’ve got nothing? No family, no friends, or at least none that matter anyway. I’ve got the money and the high powered job and everything that comes with that but none of that matters if you’re not here. How am I just supposed to fucking go on without you, huh? How am I supposed to move on and act like everything is okay knowing damn well I’m never gonna see you again?!” Billy demanded, his voice rising as he began to pace, not knowing what else to do with himself.

Frank found himself unsure of what to say. It hurt him to see Billy like this, to see him so clearly unhappy when he was usually so calm and practically unflappable in any situation. When they’d been overseas, he’d been a lethal sniper because of his ability to remain in control at all times besides having a perfect shot. He was even like that when they were deep in a firefight. Billy could handle anything. Frank couldn’t remember a time when he’d seen him like this.

“Bill...I-I don’t…” He couldn’t seem to find the right words.

Billy had crossed to the other side of the room where the windows were, now leaning his hands against the ledge beneath the glass, his eyes trained on the view of the city outside.

“Sometimes...Sometimes I think about trying to convince you to go away with me, to give up all of this, this life you’ve chosen. I think about convincing you to let me take you away from here, off to anywhere in the world that we could want to go as long as it got us out of here and I’d never have to worry about losing you again. We could just disappear, never have to worry about anything anymore. I don’t care about where we’d end up, as long as we’re together.” Billy sighed heavily then, shoulders sagging. “But I know there’s no point in asking. I know I could never get you to agree to it. I may not be able to live without you, but that doesn’t mean you feel the same way about me.”

Frank had never heard Billy speak like that, never understood just how much he cared, not really. He’d always done such a good job of hiding his emotions, but perhaps this time had been one close call too many for Billy.

“Bill, fuck, I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t realize how you felt. I’m so used to not caring too much about my own survival that I assumed if I was gone, maybe you would be sad, but that it wouldn’t mean nearly as much as it clearly would.” He swallowed, finding a lump had formed in his throat. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be lost without you.” Frank managed, his voice much softer now. “I know how important you are to me but I don’t think I’ve been showing it, not nearly enough. I didn’t realize how my own disregard for myself would affect you.”

Frank’s eyes stayed on the other man as he remained in place by the window, not saying a word. He couldn’t help worrying that Billy wouldn’t say anything else and that he would simply walk out. Frank didn’t want that, didn’t want there to be this tension between them.

“Bill? Will you come over here? Please? So I can stop looking at your back?”

For a long moment, Billy still didn’t move. But eventually, he straightened and turned, approaching the bed. Frank recognized the expression on Billy’s face, one he was very much familiar with, the calm, cold look of detachment Billy kept up around nearly everyone and almost all the time. Frank was one of the few people around which he could let that mask disappear and allowed himself to really feel things, but usually only if they were alone. Frank didn’t take offense to Billy refusing to do that now, knowing that the coldness was just his response to his control slipping earlier. It was a defense mechanism for Billy, one he relied on, a sort of self-preservation against rejection or unwanted pain, something he’d been forced to learn from years of being used and having his wants disregarded by people he thought he could trust. He didn’t know how else to handle emotionally charged situations where feelings mattered more than anything else. For Billy, he’d much rather storm a fortified bunker than try to navigate his own feelings.

Frank wasn’t quite like that, but he understood well enough and he honestly wasn’t much better considering the emotion of his that he was most familiar with was rage.

But the good thing was that he was also one of the few people who could coax Billy into letting his guard down after he’d thrown every wall back up. It wasn’t always easy, but it seemed Billy responded to him in ways he just didn’t with other people.

Frank pushed himself up in the bed so he was sitting better, so he could try and get Billy to meet his gaze. “You mean everything to me, you know that?” It wasn’t easy for him to say these things out loud, but they needed to be said and at least they were alone. “I never say it and I clearly don’t show it enough but you’re all I’ve got, Bill. I know I’d never make it if you were gone but I never realized that you would feel the same way about me.” He exhaled a deep sigh, looking down at his hands, the knuckles wrapped up as they’d been split and bloody when he came in. “You’re the only one who even remotely understands the shit that goes on in my head. I don’t have to act like I’m something I’m not with you. You don’t look at me the way some people do, like I’m a ticking bomb they don’t know how to defuse. You’re the only person I know that won’t let me down…” He looked up, surprised when he found Billy’s eyes on him.

The look in Billy’s eyes was unreadable, those dark eyes revealing little though Frank felt like Billy was studying every bit of him, as though he were peering into Frank himself, picking up on all the things the other man had left unsaid.

Frank didn’t move when Billy stepped closer, didn’t shy away when the other man carefully reached to touch his cheek despite having several cuts on that part of his face. He didn’t care honestly, he wasn’t afraid of Billy in any sense, but he definitely wasn’t going to pull away now, not when he saw the way Billy’s expression changed. Those eyes were no longer distant, instead, they were now watching Frank in a way he couldn’t quite describe, though he found this look familiar. He’d seen glimpses of it when Billy thought Frank hadn’t been paying attention, only for it to disappear as soon as he realized that Frank had noticed. Frank wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but he didn’t look away, leaning into Billy’s hand as the man’s thumb brushed over his cheek. Billy so rarely gave out affection, not that Frank was much different, but it was even rarer that Frank received affection nowadays from anyone so he relished it while he could, the look in Billy’s eyes making him feel things he thought he’d long since left behind.

Frank had been so caught up in trying to piece together the thoughts going on behind Billy’s expression that he didn’t even register when the other man moved, not until Billy was already kissing him, almost hesitant at first. For a moment Frank froze, his surprise immobilizing him until his brain came back online and he registered just how good all this felt, from the warmth of Bill’s lips against his own, how unbelievably soft those lips were, to the hands that were now framing his face, cradling his cheeks with the utmost care.

Frank hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time, enough that he couldn’t even pinpoint the last time in his mind, but he couldn’t recall any of his past experiences making him feel like this, that despite his multitude of injuries, all he could feel was how good kissing Billy felt.

His bandaged hands reached forward, grabbing handfuls of Billy’s suit to try and tug him closer as he leaned in, kissing Billy back, not expecting the swell of emotion that rose up inside. It felt this was something he’d been waiting to happen for years, like Frank’s whole world suddenly made sense in a way it never had before.

When they parted, Billy didn’t go far, resting their heads together as his thumbs continued to stroke over Frank’s cheeks. “You’re it for me, Frankie. If you’re gone, then I might as well go with you. If you’re not here, then nothing else really matters.”

Those words hit Frank especially hard, the look on Billy’s face that he’d been trying to understand beginning to make a lot more sense. “I’m not going anywhere.” He promised softly, reaching up to gather Billy’s hands in his own, pressing his lips to the other man’s knuckles. “I won’t do that to you, Bill, I’m not gonna leave you.” He leaned up and Billy didn’t hesitate, meeting him in the middle to kiss him again as Frank squeezed his hands.

For a moment they remained that way, neither in much hurry to move. But when they did separate, Frank briefly worried that Billy would change his mind and act as though none of that had just happened. But much the opposite happened.

Billy slipped out of his suit jacket and for a second Frank didn’t understand why, not until the other man returned to the side of the bed and Frank quickly understood what he was silently asking for, even if Billy couldn’t bring himself to voice the words. This wasn’t unusual either, they always seemed to be on the same page about almost everything.

Frank carefully shifted himself on the bed, moving his body to one side in order to leave enough room for the other man’s long frame. It wasn’t easy and it took a good bit for both of them to get comfortable, minding the wires and tubes attached to Frank as well as his numerous injuries. But soon Billy was tucked under Frank’s chin, a careful arm secured across his torso, his head resting so he could hear the other man’s heart beat.

Frank wrapped an arm around Billy, nuzzling his nose into the softness of his hair before pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Billy responded by lifting his head to press a kiss beneath the curve of Frank’s jaw.

“You don’t ever have to be without me if you don’t want to be, okay?” Frank’s fingers traced down over Billy’s arm. “I’m yours if you’ll have me.”

“Yeah?” Billy responded, “You sure about that?”

“More sure than I’ve been about anything in quite a long time.” Frank tightened his hold on Billy, tugging him impossibly closer. “I know what I’m asking for, Bill. I know you and I know everything that comes along with you. But you know me too and you know all the bullshit I’ve got hanging on me, always going on inside my head. If you can accept all that and take me anyway, then I know I can do the same for you. I just wish I’d made this decision a long time ago.”

Billy said nothing for several minutes, listening to Frank’s heart and the steady sound of his breathing. He’d avoided shit like this for years, refusing to let anyone get close enough to be with him like this unless it was some sort of fling and those never lasted long. He’d always moved on eventually. But Frank was different. Frank had been his one constant since they’d met and he was the only person to look every horrible thing about Billy straight in the face and not flinch, not even a little. And if they were going to get to have more moments like this, then wasn’t that all he’d ever wanted all along? No one had ever touched him like this, wanted him like this. If Frank wanted him, would it really be so bad to let Frank have him when he wanted Frank just the same?

This time when Billy lifted his head, he made sure he met Frank’s gaze, looking into those brown eyes that he had always found so welcoming whenever they were on him. “You and me, huh? This mean you’re gonna propose too?”

Frank’s face broke out in a smile at that, one that made his laugh lines come out and his eyes light up. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. I’d be content to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”

Billy had to kiss him again when he said that, sure this would be just one of many more to come. And as he once again made himself comfortable in Frank’s arms, Billy found himself at ease inside a hospital for the first time in his life. Funny how being with that right person could change things completely.

#brank #frankenbilly #frank castle x billy russo #frank castle/billy russo #the punisher #the punisher fic #my writing #thefuckisaid #answered

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invisibleinorange · 3 years

Text

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties), Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton, Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington, Benedict Bridgerton, Daphne Featherington, Simon Hastings, Portia Featherington Additional Tags: Bridgerton, Polin Summary: Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes". (#I’mHereToKillYouAllWithFeels)

While Anthony was absorbed in ensuring the women in their family were saw after, he’d asked Benedict to see to it that Penelope Featherington was returned safely home.

Penelope could scarcely speak much less utter how absolutely wrecked she was about the loss of their brother when she was left at her door step. If they had allowed her, she probably wouldn’t have left. She was far better off useless there than alone with her own thoughts.

Her mother was waiting like the viper she was. Penelope wasn’t certain she had the strength to fight her off either.

“Since when do you get escorted home by Bridgertons?” her mother asked. There was something implied there like it would have been perfectly acceptable had it been one of her sisters. “You could at least attempt to look happy about it.”

“Their brother just died,” Penelope found herself snapping.

“Not Anthony! He would have been perfect for your sister,” Portia dared to say, which only served to magnify the hurt and anger building up in Penelope. Penelope was used to bottling things up, taking everything on the chin but tonight wasn’t the night.

“No,” she argued, biting her lip enough to where it was close to drawing blood. She didn’t want to be insolent but this was hardly a time to care about the next social season or making matches in the time between.

“Oh thank Heavens,” Portia said clearly not picking up on the fact that Penelope was actually quite distressed.

“It was Colin,” she said, voice shaking with force at the words. She was one mere seconds from collapsing in on herself.

“Oh the one you have that silly little crush on. The fool who almost married Miss Thompson,” Portia said as if the first part was public information. Penelope was in such shock that her mother had even noticed such a thing that mouth hung open slightly. She wasn’t prepared for the hurtful words that would come next. “You need not worry, Penelope darling. He would have never married you anyways. Those books really have rotted your mind.”

It was an absolute slap in the face. Her veins filled with ice and the slight from her own family. She was painfully aware that she wasn’t as pretty as the other eligible women of the Ton. It was one thing to know and another to have it spelled out in front of her quite so ineloquently. The fact that her mother could see her heart breaking and not even try to offer some sympathy was unacceptable. She was almost grateful for the fact she’d never marry or have children, just so she didn’t have to worry about being as unfeeling as her own mother.

“You need not worry,” she uttered, storming away.

There was one thing that Benedict and Anthony agreed upon: the letter could never see the light of day. They couldn’t bring themselves to destroy it though so it was hide it away in a desk with other important paperwork.

The only real question that kept them up in the night was what they were to do about the problem reading it presented.

Colin was young and perhaps not as direct with his wishes as he might have been had he been a few years older but they could read between the lines. The very wishes Colin expressed toward Penelope would never come to pass unless they saw it fit to carry them out.

They could not agree upon who would be the one to take it upon themselves to ensure she was protected, loved. Neither fully desired to marry and certainly not a Featherington. Neither particularly saw the things that their brother did in the girl but there was no denying she had a good heart. As often as she had been at their home through the years, she might as well have been their sister.

When Daphne and Simon forced their way into the drawing room, the brothers were still arguing amongst themselves over who must do it when the proper mourning period was over.

“What exactly are you not going to allow him to do?” she couldn’t help but ask as she approached, her pregnant belly scarcely hidden by her dress. She looked well even if it was clear that she hadn’t slept in order to hasten the journey home. From the look on the Duke’s face, he hadn’t been on board but had been forced.

“Nothing,” the two brothers said almost in unison, greeting their sister with hugs.

“I don’t buy that.”

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Anthony said, protective act in full force as he gazed over her before looking at the Duke as if to accuse him of not having a better grip on his own wife.

“Don’t look at me. You know Daphne is of her own mind,” he said with a shrug.

“I only obey when the order makes sense and I’m pregnant not an invalid. I insisted we come as soon as we received word.”

She seemed to have it together far better than anyone else in the family which was almost remarkable, considering she and Colin were close in age and had always been the best of friends.

Perhaps it was all an act though because the Duke had threatened to lock her up should even the slightest hint of distress appear after a lengthy meltdown demanding he order up the carriages ended in his compliance.

“We’re grateful to have you closer to home,” Anthony finally said. “I’m not sure that mother will be able to properly handle planning his rites. I contacted Francesca and she should be home soon as well. ”

There was not body to properly put on display but a coffin would be order and filled to brim with flowers. It would sit in the drawing room where they might welcome mourners. Someone must be with it day and night though and that was a job fit for a woman.

With their mother crushed and Daphne’s delicate condition, it was likely Eloise and Francesca would be left with most of the watch. She knew there would be no stopping Daphne from taking up the watch some of the time though or helping to ensure Colin had a fitting wake. Then there was the small matter of tokens for funeral goers. All would have be completed.

There would be an actual funeral but it wouldn’t be acceptable for any of the women to attend. That would fall on Anthony, Benedict and Gregory. They would get through it though somehow.

“I’ll make a list,” Daphne uttered, throwing herself head first into the work of it. This was how she was going to survive this moment. She moved toward the desk, going into find unused parchment. Without sleep Anthony wasn’t thinking properly enough to know that was where they’d hidden the ghastly letter.

It was only once she was in there and Benedict elbowed him hard that he saw fit to remember and he knew it was too late.

“What’s this?” she asked as she spotted the handwriting under the blank paper pulling it up. Her brown eyes narrowed as she began to read it. She gazed up from the words, feeling she’d violated her deceased brother’s privacy for having even read them. She wanted to ask if the others had seen it but one look told her that she had two brothers who knew full well about this.

The last time she’d spoken one on one with her brother, he’d been so besotted by Marina Thompson that she wasn’t sure that he would ever get over her betrayal. Clearly, she had not known her brother as well as she thought that she had. The words on the paper broke her heart. Her brother had died not fully knowing just how deserving of love he was.

“What did they do?” the Duke couldn’t help but ask, reaching to grab the paper from his wife and glancing it over. He could pick up on the distress on his wife’s face and he was fully prepared to give Anthony a black eye over it. This was already an unacceptable situation but if they’d done anything to add to the situation, he was going to be furious. At the moment, he wasn’t quite connecting the dots though.

“How could you?” their sister berated. It was clear the distress they’d hoped to avoid had arrived. “I sincerely hope that I am wrong about the fact you have hidden this letter from its intended recipient.”

“It would crush her,” Benedict argued.

“It’s not your place,” Daphne argued right back.

“It is our place. Her well-being is our problem now and we won’t have this on our conscious. What good would it do her?” Anthony argued right on back, knowing full-well Daphne would win this argument. She always did.

“She deserves to know,” she told them, fury clearly written on her face.

The Duke was pretty clear from looking at her that he wouldn’t have to be the one throwing the punches. Daphne would be the one doing it, if he didn’t stop her. He moved a little closer just in case he had needed to hold her back.

“Tell who, what?” a voice asked from the door.

All eyes turned to the tired, somber face of Eloise who had heard the arguing and decided to see what exactly was going on.

Anthony and Benedict gave pleading looks to Daphne to not tell their younger sister. They might be able to bury this letter with her knowing but not Eloise.

Daphne clearly didn’t heed the warning. She narrowed their eyes at them before grabbing the letter back from her husband, crossing the room and extending it to her younger sister.

“I’ll leave the massacre of our idiotic brothers to you,” Daphne uttered before moving out of the room just as quickly as she’d arrived. The Duke offered a sympathetic look to Anthony and Benedict before following after his wife.

#bridgerton #⚜ writings — polin #polin #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington

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sinsatmidnight · 4 years

Text

A Gift from a Princess

Pairing - Lee Naeun x Male Reader

Words - 3370

Sins - Smut, oral, bath sex

So slightly late for Naeun’s birthday (May 5th), but I had a rush of inspiration and it was her birthday so I tried to hurry this out! It’s quite different from my usual stuff as I experimented with some things (particularly dialogue), but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

It is the waning hours of the day and the sun is about to set on the Alabaster Palace. There is a knock on the heavyset door of white wood to your chambers.

You pause in packing your belongings for the long journey ahead of you. “Yes, what is it?”

A young maiden’s voice emanates from behind the door. It sounds like Chaekyung, the handmaiden to the princess. She’s a few years older than the princess and serves as friend, caretaker, and servant. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but the princess is requesting your presence at her chambers. She would like to see you post-haste.”

The Princess? You wonder why she wants to see you. “I’ll be there shortly, thank you, Chaekyung.”

“I’ll be taking my leave then, my lord.”

“Yes, please do.”

The handmaiden’s footsteps echo off the polished white marble floor, fading away from your door. You stow away your travelling pack, sheath the sword you were planning to sharpen and adjust your sword belt before making your way through the palace you live and work in, to the princess.

The palace is grand and large, with white accent with gold being the predominant theme, hence the name of the Alabaster Palace. You walk for a good while through long and tall hallways, greeting some of the white-armoured guards as you pass them. The Princess lives in the Royal Wing, far removed from where your quarters are. As a knight to the king, your quarters are better than most others, but you do not compare to the Royal Family.

Princess Lee Naeun is both breathtakingly beautiful and beloved to her people and her father. Kind and sweet, her reputation precedes her everywhere. She has plenty of suitors, but none have come close to winning her heart. They certainly weren’t helped by her father being so protective of her. Noblemen of all stripes from many kingdoms near and far have tried to court her and win her hand in marriage. All have been rebuffed by Naeun’s father, or by the Princess herself.

Arriving at her chambers, you knock firmly on the gilded white door of wood three times. “My lady, it is I. You called for me?”

Her familiar voice comes from behind the door. “Please enter and lock the door behind you. I do not wish to be disturbed.”

You push the door open and enter, before gently closing it shut and locking it with the bolt behind you. In the large, high-ceilinged chamber of white and gold before you, Princess Lee Naeun sits upon her giant red four-poster bed of silky sheets and velvety cushions.

The Princess is a ravishing vision of beauty with her large doe eyes, smooth fair skin, long dark tresses, and thick lips of deep red pursed together. A small tiara of white gold, diamonds, opals, and pearls adorns the crown of her head. A silken choker with a gold clasp and pearls hanging from it sits around her sculpted neck. She is dressed in a resplendent large strapless gown of midnight black with silver threading inlaid and small opals adorning it.

That gown is also cut exceptionally low, revealing more of her chest than you’ve ever seen before. You’ve never seen the Princess wear this particular dress before in all your time guarding her person. As you stand before Princess Naeun, you try to keep your eyes stuck to her gorgeous face, and not on the exposed flesh of her chest. Despite her obvious beauty, it was hard to avoid not looking down without seeming overly stiff.

“My lady, you asked for me?” Your throat seems to be dry, but you get the words out.

Princess Naeun stands up from the bed and takes the couple of steps needed to close the distance to you. “Father says that you are to journey west across the Silvercap Peaks to the city of Snowgleam.”

“Yes, my lady. His Majesty has an urgent message to be sent to Snowgleam.”

“I’ve heard tales of travellers disappearing in the snow, ever to be seen again. The cliffs are treacherous, that journey is perilous.” Princess Naeun suddenly draws you into a tight hug, her chest pressed up against yours and her face inches away from yours.

“Which is why swords like mine are needed to protect the message.” You say carefully, unused to this sudden intimacy with the Princess. “My lady, I beg your pardon, but why did you request for my presence? I am but a humble knight and bodyguard.”

“I am just worried about you, that is all.” She whispers, her grey eyes boring into yours with their intense gaze.

“I will be gone but two weeks. A week to the city, and a week back. I’m flattered for the concern, Princess, but I will be fine and back before you know it.”

Princess Naeun releases you from the hug, taking a step back. “I would like to offer you a gift for your safe return. Something to motivate you to come back safe and alive.”

You say nothing, not completely sure of what the Princess might be referring to. Her behaviour tonight has been anything but usual and you cannot predict what she intends for you.

The Princess lifts one delicate finger to her lips and her tongue flicks out momentarily, wetting the tip of it. You follow with your eyes as Naeun traces a path from her lips, over her chin, her neck…down her chest and ending up in her cleavage, between her breasts. Her finger stays there.

“Do you like what you see?” Her voice is low and sultry.

You swallow. There is no way to answer her that would fit proper decorum. As such you decide to answer with what you truly feel. You can already feel yourself getting hard in your pants. And how could you not have been attracted to such a beautiful woman? You merely had the sense not to act upon that attraction. Not before this.

“Yes.” Your reply is but a whispered breath, but it is loud enough in the otherwise-silent chambers for the Princess to hear. A smile of what almost looks like relief curves across her pretty face. “Good.”

Princess Naeun leans in and her red lips softly press against your own. With her lips against yours, she whispers. “Because I’m your gift.” You feel her hand caress the growing bugle in your pants. “Lay with me in my chambers tonight. Come back safe from your journey…and lay with me for many more nights thereafter.”

This is definitely plenty of motivation for you to come back safe from your journey.

Her other hand takes one of yours and places it squarely on her chest. “Touch me.” She breathes. You squeeze gently. Her large and fair breasts are soft, firm, supple and make a nice handful. They feel perfect to your touch.

“This is a most generous gift, Princess.” You finally manage to get some words out of your dry mouth. “You have rejected so many who have wanted you, and yet you give yourself so freely to me.”

“Will you not accept my gift?”

“When it is given so freely, I must humbly accept it. I do so with great honour and pleasure. Thank you for bestowing such a magnificent gift upon me. Thank you…for choosing me, Princess.”

“Please, call me Naeun when we are alone in my chambers. Your words are still that of a loyal knight…I wish for the words of a secret lover.” Naeun’s hands undo the clasps on your sword belt, which falls to the ground with a clang.

“And you shall have them, Naeun.” You whisper as your fingers slip into the top of the gown, seeking out her nipples and rubbing them. You feel them swiftly grow hard under your touch and Naeun groans softly. “Please, say my name again.”

“Naeun.” You breathe as you bury your face in her neck, nibbling, licking, and kissing, all drawing more sighs of pleasure from her. You inhale, she smells fantastic. “Again. Please.” She whimpers breathlessly.

“Naeun.” You say in a low growl as you stare at her face, your lust reflected in her. She shivers and moans as she stares at your desire for her, both of her hands sneaking inside your pants to rub and stroke your cock. And then you kiss her.

Passionately, your tongue plunders her mouth as she whines lustfully into your kiss. You keep a hand on the back of her head while the other continues to fondle her chest. You stop after a while to let both of yourselves breathe.

“Let me give you my gift.” Naeun says breathlessly as she lowers herself to her knees on the polished marble floor and her hands pull your silken pants down to your ankles. Your erection springs out in front of her and she immediately licks up your pre-cum into her mouth even as one hand wraps around your length and starts to stroke.

You run your hands through her dark hair, knocking her tiara off her head, and it clatters to the ground. Your hands rest there, although you are conscious not to put any pressure on Naeun’s head. She is, after all, both inexperienced at this and able to have you killed with a word.

“How do you know to do all this?” You ask quietly as you watch the erotic sight of Naeun jerking you off even as her head bobs along your cock. In this position, you can see down Naeun’s cleavage as she sucks and strokes you, and you make a mental note to strip her off and put your cock between her breasts later.

Naeun pulls her mouth off your cock for a few moments to answer. “Chaekyung gave me a few tips, but I’m practicing them for the first time on you.”

That makes sense. The busty and attractive handmaiden is older and more experienced with men, not to mention popular with the men in the palace. More importantly, she is the closest person to Naeun in the palace, bar her father. If there was anyone for Naeun to ask about sex, it would be Chaekyung.

And while Naeun may be inexperienced, she’s very eager. You groan as Naeun tries to deepthroat you and ends up gagging on your cock. The contractions of her throat muscles around your erection feel great and tight, but Naeun clearly can’t keep it up for long. She tries to deepthroat your length a couple more times before she has to pull off and cough after gagging again and again.

“I need your help, hold my head, move your hips, use my mouth.” Naeun can’t help but smile as you raise an eyebrow at her words. “You heard me. Use me. Use my mouth. I can’t force your length down my throat…but you can.”

Oh, if only her father could hear her now. Chaekyung must have been telling her some wild stuff. You nod and then slowly start to fuck Naeun’s face. You don’t put much speed in it, relishing in the warmth and wetness of her mouth instead. You go deep into her throat, but don’t stay long, slowly getting her used to your size.

Naeun’s hands hold onto your thighs for support as she tries to deepthroat you again, and this time you keep a bit of pressure on the back of her head, listening to her gag and choke on your cock and watching tears form in her eyes. But the moment she actively pushes against your thighs, you immediately release her head.

“Was that good?” Naeun asks even as she pants, her large eyes scanning your face for approval.

You brush her hair lovingly. “It was excellent. I’m so close to my release now.” Naeun’s face’s brightens up at this, she looks excited at the idea of seeing you climax. Both of her hands immediately start to stroke your slick, throbbing cock. “I want to see it, please, cover me with your cream.”

Naeun’s warm hands feel heavenly around your cock, and she pumps you with great speed and gusto, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. What sets you over the edge is watching Naeun’s face as she stares at you lustfully, licking her lips and watching her breasts jiggle and bounce a bit as she animatedly jerks you off and envisioning your sperm splattered all over them.

“Naeun, I’m going to-“

And you erupt, spraying cum all over the beautiful princess who continues to pump you for more. Some of it sprays on her neck, mingling with the pearls on her choker, you do your best to get most of your cum on her chest, where most of it ends up slowly sliding down her cleavage. And you get a bit on her face, her cheeks, her lips, and chin. You feel one final spurt coming and shove your cock past Naeun’s partially open lips and feed her the rest.

Naeun happily sucks on your cock and licks it clean for a while before finally pulling off you. She sticks a finger between her breasts and scoops out a little bit of your cum and licks it off.

You don’t know if it’s the sight of Naeun with your cum coating her face, neck and chest or something else, but your cock isn’t doing a particularly good job of coming down and softening. Instead, it’s still hard, throbbing, and ready for more.

“Let’s clean up…and get the rest of your cream out of you.” Naeun gets to her feet, and beckons for you to follow her. You step out of your pants and shoes and follow her past a set of side doors into her large bath area, where a heated pool of water sits. The setting sun’s rays pour into the room through open windows set into the wall, reflecting off the water. There is a golden basin set upon a stool that Naeun uses to wash her face and mouth while you wait at the side. You’ve never seen this place before.

Only one person attends to Naeun in her private chambers as well as during her baths. That person being Chaekyung. A lot of people are jealous of Chaekyung, but you’ve overheard some of the guards saying they were jealous of the princess. There was the occasional rumour that the two were lovers. You wouldn’t be surprised at this point if that were true.

Naeun then turns to you, her face clean, although her neck and chest are still adorned with white goo. She unclasps her choker, letting it fall to the marble ground. She reaches behind her gown, undoes a clasp, and it falls off her body to reveal her fully nude underneath.

Naeun’s flawless skin glimmers with a thin layer of sweat, from her long legs up to her slim stomach and heaving chest. She looks over at you as she waits to step into the pool. “Divest yourself of your clothing and join me.”

It was fortunate that she called you when you were dressed simply while off-duty. If you were in your armour, it would have taken ten minutes to remove. You pull your silken tunic off and toss it aside.

Naeun takes hold of your hand and guides it to her core, and you feel how sopping wet she is down there. “Every time you say my name, it gets me so wet. Chaekyung’s the only other person to make me feel like this.” So Chaekyung does bathe and sleep with her.

You slip a finger inside her. “So…does Chaekyung do this to you?” Naeun gasps and nods, her hands grabbing hold of your arm, as though almost wanting to stop you. You slide a second finger in and she closes her eyes while trembling. “Please…don’t stop.”

At that, you pull your fingers out and wink at Naeun before stepping into the water. She whines but follows and steps into the water after you.

The water is warm and the pool is shallow; while standing, the water reaches to just above your stomach. This place is meant for the princess to bathe in while attended to by handmaidens. You’re quite possibly the first man to step inside after the construction of the chamber.

Naeun shyly hands you a bar of soap. “Chaekyung is normally the one who cleans me up.”

“I’ll be happy to do it on her behalf today.” You rub your hands on the soap and get a lather going before running your hands all over Naeun’s neck and chest, getting it clean and slick while also enjoying the feeling of her large, warm, breasts under your fingers. You squeeze her boobs as you soap her up and then you move your hands down to her stomach, feeling her toned abdomen up.

And then you slide your hands over her body further down, between her legs. Your fingers tease her, rubbing circles around her clit. Naeun mewls and French kisses you, moaning into that kiss when you soap up the inside of her pussy with a finger.

Naeun grabs the bar of soap. “Let me clean your body now. I’ve cleaned Chaekyung’s before, but I’ve never done this for a man.”

“You’ll do fine, I’m sure.” She does more than fine, the electrifying touch of her slick hands on your chest and nipples has them hard like your cock swiftly and when her hands go past your stomach and reach your groin, you know that she could have you cumming like a fountain with just her hands if she wanted to.

Instead, Naeun strokes you up a few times to get you slick…and then kisses you. “Impale me on your shaft. Fill me. Take me.” She whispers against your lips.

You don’t need a second invitation. You wrap an arm around Naeun’s waist, brace her against the side of the pool and push yourself into her. You do it slowly and deliberately, because she’s probably only had fingers and tongues inside her before. She gets adjusted to your size quickly though.

“You’re so thick…so warm…” Naeun’s gaze is heavy-lidded and glazed over in pleasure.

You start to move around inside her and build up speed. She is tight, hot, and wet inside and you groan in pleasure. Naeun pulls you into a deep kiss as you fuck her, one hand curled up in your hair and the other holding onto your shoulder for support and you pound into her. You feel her legs wrap around your waist, locking you to her.

With one arm around her waist, you send the other to rub Naeun’s clit. Her wonderful breasts bounce with every stroke of your cock inside of her and you feel your second orgasm building up. He golden rays of the setting sun bouncing off the water give her a gorgeous glow.

Naeun seems to sense it too as you increase your pace and fuck her almost desperately at this point. “Inside me.” She pants between kisses. But she hits her climax first and her pussy muscles clench your shaft ever so tightly as she cries out in pleasure. And even though you are in a pool of heated water, you feel her hot pussy juices flow down and around your cock.

You slam into her a couple more times, fucking Naeun as she orgasms and then blow your load inside her. You keep your cock inside her as you rest your head against hers, the two of you sharing soft kisses as you both recover.

Naeun speaks first. “After we dry off, we lay together in my bed tonight, naked.” You nod your approval at that course of action. “But first, let’s just stay together like this for a while.” Naeun’s legs unwrap themselves from your waist and the two of you switch places so that you rest against the side of the pool and she rests her head on your chest…with your cock still inside her with your mixed cum, of course.

You have a long night ahead, and a long journey ahead after that. But you’re already looking forward to more long nights with Princess Naeun in the future. What a gift she’s given you.

#april smut #Lee Naeun smut #Naeun smut #april naeun smut #reader insert #male reader

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wanderinginksplot · 3 years

Text

Nobody Listens to Kix

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Case 00563: Nute Gunray

"Okay, men," General Skywalker said, pacing back and forth in front of the gathered troopers. The entirety of Torrent Company was in the large room. Kix had even been called from the medbay to attend the briefing. "Some of you may know that we have a prisoner onboard the Resolute. We are transporting Nute Gunray, a Separatist leader, to Coruscant to stand trial for his crimes against the Republic."

A muffled cheer rang from the back of the room, joined quickly by other sounds of approval by the other troopers.

Skywalker smiled, but motioned for the troopers to calm. "I know, men. We did good. Still, there's a long way to go before we get to Coruscant and the Separatists are going to try everything they can to take him back into their custody. We're going to heighten security, add some guard shifts. Basically, we're on high alert until we get him into Republic hands on Coruscant. If you see or hear anything different or wrong, report it to me, Ahsoka, or Rex. We'll advise you what to do from there. As always, no interacting with the prisoner. Don't give him anything, physically or verbally. Rex?"

Rex stepped forward. "As the General said, we know what to do here. We've lost Seppie prisoners in the past and we can't take any risks with this one. I'll assign extra guard shifts at fourteen-hundred hours. Report to the barracks by that time to receive your new assignments."

General Skywalker smiled. "There's no other group of men in all of the GAR that's better qualified for a high-security mission like this one, and none I would rather have at my back. Dismissed."

In the ensuing rush of troopers, the general said, "Kix, could I speak to you?"

Kix saluted, tucked his helmet under his arm, and approached the spot where the general stood. "Yes, sir?"

"Gunray seems to need some medical attention," General Skywalker said, clearly unhappy. "Under the terms of the Republic Code of Conduct and GAR regulations, I am obligated to give him access to medical care."

"Understood, sir," Kix responded easily. "I'll go pick up a pack from the medbay and report to the brig immediately."

"Wait a minute, Kix," Skywalker said, sounding thoughtful. "That gives me an idea. None of Gunray's injuries are life-threatening; he's just whining about them to make us sympathetic. Maybe we shouldn't send you in at all."

Kix made eye contact with Rex and both men glanced around the nearly-empty room while the general and the commander looked unconcerned at the implications of what General Skywalker had just suggested. The few troopers still in the briefing room kept their eyes on the floor. General Skywalker was their leader and they respected him, but what he had suggested was a violation of every peace treaty the Republic had ever made.

"I think it would be best if I went to see him anyway, sir," Kix told him. "We wouldn't want him to complain that he had been mistreated."

"Or maybe we should have you give him something to really complain about," the general suggested darkly.

Kix's spine stiffened and the remaining brothers in the briefing room shot incredulous expressions toward their general. From General Skywalker's face and bearing, he didn't understand what he had just asked Kix to do.

Clones were looked down upon by most of the Republic. They were seen as being scarcely capable of medical duties to begin with, a last-ditch option for men who would die without immediate care, no matter the quality. Kix and the other troopers could be medics, but never doctors, and the distinction was important. Suggesting that Kix treat Gunray in an ineffective manner was already slightly offensive - implying that Kix was incompetant and couldn't help Gunray with his minor ailments - but asking him to harm the Separatist leader? That would reflect poorly on Kix and every one of his brothers who trained and worked to be a clone medic.

Kix was far from alone in his shock at the general's suggestion. The brothers left in the room slowed in their actions, ready to help Kix argue his case if needed. Captain Rex frowned, his dark brows drawing together fiercely. Even Commander Tano seemed to sense that her master's words had been inappropriate, her montrals darkening as she glanced between the general and Kix.

In a room that had gone oddly silent in order to eavesdrop on the conversation, Kix shook his head. Using his mildest voice, he said, "As a medic, I'm afraid I cannot do that, sir. I've taken oaths to help the hurt to the best of my ability and - more importantly - to do no harm. I can't violate those oaths. I can't and I won't. Even with a direct order from you, General, I could not do what you're asking."

General Skywalker seemed to finally realize that he had made a severe misstep. He grinned and shook his head. "I was joking, Kix. I would never ask you to violate GAR regs or the Republic's treaties. Go get your pack and treat Gunray, but don't let him give you any trouble."

Kix saluted crisply and left the room, receiving a sympathetic look from Commander Tano and a pat on the shoulder from Captain Rex. His mind buzzed as he retrieved a medpack and made his way to the brig. As he walked, Kix came to the uncomfortable realization that he had lost a bit of respect for General Skywalker.

The green-skinned Neimoidian was possibly less happy to see Kix than Kix was to see him.

"A clone medic," he scoffed, his words running counterpoint to Kix's own thoughts. "I suppose they want me to die."

For a moment, Kix's stomach twisted with raw, burning emotion and he felt that he could fulfill General Skywalker's request without any regrets, but he forced the feelings away and concentrated on his training. "None of your wounds are fatal, sir, but I will make sure they heal as quickly as possible."

In only minutes, he had bandaged and applied bacta to a number of Nute Gunray's smaller wounds. There was one cut that had looked fairly serious, so Kix used a set of the adhesive stitches to close it and topped it with a bacta patch. After asking a few questions about Gunray's general physical comfort level, Kix allotted him a small dose of mild pain medicine and stood attentively nearby as the Neimoidian took the pills.

"Clone you may be, but your competence cannot be doubted," Gunray said, his rasping voice holding a begrudging respect.

"If any sudden pains develop, have one of your guards call for me immediately," was Kix's only response.

Kix returned the unused supplies to the medbay, every motion clipped and efficient despite the discomfort still bubbling inside him. His arms ached to lash out at the idea that people found him less capable because he was a clone, and his throat fairly itched to release a Mando'a curse or two, but he fought back the urges.

After all, and despite everything, he was a professional.

#Nobody Listens to Kix #star wars the clone wars #clone trooper kix #captain rex #commander tano #ahsoka tano #anakin skywalker #general skywalker #nute gunray #clone troopers deserve better #one-shot #but part of a series #more to come

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himbowelsh · 4 years

Note

Well now I need touch starved Liebgott something! I always imagined Webgott to work the other way around. Y'know Web being unused to hugs and Lieb having no sense of boundaries. But I'm really intrigued by a concept of switching it up.

hello i’m in tears bc this took so long to write, but... enjoy an extremely touch-hangry boi. be warned, for copious amounts of obscenely soft cuddling.

Long story short, it goes like this.

David’s just finished an article, two hours ahead of the frankly unreasonable deadline sent by his editor; he collapses on the couch, promptly kicks his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table, and slumps against Joe’s side.

Joe goes very still.

At first, David thinks it’s because of his feet. Joe can be weird about things like that; he values cleanliness, and “not acting like fuckin’ animals in the house, Jesus, Web”. All the things David was never allowed to do growing up in his family’s Manhattan penthouse --- like leave dishes out or discard his clothes in messy piles --- are exactly the sort of things that drive Joe insane. He kind of relishes doing them, just to see the twitch Joe gets by his eye, and for the way he grips his hips roughly when he growls at him to “quit leaving your shit everywhere”. David’s natural sloppiness leaves Joe needing an outlet for his frustration… and their shared bedroom is kept very clean. It works out great for both parties.

So, sure, it’s probably just the feet on the table… he thinks for a grand total of eight seconds, before looking up to catch Joe’s eye.

His boyfriend’s gaze has gone impossible soft. It takes David’s breath away, a little, because Joe isn’t like that as a rule. He’s sharp edges and broken glass, jagged teeth and bladed grins. He’s harsh as sandpaper and smooth as steel. He’s frustrating, and his gentle moments come and go like fickle summer storms.

To be fair, impromptu cuddling on the couch isn’t like them either… but David needs it tonight, and stepping outside the bounds of their normal relationship can’t be the worst crime in the world. He holds Joe’s gaze for a moment, questioning and careful… but, instead of pulling away, Joe just takes a moment before sighing. His arm wraps around David’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Rough night, Web?” he asks, an undercurrent of implication in his voice. This ain’t like you. You alright?

“You have no idea.” David rests his stubbled cheek against Joe’s chest, sighing deeply as the tension slowly drains from his muscles. Joe is hesitant to react; his actions, even as he rubs up and down David’s shoulder, lack his usual fearlessness. Joe can grab his ass in the middle of a crowded bar, or ruffle his curls just to get on his nerves… but this casual intimacy is uncharted territory for him.

He needs a distraction from his own head. David’s got just the thing. “How would you,” he sighs, “like to hear about the plight of Heteractis anemone? Because I just wrote four thousand words on it.”

“Heter— huh.” Joe sighs into the crown of his head, ruffling his curls. “Pretty sure Guarnere caught that once.”

“Knowing him, he’s still got it,” David replies. When Joe laughs, it reverberates in his chest, a low rumble in David’s ear.

“Yeah, alright, Web. Tell me all ‘bout your anemoles.”

“Anemone.”

“Yeah, what’d I say?” Joe presses his grin into David’s hair. “Amenemes.”

“Anemo-- damn it,” he mutters, burying the words against his boyfriend’s chest. Joe laughs even harder… and, like it or not, the sound it a balm to David’s frayed nerves. Even better are the strong arms which wrap around him, fully encompassing his shoulders and pulling him against Joe’s body. It’s… more than he was anticipating, more than they probably need, but it feels nice, and he doesn’t want to pull away. David melts against him, curling his legs with Joe and letting himself drift off. Fingers card gently through his hair; his boyfriend’s warm breath caresses his temple… and being this close feels so good that he forgets to remember it isn’t ordinary at all.

If he looked up at that exact moment, he might have found Joe enjoying it even more than he was… but David, as usual, preferred to sail away.

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

That really should have been the end of it… but after their night of unexpected intimacy, it’s like a dam has broken.

Joe does it at unexpected moments. While David is flipping pancakes in the kitchen, he comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, chin looping over his shoulder. They just sort of… stay there. David is so surprised that he ends up charring the pancake, which Joe eats anyways, because he’d inhale charcoal if he was hungry enough… but while his boyfriend is wolfing blackened pancake lumps down his throat, no explanation is offered. David doesn’t know how to ask.

He’s brushing his teeth; Joe comes up behind him and holds his hips, just staying there for a few minutes. He’s reading a book in bed; Joe lies down, curling into his side like an automatic reflex. They’re watching whatever B-rated action flick Joe just insisted on going to see at the Cineplex, and Joe holds his hand the entire time.

Calling it strange is an understatement. It’s fucking bizarre.

Which isn’t to say Joe’s been shy about physical contact before, because he hasn’t. He’s just always been measured with it. Joe doesn’t hold back from touching people, grasping their shoulders or clapping them on the back… but he never goes overboard with it. His touches don’t linger. He’s a handsy person by nature, but David never considered before that he weighs every touch before giving them out.

If that’s the case, what’s changed? Why has he suddenly become so free — even apparently craving — touches he’s never asked for before?

David doesn’t know much about the scientific method, but any good journalist can test a hypothesis as well as a lab tech. Early one night, before either of them have gone to bed, he sits down next to Joe on the couch and sets the remote in his boyfriend’s lap.

“Anything but reality TV,” is all he says, and Joe smirks as he turns the station to some late night show.

He’s paying attention; David is not. Instead, his attention is fixed firmly on Joe, not even trying to hide it. The curve of his profile, the shadows along his neck and collar, the way he always lounges when he sits… like he’s trying to take up as much space as possible. Something about him seems inexplicably, undeniably lonely.

David leans over and wraps an arm around Joe’s shoulders. The reaction is expected; Joe goes tense, like he’s trying to figure out what the hell is going on. David counts back in his head: ten… nine… eight… seven…

Before he gets to five, Joe’s relaxed into him. Easy as that — it’s like teaching a puppy to eat food, or a baby to cry. Joe and touch go together like authors and caffeine. Touching is easy for him, but being touched is the most natural thing in the world.

A flame kindles to life within David’s chest, and soon it’s warming him from the inside out. He can’t keep a fond smile from his lips. After a moment, his hand strays up to Joe’s hair, threading gently through the well-maintained strands. Joe’s always had a weakness for having his hair touched, and tonight is no exception. He makes a tiny, content noise and leans into David, the tension slowly draining from his body. It doesn’t take long before he’s leaning against him, head balanced against David’s chest. Arms still around him, David holds Joe tenderly, caressing his hair while occasionally pressing kisses to the crown of his head. Joe’s heartbeat is steady, his muscles lax. David charts the gentle rhythm of his breathing until he’s sure his boyfriend has dropped off to sleep.

When he looks down, a wave of tenderness washes over him. Joe Liebgott with every guard down is a thing to see. He so rarely looks peaceful. There’s something restless about Joe, a relentless hunger thrumming just beneath his skin, determined to break free. He’s always had an edge of urgency to him… but now, dozing against David’s chest, he looks without a care in the world.

He ought to be this way all the time. He deserves to be happy all the time. God help him, if David has any say in it, Joe will be.

“Is it my birthday or something?” Joe asks, when David, completely unprompted, begins massaging his shoulders. “Shit, don’t tell me I’m another year older and just forgot.”

“Not for another few months, old man,” David replies. On reflex, Joe tries to twist and grab him, but David’s massage doesn’t let up; after a minute, he relaxes into it, slumping further back against David’s chest.

“You been acting weird lately,” Joe declares — as though David needs to be good, and as though he wasn’t the one acting weird to begin with. “Everything fine at work? You didn’t… gamble away our savings to the mafia, or promise Sobel our firstborn kid or something? If you got news for me, Web, I can take it without a bonus massage.”

“Why do you think — wait, we’re going to have kids?”

“Head in the game, Web. What’s going on?”

At once, he’s glad Joe is facing the other way, because David’s not sure what he could say otherwise. He frowns at Joe’s back muscles, kneading into them with a bit more force than necessary. Sure, he’s been… more physically affectionate these days. Joe no longer has to seek it out, because he gives it willingly… and even if touch doesn’t come naturally to David, the obvious way Joe eats it up when his touches linger in public or they draw close to each other in private makes it all worthwhile. Joe seems happier nowadays, so clearly it’s working fine.

Why’s he getting interrogated now?

“Am I not allowed to touch you?” he asks. “Just because I want to touch?”

“You ain’t a touchy-feely person. Never have been.”

“People change.”

“Not you.” Joe’s observation is too neutral for David to justify flaring up at it. “Come on, Web. What’s going on?”

He’s silent for a long moment before summoning a reply. “I want you to be happy,” he declares, finishing off Joe’s back massage with a caress of his neck. “I want you… to feel loved.”

Joe is silent for a beat before turning his head to look back at him. “That’s all, huh?”

“Yeah,” David huffs. “That’s all.”

It’s hard to make out Joe’s expression when one half of his face is cast into shadow, but David spots the amusement in his eyes… and something else, too, something softer that he can’t put his finger on. It sparks a familiar warmth in his chest, and he smiles.

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” Joe sighs. There’s no warning before he’s leaning back against David’s chest, but David’s ready this time. He opens his arms, embracing him as they go. Slowly, Joe relaxes into the comfort of his touch, and the world feels a little warmer.

#webgott #david webster #joe liebgott #joseph liebgott #my writing #Anonymous

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kohanayaki · 4 years

Text

Jaime Lannister x Reader .:Fighting Chance:. Part 1

With his right hand gone, Jaime doesn't believe there's any way for him to regain his skill with the sword; his position in the Kingsguard is as good as finished. Luckily, Tyrion thinks he knows just the person to whip him back into shape- you.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

You sighed softly as you swirled your second glass of wine around in your goblet, glancing around at the company you'd found yourself in. Today was but one of the many parties the royal family had planned in the weeks leading up to King Joffrey's wedding to Lady Margaery.

At the moment you were sitting at one of the lavishly decorated tables with a group of soldiers. You were much too sober by your standards but having a fun enough time. You idly sipped at your wine and threw the occasional word in the conversation, but events like this were dull to you. Everyone around you seemed to put on such a heavy act it made you sick. You were hoping someone would come along that didn't feel so. . . hollow.

As you felt the space shift beside you, you turned to see an older man approach and sit in the empty chair next to yours- very loud and very drunk.

“Now what's a pretty little thing like you doing with a group of mutts?” he slurred, shooting you a shit-eating grin.

Your eyes narrowed as the man slung an arm over your shoulders, his alcohol ridden breath fanning over your face and making you cringe.

“Hands off,” you said, your eyes narrowing.

The man only laughed and slid his hand down to your thigh.

“Well aren't you a feisty one? I wonder if you're the same way in the sack. Maybe I should fuck you over this table and find out-”

“Maybe you should move your fingers before you lose them,” you said, your tone deathly calm. Your words made the man recoil in shock which quickly turned into offense.

“I beg your pardon? I am a knight of the Kingsguard,” he said incredulously.

You forced your grimace into a sickeningly sweet smile as you turned to face him.

“Well then, with all due respect, Ser, kindly fuck off,” you said as you took another sip of your wine.

The soldiers around you chuckled in amusement at your crass language.

“You're going to let this little cunt push you around like that?” one of them goaded.

You didn't even take the time to acknowledge his comment but shot him a nasty glare as you cut away at the venison on your plate.

“No. Looks like the bitch needs to be put in her place,” the man scowled, reaching for you.

His hand didn't get much farther than the edge of his plate before you grabbed it and twisted hard, pressing the blade of your dinner knife against the flesh of his wrist.

Several of the soldiers stood immediately and drew their swords.

“Now now, what's going on here?”

You exhaled sharply through your nose as you reluctantly released your grip on the man, turning to face the unmistakable source of the voice: Joffrey Baratheon.

“A simple spat, Your Grace,” you said, putting on a smile, “Think nothing of it.”

“This crazy bitch tried to kill me!” the drunk man exclaimed.

“Well he did grab me,” you retaliated, unable to hold your tongue, “And threatened me with disgusting perverse acts. In response, I suggested he move his hand-”

“And nearly slit my wrist while doing so,” the man glared as he finished.

“Completely warranted if you ask me,” you said under your breath.

You heard a faint chuckle from the high table and shifted your gaze to the man behind the King. He wore the golden armor and cloak of the Kingsguard, his hair matching the hue of the metal. He was handsome, that was for certain, but he seemed. . . maybe tired wasn't the right word, but maybe it was. The man looked exhausted. The hollows of his cheeks seemed sunken into the chiseled features of his face, a sort of emptiness in his dark green eyes. And yet there he was, in his golden garb before the royal family, his facade just a little less prominent than everyone else's. Something told you there was more to him.

Meanwhile, the King looked between you and the drunk man with a sadistic glint in his eyes which settled on your form.

“Well then, it appears we have to resolve this issue somehow,” he said, “I thought this party was getting a bit dull, and I was right.”

The smile on his face was enough to send chills up your spine. It was cold and didn't quite reach his eyes, full of malicious intent.

“You claim she attacked you and yet she claims you tried to defile her,” he said, pointing to the man and then you respectively.

The smirk on Joffrey's face turned into something wicked as he spoke his next words:

“A duel should put this to rest, should it not?”

An excited murmur spread through the crowd, the prospect of barbaric entertainment drawing their attention. Of course the King had no real intentions of settling this dispute. In truth, most women in Westeros were forced to endure far worse than you just had without anyone saying a word. The only reason he intervened at all was for his own sick pleasure.

“Will you choose a champion, Ser?” Joffrey asked the man beside you.

“I have no need” he said smugly, “I can fight my own battles, I'm not a woman.”

Hearty laughs and leers were heard in the crowd as he said that, unsheathing his sword and brandishing it drunkenly.

“Let's have at it!” he shouted to the sky.

Joffrey's smirk only widened as he turned to you.

“And you,” he said, clearly pleased with himself, “Since you are so bold and brave to speak out against this man, why don't you fight as your own champion?”

Laughter erupted throughout the crowd of men around you at the King's joke and your gaze darkened.

“Very well.”

The hall seemed to go silent at your words but you trudged onwards.

“I will fight for myself,” you stated confidently.

Where there had been excitement before, there was now an air of nervousness. The man behind the King stared at you intently in something akin to disbelief but not without intrigue.

“Is she serious? She's just a woman,” you heard someone whisper.

“It was a joke, lass,” one of the soldiers called to you, “No need to get your pretty little dress dirty.”

“Don't be stupid, girl!” another shouted, “You'll get yourself killed!”

You saw the golden-haired man put a hand on the King's shoulder, a stern, warning look on his face.

“Your Grace-”

“Silence!” Joffrey seethed, slapping his hand away and successfully killing the chatter in the room, “If the girl wants her fight so badly, then so be it.” That twisted smile reappeared on his face as he acknowledged you directly, “Although I assume she'll need to arm herself first.”

A few obligated chuckles followed his statement which you quickly silenced.

“That won't be necessary, Your Grace,” you said.

You wordlessly knelt down to reach under the table where you were sitting before, gasps audible as you produced your sword in its scabbard. The head of a serpent was molded onto its hit, the intricate carvings in the thin, silver blade catching the light as you unsheathed it.

“Valyrian steel?” you heard someone say in disbelief.

“Impossible,” Joffrey muttered, “There's only a handful of them left in Westeros.”

“Well I'm not from around here,” you said, downing the rest of your wine in one gulp and taking a step forward. The crowd parted like the red sea as you stepped into the hall's center.

The man only chuckled, twirling his blade in his hand.

“You must have a death wish, girlie.”

“What is your name?” you asked, feeling the familiar weight and balance of your sword in your hand.

“Grag Brask,” he grinned cockily, “Remember it well, woman.”

“Well then, Ser Grag,” you stepped forward, a dangerous smile playing on your lips, “Are you going to stand around all day or are we going to fight?”

Joffrey seemed to recover from his initial shock, composing himself and raising his hand in the air.

“Let the duel commence!”

Before the King had even finished his sentence Grag charged at you with a great yell, swinging his sword in a wide and predictable arc. He was a fair bit larger than you, but you knew you had the upper hand when it came to agility. You ducked under his blade with ease, promptly kicking him between his shoulder blades. He grunted in pain as he stumbled forward, one hand darting to the ground to keep himself steady as his own weight worked against him.

You wasted no time with an attack of your own, moving to strike him in the side. He narrowly blocked your attack and grunted as he felt himself be thrown even more off his center of balance. You swiftly went in for another blow, this time coming from above. Grag parried before your blade could come down on top of his head and pushed you away, putting some distance between you two.

You silently relished in his shocked and agitated expression as you twirled your sword around your wrist, looking around at the audience you'd accumulated. If it's a show they wanted, then you'd happily provide.

Grag let out a growl, sounding much more irritated than his last, as he charged you again. You held your ground until he was less than a meter away before swiftly stepping to the side. However he surprised you by grabbing hold of your sword hand, twisting it in an attempt to disarm you. You delivered a harsh kick to his armored torso but his grip refused to loosen.

You let out a sharp exhale as you tossed your sword from your right hand to your left, striking him in the side of his armor. Grag's eyes widened in surprise, attempting to block your swing. However he was unused to dueling anyone with a blade in their left hand and found the angle he had to reach awkward. A sharp clang! rang out in the great hall as you delivered another crippling blow to his torso, every strike sending him further and further back.

Grag made one last feeble attempt at an offensive maneuver, aiming straight for your head. You parried the attack with your left hand easily, your body moving on its own muscle memory. You twisted your blade around his until the momentum pried it from his grasp, his sword skidding across the polished marble floor.

He didn't have any time to react before you swept his feet from under him. He crumpled into a heap on the floor as you kicked him in the side so he was on his back. You placed your right foot on his windpipe, the point of your blade against his cheek.

“Yield,” you said.

“This isn't over,” he coughed out.

Your eyes narrowed as you increased the pressure on his neck. He gargled pathetically as you did.

“Oh, I think it is,” you said, “I don't draw blood if it isn't needed, and it seems I didn't have to at all to beat you.”

Your smirk widened as you leaned in closer to his face.

“Tell me, Ser Grag, have you ever been beaten by an opponent in a dress and corset?” you asked devilishly.

Joffrey's expression was furious, clearly disappointed that you weren't in pieces on the floor. You shot an innocent smile his way.

“Won't you call this off, Your Grace?” you asked sweetly, “This has certainly been entertaining but I'd hate to spoil a party with a death, no matter how tempting it may be.”

Joffrey looked like he was going to burst in anger at any moment, but Grag spoke before he could.

“I. . . I yield,” he said bitterly.

He gasped for air as your foot left his throat.

“Lords and ladies, the victor. . .” Joffrey glanced over to you with clear disdain as he trailed off, waiting for you.

“(Y/n), Your Grace,” you said with a smile.

The audience, once out of shock, erupted in applause. Most of them had never seen a woman fight in their lives, and taking down one of the head knights of the Kingsguard was no easy task.

Jaime watched you from the corner of the room as you curtsied playfully, sheathing your blade and brushing imaginary dirt from your dress. You fascinated him already. Your fighting style was unlike anything he'd seen in Westeros. You struck to disarm, not to kill, though there was no doubt in his mind you were capable of the latter. On top of that, you were proficient wielding a blade with your left hand. . .

He found himself glancing over at you again as you gave your gratitude to those who congratulated you. You weren't the traditional Westerosi lady, that was for sure- your words were crass, your temper hot, and yet your features were soft. Your (e/c) eyes seemed to light up as a little girl stared up at you in awe, jumping up and down as she praised your skills. Wisps of (h/c) hair had come undone from your braid in the fight and you gracefully tucked them behind your ear as you scooped up the child in your arms to ask her name.

“She could be useful,” a voice suddenly jolted Jaime from his thoughts as he looked to the side and then down at his brother.

“When did you get here?” Jaime sighed, “And what do you mean 'useful'?”

“You saw her fight, she's no ordinary lady,” Tyrion said, “And I know you noticed her skill with her left hand. Given your current circumstances, she's an ideal teacher.”

“I don't need a teacher,” Jaime scoffed, “It's not as if my knowledge of the sword was cut off along with my hand.”

“No, but you certainly ought to learn how to connect that head of yours with your hand, because as we stand you can barely write your own name,” Tyrion countered.

Jaime grumbled to himself, out of witty remarks in that regard.

And that's how he somehow found himself, the very next week, on a wide plateau above the water, waiting for you to arrive.

Tyrion hadn't exactly given him a choice once he confirmed these sessions with you, and the small bit of anxiety creeping up in his chest surprised him. He looked down at his left hand, clenching and unclenching it into a fist. Would he really be able to fight again? What if he completely made a fool of himself in front of you? He'd never even talked to you, your first impression was going to be him barely able to wield a blade.

He exhaled sharply as he took another deep breath in. What if there really was no helping him? He felt his gut twist, feeling conflicted. He felt like the most useless creature in Westeros at the moment, and yet the lingering trace of pride in him didn't want to reach out to anyone for help. He didn't want to be seen as useless as he felt- as everyone else said he was now.

His head turned towards the docks as he heard footsteps approaching to see you and Tyrion. Instead of the embroidered dress he had seen you in at the party, you wore a simple pair of slacks and a flowy white shirt which you had tied at the waist. Your hair twisted around your head like a crown, the rest braided loosely to the side. Your sword rested against your hip in all its glory, and a burlap bag was slung over your shoulder.

You smiled at Jaime as you came to a stop in front of him and he felt his breath hitch in the back of his throat. Hell if you weren't beautiful. . .

None of this went unnoticed by Tyrion who looked between you two, making a point of clearing his throat before speaking up.

“Jaime, this is Lady (Y/n). Lady (Y/n), this is my brother, Jaime. Hopefully he can learn a thing or two from you.”

Jaime scowled inwardly, turning away slightly from you two.

“You flatter me, My Lord,” you chuckled, “I'm sure I'll have some things to learn from him as well.”

Tyrion nodded to you before turning on his heels and beginning to walk away.

“Have fun,” he called over his shoulder, “And do try not to kill him, most of our family would like him back alive.”

You grinned at his remark and turned your attention to Jaime. You had seen him a bit during your duel at the party, but you took a moment to study him more closely. His eyes appeared a brighter green in the afternoon sun, and you could see the faintest splatter of freckles across his tanned skin.

“Something you find interesting?” he asked, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“You're different than I expected,” you replied simply.

“How so?” he asked, quirking a brow.

“I expected you to be. . . I don't know, taller? More handsome?” you said playfully.

“With two hands?” he chuckled, taking a light jab at himself.

“Well, truth be told, I didn't know who you were when I saw you at the party,” you admitted, a bit embarrassed, “I only found out when Tyrion approached me afterwards.”

That surprised Jaime for two reasons. One, he hadn't even known that you noticed him at the party, and two, you truly didn't seem to know or care who he was.

“Like I said, I'm not from around here,” you said, going off his expression.

“And where would that be?” Jaime questioned.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Your smirk widened as you stood in front of him.

“Oh, I would,” he grinned up at you, “Among other things, if you're up to sharing.”

Damn that smile.

You forced yourself to hold your ground as you spoke.

“How about a deal? Each time you land a hit on me I'll tell you something about myself,” you grinned back.

“You seem pretty confident that I won't be able to hit you,” Jaime said, feigning offense.

“On the contrary,” you said, sliding your bag off your shoulder and dumping its contents onto the cobblestone. Two training swords tumbled out making Jaime look up at you.

“You're joking, right?” he scoffed, actually taking offense this time, “I haven't used a training weapon since I was nine.”

“Tell me something, Jaime Lannister,” you began, picking up one of the dulled blades, “Have you even attempted to hold a sword since you lost that hand?”

That shut him up fairly quickly.

“No,” he said quietly, begrudgingly picking up the weapon.

“Let's take it slow,” you said, sensing his unease, “Although, I won't be going easy on you.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Jaime replied, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. Simply holding the weight of the sword upright in his left hand put strain on his wrist he hadn't felt since he was a child. It felt heavier than a sword ever had in his right, the center of its balance precariously placed.

“Defend yourself,” you instructed him, lunging at him with surprising speed.

Jaime's eyes widened as he stumbled to block your attack, biting his lip as his wrist bent at an awkward angle to do so. You wasted no time going in for another offensive maneuver, sliding your foot in front of you and turning to strike him in his blind spot. Jaime grunted as the practice sword made contact with his ribcage and he fought to ignore the painful sensation.

When he managed to turn to face you, you had already ducked under his arm, swiftly bringing the hilt of your sword between his shoulder blades and making him fall forward. Even as he knelt at the floor you didn't relent, and a sharp clang of metal rang through the air as he brought up his sword horizontally to block your downward attack. You really weren't kidding about going easy on him.

You backed away, letting him come to his feet but not waiting a moment more than that. You circled him like a predatory animal, observing his stance and body language. When his grip on his sword loosened slightly so he could adjust it, you sprang forward and delivered another harsh blow to his side. Jaime grit his teeth and whirled around, striking at you straight on. You avoided the attack with a simple tilt of your head, seamlessly shifting your weight to deliver a roundhouse to his gut.

Jaime reeled back as the air was knocked out of his lungs and he staggered back on the impact.

“I thought I told you to defend first,” you said, “How are you going to get the opportunity to attack if you can't avoid your opponent's?”

“I know that,” Jaime huffed, irritated, “I'm not a child, I'm the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I know the basics of swordplay you so desperately want to reteach me.”

You lowered your sword and studied him curiously, an unreadable expression on your face.

“So that's what it is,” you sighed, “I know what you're thinking, 'How can this girl possibly be qualified to teach me? I have years of experience on her and I've managed just fine on my own until now. I've never needed any help. I'm a prodigy. If I had my right hand right now I'd be able to beat her with my eyes closed.' Well let me tell you something, Lannister, you don't have your right hand anymore, and it isn't growing back any time soon.”

You charged him again and he struggled to block you once more.

“You know you need help but you're too proud to ask for it,” you stated confidently, “And more than that, you're giving up.”

“I'm not,” he countered breathlessly. He made a half-arsed attempt to take a swing at you which you easily countered.

“It seems you already have,” you said, your eyes narrowing.

“Why are you even here?” he snapped, “If my brother offered you gold to work with a lost cause then I'll pay you triple and you can just leave already.”

That set you off.

In one swift movement you swiped his feet out from under him, grabbing his sword out of his hand as he tumbled backwards. He cursed under his breath and was about to counter with another evasive, witty retort when he froze as you drew your real sword, pressing the blade to his chest.

“Your brother did offer me gold,” you said, “and I told him I had no need for it. So listen up-From what I've heard, your skill with the sword was unmatched. If you want to get back to that point it's not going to be easy, and it's not going to be fun either. But if you're going to give up before you've even started, then just walk away. Don't waste your time, and don't waste mine either.”

Jaime was both taken aback and slightly turned on by your demanding tone as you stood over him. He could tell you meant every word you said, and something told him that he could trust you.

Your expression softened slightly as you sighed and sheathed your blade, staring at the uncertain man in front of you.

“You aren't a lost cause,” you said.

His heart pounded in his ears as he stared up at you, and that's when he realized: You weren't here to laugh at him like so many others had. You weren't here for gold or a shallow round in his bed. You were here to help him become the greatest fighter in Westeros once again. He knew what you said was true, this wasn't going to be easy or fun, but he was willing to work for it. You had lit a fire under his ass.

He wordlessly reached down for the practice sword and took up a fighting stance, and you knew something had changed in him.

“Alright then,” you grinned widely, readying your own weapon,

“Let's do this, Jaime Lannister.

#jaime lannister x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #jaime lannister #cersei lannister #tyrion lannister #joffrey baratheon #joffrey lannister #reader insert #game of thrones reader insert #Jaime lannister/reader #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones/reader #x reader

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

Text

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 6: Bi Bi Bi - Generations

1957

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1989

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He strides across the room and clicks the television off.

“Hey!” Dean cries, “I was watching –“

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

2020

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

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

But this?

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

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

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

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

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

“…Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

(Day 5 - Now That’s an Angel Blade)

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