#i cannot help but post fics the moment they are finished
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Don't Stop
pair: the Darkling x fem!reader
word count: ~3k
summary: general kirigan discovers just how touch starved you are in a sparring session.
warnings: lite semi smut, essentially a thigh kink...., a touch of self-conscious reader with moments of poor self-esteem, kind of ooc!darkling at the end, but i'm not mad about it.
a/n: hej guys !! this is the first fic that i'm posting on this blog, so i hope you like it !!
You know you are not alone in your fascination with the Darkling, making the fact that you watch him more than you should more of a problem than it should be. You hear the whispers among the other Grisha about his appearance, his power, his mystery, and you can’t help but to fall into the trap. He never pays you any attention, and why should he? You never considered yourself the prettiest, the strongest, or the best, especially when it comes to the Small Science. Grisha you are, but exceptional you are not.
...
“Again,” Botkin calls to you, instructing you to run the training course around the courtyard and into the forest for the third time today. With only a nod, you obey and take off running, praying that this will be the final time.
You concentrate on your breathing, keeping it at a steady rhythm as you pass through the courtyard, glancing quickly at Botkin watching the other Grisha spar in the middle. The path into the forest is all too familiar, the ground becoming uneven with unearthed roots and rocks. You quickly slip into the world of your thoughts which is dangerously full of General Kirigan.
Lost in yourself, you fail to notice the ground becoming stone under your feet. You skim the shoulder of someone as you round the corner of the last hall before you return to Botkin at the start, sprinting the final stretch. Your combat instructor is waiting for you, his arms crossed before him, standing beside the Darkling himself.
Your heart seemingly beats faster; not due to the three mile run you just completed, but for fear and anticipation of what these men have in store for you. Halting before them, you quiet your breathing, willing your heart to slow down enough so you can get a word out without panting.
“This is her?” General Kirigan asks in a tone that can only be described as nonplussed, his eyes surveying you carefully.
“Yes, sir,” Botkin nods.
A hum, then a reply that makes you even more apprehensive than before, “She’ll do.”
“Do what?” you blurt, then recover yourself by finishing, “If I may ask.” You know you should hold your tongue, but the words are spoken before you can tie them down. Eyes expectantly watch the General as the corners of his lips twitch up slightly at your question.
“Fight.”
Before you can register the word, you are grabbed by the arm and led by General Kirigan to the sparring circle in the middle of the courtyard. Every sense you have is trained on the General’s hand on your body, on the grip he has around your arm. As quickly as you were snatched, you are released and left alone in the middle of the ring.
Luckily, many of the Grisha have already completed their training, so you are unhindered by too many eyes watching the commotion. Still, enough gather around to get your blood to sound in your ears. You stand, eyes darting around in an attempt to puzzle together what is happening to you.
“Who am I fighting, sir?” you ask tentatively.
A smirk pulls at the General’s mouth before he simply says, “Me.”
Your brain comes to a halt. Then goes into overdrive. You cannot possibly fight the Darkling, the most feared man in the country. You are a mediocre fighter at best who can barely fight Grisha of her own level. The Darkling is going to beat you to a pulp if he shows any self control.
General Kirigan humorously watches your panic as he shrugs off his kefta, seemingly enjoying the terrified look on your face. You take short breaths in an attempt to get your adrenaline pumping enough so the pain will be less intense. You have no doubt that the Darkling will land every harrowing jab he throws.
“Are you ready?” he asks with more intensity than you think necessary. A simple nod from you is enough for him to begin.
He approaches you quickly, immediately on the offense. A few quick lunges and carefully placed hits graze off of your defensive positions until the last blow of the round finds its place under your rib cage. Your heart hammers against your chest, your focus completely intent on shielding yourself from his attacks that come too swiftly to keep up.
General Kirigan begins stepping around you, his feet becoming involved with the spar, leaving you with another source of attacks to defend. You are successful at first but within three steps, you are grabbed by the waist and pinned to the ground, the Darkling holding you down with his thigh locked through yours. Your nose is pressed to his chest, breaths heaving in and out of your mouth.
You feel every place the Darkling touches you. The cool metal of his belt buckle brushes against the exposed strip of skin above your pants. One of his hands grips your wrists that scratch against the dirt above your head. His thigh presses the inside of yours, dangerously close to your core as his hips shift ever so slightly against your stomach. Your body responds involuntarily to the position, moving closer to his thigh before you regain control over yourself.
A small chuckle sounds from General Kirigan who stares at you from above.
“How long has it been since someone touched you like this?” he whispers before abruptly standing up, his knee grazing your core as he moves.
He reaches out a hand to assist you, and you take it, nerves igniting in your stomach as his hand grasps yours and pulls you off of the ground.
“Thank you,” you say quietly once you are on your feet.
“Thank you,” the General replies before bowing, whispering your name as he gathers his kefta and waves to Botkin.
You watch him leave in complete disbelief. He took you down with ease, so you should be much more embarrassed by that, but you are too possessed by the feeling of him to care.
...
You thought little of anything other than the moment you had had with General Kirigan. The reason Botkin had chosen you to spar with the Darkling when there were other, more impressive Grisha training at the same time you were has escaped you, and you doubt that you will ever understand. A repeat performance has not happened, and you don’t expect it to. Your life continues as usual, other than the occasional whisper about the fight muttered between Grisha over dinner plates.
...
Picking at the herring in front of you, you feel the hair at the back of your neck prickle, followed by goosebumps rippling over skin under your kefta. Your eyes dart from one face at the table to another, attempting to find the eyes that watch you. The effort is fruitless, and the feeling fades as quickly as you noticed it.
Subconsciously, you glance at the Darkling sitting at the head of the table. It is a luxury to see him at dinner as he is always far too busy to dine with the other Grisha. He sits tall, his features sharp yet bleary with disinterest. You wonder if he has always looked as he does now: a man who knows the world’s cruelty and the bitterness of time. His hand wrapped around his fork holds your stare as you recall the feeling of those same fingers around your wrists, imagining what they would feel like in other places. You catch yourself falling down the rabbit hole of General Kirigan, so you force the last few bites of fish down before sneaking away from the dinner table to bury your thoughts in the shelves of the library.
...
The Darkling watches you quietly excuse yourself from the table and slip into the hallway. He had been watching you during dinner, taking in the way you scrunch your nose at every forkful of herring and smile pleasantly after each bite. He felt your eyes find him as he sat, listening to his Grisha argue. You look at him a lot, no more than the other girls, surely, but the General has started to take notice of you everywhere. He finds you in the hallways, always bowing to him respectfully.
At night, for reasons unknown to him, he thinks of the way your body responded to his, how your hips sought out his thigh and the feeling of your breath erratically hitting his chest. No one has responded to him the way you have in a long time, and he thinks he wants to feel it again.
After dinner is through, he strides through the Little Palace, intent on escaping his duties for the night. He has had enough of the country’s and his Grishas’ troubles, so he heads to the stables for a late night ride alone. Swiftly moving down the hallway, he notices a thin stream of light spilling out from under a library door. Rarely do the Grisha study at this time of night, as they are usually causing trouble in efforts to impress their classmates. And if they are studying, it is never in this library - the small one that often smells of spores due to the age of the books that are somehow always damp.
He pauses for a moment, considering entering the room to find who is in there, but decides against it. He begins to walk away, only to stop after a few steps to satisfy his curiosity. Opening the door, he finds a form laying on the couch with the light dimly glowing from the candle in the corner. Whoever it is doesn't notice him as they do not move from their place.
General Kirigan walks further into the library and finds that it is you on the couch. The book you were reading is on the floor with its pages bent at awkward angles. You have your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, almost as if you were comforting yourself, providing yourself with the touch you crave from others.
The jab he made about being touched while you were pinned under him begins to echo in his mind, coming to realize that his question was a legitimate one.
Silently, General Kirigan strides to you, crouching in front of your sleeping form. A hand comes to ghost over the side of your face before he can stop himself. Your eyes flutter open, blinking blearily. When the sight before you comes into focus, you sit upright quickly, causing the Darkling to retract his hand from your face.
“Sir,” you start, but he waves his hand to cut you off.
“Follow me,” he says, standing from his crouched position and striding to the door with only a single glance behind him. Wordlessly, you get up and walk behind the general, wondering what he could possibly want.
Your nerves tingle with anxiety and surprisingly with excitement. You have wanted his attention, and here he is, finally giving it to you. Whether this is a good thing or not, you haven’t decided.
Suddenly, General Kirigan comes to an abrupt halt before turning sharply and opening the door to your right. He slips in quietly, and you follow him into the room, discovering that it is a bedroom. A large four poster bed with black satin sheets stands in the middle of the room, clouding your mind with the images of the fantasies you have dreamed up at night, and your neck heats at the indecency of your thoughts.
“I am going to be honest with you, and I ask that you do the same,” the general says as he stands in front of the bed, his focus completely on you.
You nod in agreement, nervousness forming a pit in your stomach.
“You have monopolized my thoughts. I have seen the way you look at me, and it has led me to believe that you will not object to what I have in mind. Now, I want to ask you again. When was the last time,” he takes a step in your direction, leaving no more than a meter between you, “someone,” another step, “touched you like I did?”
By the end of his question, he is standing directly in front of you, his eyes locked with yours. You want to tear your eyes away, but you find yourself unable to do so. Your body is hot, embarrassment flooding your veins, but somehow, you are not bothered by it. He prefaced his question with candor, and you want to do the same.
“Never, sir,” you whisper, providing him the honesty you promised.
A small smile pushes his lips up as he reaches a hand to tilt your chin. His hand drops slowly to your throat when he whispers, “Would you like me to do it again?”
“Yes, sir.”
The general makes no sudden movements and without any urgency, puts his hands on your waist and pulls you to his body. You take the necessary step forward to have your stomach flush to his. His hand finds its place at the small of your back, the other pushing a strand of your hair out of your face.
Your hands stay by your sides, unsure as to where to put them. He notices and moves to grab them, bringing them around his neck. His hands slide down your arms as they come around your waist, his fingertips pressing into your hips.
His eyes never leave yours as he leans down to whisper into your mouth, “Tell me when to stop.”
You nod, almost imperceptibly, but it is enough confirmation for him to close the gap between your lips. A breath flutters in through your nose, the sound of your nerves causing him to smile against your lips. He kisses you slowly and surely. He does not rush into your mouth, keeping his kisses languid and smooth, each one flowing into the next.
Slotting his thigh between yours, he pushes himself closer to you, the feeling of his leg pressed to the inside of yours inciting warmth to seep into your core. Your hips move upon their own accord, rocking to find his thigh like they did when you sparred. Your breath hitches, and you pull away to look at him, embarrassment creeping up your neck as every part of you starts prickling with heat.
The almost triumphant look on his face leaves you breathless and sweeps away your embarrassment. “Does it feel just as good this time?”
“Yes,” you breathe, closing your eyes as he meets your lips again.
The kisses come a little quicker now as his hands remove your kefta from your shoulders. You help him push off his own, unbuckling and untying shirts as you go.
“Will you lay down for me?” he asks as he gently guides you to the bed behind him, kissing you once along the way. “That’s a good girl.”
Your heart is pounding in your chest, your mind unsure, but your body craves the feeling of everything he is so willingly offering. Black sheets engulf you as you lay back on his bed, your dress falling up your thighs. He removes the shoes from your feet and kisses a trail up your calves. You can’t help the sighs that escape your lips as your eyes slip closed.
“Look at me,” General Kirigan says, breathing your name against your knees. You watch him slide his hands up your legs, your sides, skimming your chest before resting them beside your head. “When was the last time someone touched you like this?”
You look right into his eyes and whisper, “Never.”
Your response elicits a smile from him before he captures your lips again, moving his thigh to press into your core. You gasp and keen into him, your chests pressing together. The feeling of him between your thighs has pressure building in your stomach, the muscles below your navel tight with anticipation. One of his hands comes to rest on your stomach, teasing you and causing you to jolt beneath him, your hips pressing further into him in response.
His thumb begins to caress the skin just above your panty line, and this causes the fire in your core to burn hotter than you have ever felt. He begins to help you rock into him, finding a rhythm that makes you whimper and kiss him harder.
Suddenly and without warning, his hand is out from under your dress and his thigh is absent from between yours. Your eyes fly open, thinking that he has had enough, and your heart leaps into your throat.
What you see leaves your heart pounding in your ears but not out of concern. He is sitting on his heels, looking down at you in what could only be interpreted as awe.
His eyebrows are high and his lips are slightly parted as he leans back down, not touching any part of you but with his lips. He kisses your neck, your throat, your collarbones with his hands bracing him beside you. The lack of contact anywhere else on your body has you reaching out and pulling his hips to yours, the feeling of his pants on the inside of your thighs making you tingle and clench your legs around his.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers again against the column of your throat, reminding you that you are in control. Everything is a new land yet to be discovered, and you are enjoying every moment of exploration.
“Please,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
a/n: yay !! thanks for making it through !! let me know if you want to be on my taglist :) check out MY SLEEPOVER going on right now !!
#shadow and bone#the darkling x reader#the darkling#general kirigan#general kirigan x reader#aleksander morozova#aleksander morozova x reader#ben barnes#grishaverse
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𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒎
pairing: duke leto atreides x fem!reader
summary: It's the night before your wedding to Duke Leto Atreides and he finds you struck by panic about your future in Caladan.
warnings: 3.1k wc. arranged marriage, panic attack, anxiety, mentions of conceiving. my limited dune-lore knowledge. soft!leto.
a/n: first leto fic ahhh!! i may or may not write more parts to this in the future. i had so many ideas but if i wrote them all in one fic, it would be a long one (not to mention it would take 1001 years to finish and post). anyway, feedback is very much appreciated! hope you enjoy :)
—
Caladan.
There is a beauty to it that you cannot deny. It's captivating from the very first glance. An indescribable sight, unparalleled to anywhere else in the universe.
Of all the worlds you could be in at this moment, a part of you is glad it's Caladan. In spite of the circumstances that brought you here, you try to be grateful for it. Surely, there are worse places to live on than this.
Here, the ocean is vast, stretching far beyond the starlit horizon. A fresh breeze carries the salty scent of the water towards you. It tickles your skin as if it were a feather, the light coolness sending goosebumps along your arms. You tug your shawl more closely around your shoulders.
It is far from the hot desert landscape you know and love. Despite its recent hardships, that planet was once home to you. It still is. You wonder how long it will be before you consider Caladan as such. It's been one week since your arrival, and you're in a period of adjustment, which in truth, has not been too easy.
The beach is empty, unsurprising as the moon has moved far past its highest point in the sky. You can't sleep. You haven't for so long. Similar to all the nights prior, you had tossed and turned endlessly under silken sheets before deciding to go for a walk. You found no comfort in your bed despite the mattress beneath you being the softest there ever was.
It could be the chambers themselves, surrounded by four dark walls that are still very much foreign to you. You must get used to it, you remind yourself. In fact, it's more than just a room that you must get used to.
Tomorrow, your life will change more than it already has when you moved to Caladan.
Tomorrow is the wedding—your wedding. Many esteemed members of the Great Houses will be in attendance, alongside your closest family and friends, who are now worlds away from you. They will all be present to witness you exchange vows with Duke Leto Atreides, a man you barely know.
You exhale a deep, long sigh and draw your knees under your chin. Gentle waves lap onto the shore, the white foam almost reaching your toes before ebbing away. You watch in comfortable silence, the hypnotic rhythm of the waves creating a sense of calm.
Unwittingly, your mind combs through recent events. You spent plenty of these last few days surrounded by those more interested in your upcoming nuptials than you are. You've grown weary of feigning smiles every second in their company, of pretending to be okay when you are far from it.
You feel alone. You are alone.
It’s a sacrifice—leaving behind the life you had to help your struggling home world. Things are changing faster than the time you have to process them. But you can't afford to wait—the sooner you marry Leto, the sooner your father and your people's burdens will go away.
You are doing the right thing. The noble thing. It's what you were raised to do. The last thing you wish is to be seen as a disappointment.
Still, it doesn't mean you have your worries and doubts. You lack experience, having never courted someone before. You question whether or not you would be fit to be a wife to the stranger who is the Duke of Caladan. You're well aware of the responsibilities you would have to uphold, the expectation that one day you will need to bear him an heir…
You shut your eyes, trying to push past the feeling of your heart starting to pick up and thud heavily against your ribs. But the pit of anxiety gnawing at your stomach grows and grows, and it's a losing battle. Not even the ocean waves that mesmerized you moments ago could distract you from the mounting panic inside.
Your thoughts batter you from within like a storm raging out of control. The pressure and expectations others have on you— that you have on yourself— can't be stopped.
They're too loud; they refuse to be ignored this time around.
Your body trembles, your breaths are short and shallow, and it feels like you are drowning; you're helplessly caught in a dangerous current that pulls you under the water. The weight in your chest drags you down and deeper, sinking and sinking until you hit the very bottom of the depths of your own mind, deprived of any air, any light.
It's only until a voice calls out your name over and over again that you resurface. Warm, gentle hands urge you to sit right back up, and you don't have it in you to fight against them. You don't remember curling up on your side, wound in a tight little ball, nearly burrowing yourself into the sand bed as if wanting to be swallowed whole.
"Breathe, darling... Listen to my voice and just breathe, alright? One... two... three..."
You can't see him, not through the hot, stinging tears obscuring your eyes. But you can hear him. His voice's hazy, soft lull is strangely familiar, yet you cannot place whose it is.
He coaxes you repeatedly, and you focus on his words as if they are your one and only lifeline—as if they are the calming waves reaching the shoreline.
You do as he says. You breathe.
"One... two... three... That's it, my lady. Deep breaths for me, and again— one... two... three... Good girl, and again. Breathe..."
You're unsure how long has passed by the time your heart slows, and your breathing evens out. Your blurred vision clears once your tears have settled, and your eyes widen when you recognize the face before you.
Duke Leto Atreides kneels beside you, dressed in a manner you have never seen him in. He has on a loose white shirt and dark lounge bottoms, his graying head of curls mussed by the wind blowing past.
You're uncertain why he's at the beach alone at this late hour despite being seemingly ready for bed. Perhaps concerned guards informed him of your wandering about the castle in the dead of night. Did he come all this way in search of you?
Leto’s dark eyes search your face for the reason of your distress. Embarrassment sweeps over your cheeks— you cannot imagine how much of a pitiful mess you look. God, what if you've ruined it? What if seeing you this way, so weak, and frightened, and pathetic, has Leto wishing to rescind his agreement to marry you? What if, what if—
"Hey, shh… Relax. There is no need to fret," Leto soothes. He must have seen the worry in your eyes, but instead of ridicule as you anticipated, he looks at you with concern.
You cast your gaze down, catching sight of your hand in his. He hasn't let go of it since finding you, and when he notices your muscles tense up from the anxiety that seizes your body once more, he squeezes.
Leto squeezes your hand firmly but nowhere near the point of pain. His words are a quiet murmur in your ears. "Don't go back there, darling. Stay here, on this beach. Squeeze my hand back so I know you're here with me. Can you do that for me, please?"
With his other hand, Leto places a finger under your chin to tip it upwards, meeting your eyes. Again, he holds your hand tightly and brushes his thumb over your knuckles. You concentrate on him, matching your breaths to his. The tension starts to slip away bit by bit, and when it does, you finally squeeze his hand back.
"There you go. Just breathe, you're alright," Leto murmurs with a small smile. It dawns on you how close he is when the sound of the ocean becomes second to his voice. "Better?"
You swallow, then nod following a brief pause, not trusting yourself to speak.
Moving slowly so as not to startle you, Leto picks up your shawl from the ground, dusting it clean of grains of sand before draping it over your shoulders.
You expect him to leave, seeing you have regained some semblance of composure. You much prefer that he would. You can't handle explaining to Leto what was wrong. Is wrong.
The air turns silent as you face the water, wiping the dried-up tears from your cheeks with your fingers. You don't see Leto in your peripheral vision, but he's there, watching you. You can feel it.
"Here," you hear Leto say. Glancing to the side, you find him still sitting next to you. He offers his handkerchief, gently motioning it toward you when he senses your hesitation.
With the slightest smile, you accept the piece of cloth, whispering a "thanks" and looking away.
It occurs to you then that this is your first true moment with Leto. Before today, you had only seen glimpses of him. The most time you have spent with him was during your first encounter, and even then, it wasn't for long.
You chalked it up to Leto having no genuine interest in you. Why would he? He has duties that are much more pressing than entertaining you.
It's not much of a surprise. It would be wrong of you to expect for more. Ultimately, this marriage is not one for love but born out of necessity. A political alliance. A guarantee that your people will be well taken care of. That's the agreement.
Not to mention, you've heard them— those hushed talks amongst the servants and guards about how Caladan does not stand to gain anything from the union.
They are not wrong; many have supposedly expressed concern, including members of the Duke's inner circle. You wonder if he will come to regret his decision one day.
"You've had quite a fright there."
Leto's voice cuts through the silence between you. He shuffles from behind, sitting where he can better see you. You stop yourself from glancing down; it would be rude, and you don't want to tarnish both your image and your family's name even more than you already have.
"I-I am deeply sorry, my lord. You shouldn't have to see that," you manage to get out, catching the way Leto's brows knit together in response.
"There's no shame in such. Why apologize?" he asks you in a soft tone. "And please, there's no need for formalities. Call me Leto. After all, we are betrothed to one another."
Your throat suddenly dries at the reminder that the man before you is your soon-to-be husband. You wring your hands in your lap and give him a nod, skirting from answering his earlier question.
Leto is quick to pick up your nervousness. You can almost see his brain working to piece it all together and grasp what was happening when he stumbled upon you.
You dread what words Leto might say, fearing they will be judgments made against you. You hide from his piercing stare, picking at your nails until a pair of rough yet gentle hands gathers yours, halting you.
Leto squeezes your hands softly, very much like he did before, and it soothes the part of you that has always ached but you could never get rid of.
"You do not have to carry your burdens alone, my lady," Leto murmurs, leaning to catch your eyes once more, and he does. "Whatever it is, unload it on me. Now, tell me what's wrong."
It's almost cruel that your instinct is to doubt him. But if the sincerity bleeding into his voice wasn't enough for you to give him a chance, then it's the tenderness in his gaze. You see the understanding in them, the concern and genuine desire to ease your troubles away.
Your initial perception of Leto has been wrong. You've been wary of him. Intimidated. But this is no man holding no care for you. He could have easily walked away after finding you amidst a fit. Instead, he stayed. He's here when you were convinced he would never find the time to be.
You open up to Leto like a floodgate, admitting to him the thoughts that plagued your mind from the day you learned about this marital arrangement, your nervousness for tomorrow's wedding and your fear of solitude in Caladan in the days that would follow.
You feel selfish, guilty even, for saying all of this out loud. You have no right to complain when the locals here have treated you with only kindness. Others would dream of being in your shoes—of living in a beautiful land, gaining an honorable title, and having a husband who would make you the envy of many.
Why must a blessing cause you great grief?
Leto listens to every word with undivided attention. He lets you speak freely and honestly, never once interfering between your sobs and sentences. He clears his throat only when the whispering waves of the ocean have lingered in the space between the two for some time.
"You are right when you said some of my advisors opposed me marrying you," Leto begins softly, gauging every bit of your reaction as he speaks. "They told me it would bring no benefit to House Atreides—that all we'll do is use up precious time and resources for a dying planet already beyond saving. Their words, not mine."
There is a quiet beat. Leto glances towards the horizon, where the first faint inklings of dawn break through the skies. He continues: "I realized then that those men do not uphold the same values I believe in. Caladan has more than enough riches to go around. There is no humanity in turning a blind eye to people's suffering—especially when we have it in our power to provide aid.
"I've had plenty of disagreements with my advisors, but I couldn't allow those without hearts to remain on my council. My lack of presence is not because I had no interest in getting to know you. Rather, I was ensuring those who showed little care for my bride and her ancestral land no longer served as advisors of mine—a task that regrettably stole time I would have spent with you."
You fall silent. The breath that leaves you seemingly takes more of the load on your being. Your respect for Leto grows. You see now the kind, thoughtful, benevolent man he is.
How could you have been so wrong about him? You'd been irrational, too assuming. So afraid he would turn out to be the complete opposite when he gave you no valid reason that he's such. You should not have been quick to judge his character when you had known nothing about him in the first place.
"I... thank you, my lor—Leto," you eventually say, turning to him. Shame and remorse cling to your tongue. "I am terribly sorry again. Had my mind been sound, I would've realized my distress is unwarranted."
"Nonsense. You're overwhelmed; your worries were reasonable. All I want is the two of us to be on the same page," Leto replies. The warm smile that adorns his lips when you correct yourself and address him by name lingers. “Let's start over, shall we then?"
You watch as he stands on his feet, reaching out his hand towards you. With Leto's help, you pull yourself up from the sandy floor, shaking off the pins and needles stinging your limbs. He holds his hand out once more, this time for a handshake.
"Hello, I am Leto and welcome to Caladan. It is a pleasure to meet you and an honor to have your presence here."
A smile blooms across your face as you shake his hand, formally introducing yourself to Leto the way he had. "I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to this. I, my father, and our people are eternally grateful for your generosity."
Leto makes a small bow of his head, capturing your hand between his own. Something inside you feels lighter now. The air around you, once thick like water, isn't anymore.
"You will no longer have to worry about your home world. I will make certain they receive all that they need—as for you, as well. I am here for you, even if it's simply as an ear to listen."
A pause. Leto's voice melts a touch softer. He looks at you with eyes deep and brown as the bark of a pine. "In a matter of hours, you and I will wed. It's merely for formality's sake. What goes on between us as husband and wife is nobody's business but ours. Please know that I ask for and expect nothing in return for agreeing to this arrangement. You will never be forced to do anything you do not wish to. Ever. Is that understood?"
You take in Leto's words, becoming aware of the unspoken ones, those hidden between the lines. Their implications settle on you, and you let out a quiet breath of relief into the air.
"I do," you assure before adding, for what could be the hundredth time since Leto has joined you, "Thank you."
“You’re welcome, my lady.”
The sun peaks over the skyline, casting bright golden rays over Caladan. Leto briefly glances in the distance, the silver strands of his mane and beard catching the light, and they glimmer before your eyes. He smiles wide, the lines on his face crinkling as he watches the sunrise.
You also find yourself smiling, spending a moment more studying Leto's profile before turning to what's ahead of you.
Caladan takes your breath away, even more so in the daylight. You can fully appreciate it now that the storms in your mind have passed, and it's as clear as the skies.
"It's a beautiful day to get married." Leto remarks as the two of you gaze out to the water. After basking in the peaceful silence, he meets your eyes again, offering you his arm like a gentleman would. "Come, let me escort you back to your room. We both should rest up a bit before the festivities start."
Nodding in agreement, you quietly say goodbye to the ocean and allow Leto to guide you away from the beach. The sand beneath your shoes eventually turns to a rocky pathway at the foot of Castle Caladan, its grandeur towering over you.
A warm hand slips into yours.
"From now on, you will never feel alone," Leto says, pressing a soft squeeze to your hand. His hold is comforting, and reassuring. “You will always have me at your side, darling. I promise you that."
You smile at Leto, feeling something tender unfold in your chest when he returns a smile of his own.
You believe him, and for once, you think you will be okay.
—
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#leto atreides x reader#duke leto x reader#dune fanfic#duke leto atreides fanfic#leto atreides fanfic#leto atreides x you#oscar isaac#oscar isaac x reader#my fics
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Safe Keeping | 7
Part 1 2 3 4 5 6
What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes." I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine husband... a fine father."
Sandor Clegane x Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, POV shifts!, forced marriage, smut (piv, emotional sex, praise kink, breeding kink), enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, miscommunication, toxic masculinity, typos, etc.
A/N: YAY WE ACTUALLY FINISHED A SERIES HAHHAH lol. thank you so much to everyone who read safe keeping on here <3 im so luv all of you !! i will be continuing this so HIHHH look forward to it ig 😋
[originally posted on ao3] | [continuation fic on ao3] | [continuation on tumblr]
Tagging: @otteropera @poisonsage808 @glitterandgoldfinds @the-queen-of-sorrows @minttea07 @fluffpudel @j3nn-1 @jelsasnowflakes1 @thestrals-and-firewiskey
We are greeted by a group of men when we arrive at the Alistair dwelling.
Sandor helps me dismount my horse. I thank him, then the stable boy, who takes our rides. Sandor ushers me in and we hand our coats to the servants by the door.
My husband scrutinizes the place, a grave expression on his features as he takes in the halls that were decorated with streamers. As we get deeper into the home, I grab Sandor's arm and carefully word, "remember why we're here."
He turns to me and raises a brow, "and why are we here, darling wife?"
I cannot help the way I react to his words, his term of endearment. I know it is condescending, but my stomach tumbles at the sound of it either way. I look forward, unable to keep his gaze, "we're here to pay out respects to a man that extended generosity to us."
Sandor notices the way my face twitches. He sighs and turns away, "I will not kill the pretty boy. Do not be so upset."
"I'm not upset," I turn to him.
He scoffs under his breath, "what's with the face then?"
"What face?"
"A face fairest in the land, many would say."
Sandor and I stop in our tracks.
My brows raise and I break into a chuckle of disbelief and surprise. The man who had spoken smirks as I greet him, "Lord Baelish."
Sandor feels his blood boil when the Littlefinger bows and reaches out a hand. He tightens his grip on me.
I turn to Sandor, noticing how darkly he was eyeing Petyr, and decide to let out a laugh to ease the tension, "there be no need for such formalities, Petyr."
Petyr straightens up, lowering his hand, maintaining his smirk.
Sandor's lips twitch as he grumbles slowly himself, "Petyr."
"I am glad we're past that, my dear," Petyr says before Sandor tugs me by the arm behind him as he steps forward.
The shorter man looks up and the taller one snorts. I manage to pull my arm away, coming in between them. I nervously laugh and elbow Sandor back, not that it does anything, "if you'll excuse us, we must speak to the man on the hour."
Petyr looks back at me, unfazed and still smirking, "of course. But I do I hope, for your sake, you spare me a moment after. I have something rather important to talk to you about."
"About what?!" Sandor bark. I feel the tension of his form when he presses nearer, flush against my back, to impose upon the lord.
Lord Baelish doesn't spare the Hound a glance, "why, about the monsters plaguing your ancestral home."
My lips part.
The blue eyed man raises a brow, "you've long wished to be safe from this peril, yes?" he bows, "I believe I have a solution for you."
Before I could even think, Petyr straightens up and smirks as he walks away.
I hear the Hound whisper behind me, "I'll fucking kill him instead."
Before I could respond, a voice calls out to me. I turn and see it is Lord Alistair, making his way over.
He jogs up to me with an excited expression and reaches out a hand. I smile back at him and take it out of instinct. When he is close enough, Cedric kisses my knuckles.
The Hound did not realize this had happened up until he tore his gaze from damned Littlefinger. When he notices Alistair, he nearly breaks his teeth from clenching his jaw so tight.
"I am happy to see you, my lady," Cedric nods with a lopsided smile.
Before the Hound can react, the pretty boy is speaking again.
"And you, my lord," he nods to Sandor.
"I don't share the sentiment," the Hound growls through a strangled breath.
Cedric laughs. He places a hand on his chest as he does, then motions, "forgive me. You must be famished from your travels," he looks to his right then back to us, "please. My servants have prepared my favorite dishes. Help yourself and make merry."
"I'll be merry if I fuc--
"THANK YOU, MY LORD!" I cut off with a massive grin. I curtsy and chuckle, mustering all the sincerity I had, praying it overshadowed my jitters, "may you always be so generous and joyous on your nameday."
Cedric chuckles and waves me off, "please. Spare me the formalities. I pray you go and eat with your husband before he kills someone."
Lord Alistair is the only one that laughs at the joke. A few delayed seconds later, I manage to laugh with him, forcing down my agitation.
Sandor doesn't budge the first time I tug on his arm. He follows after the fourth. He eyes Cedric as we walk away, but the said man is already preoccupied with another guest to notice.
"I don't think this is a good idea," I whimper under my breath as I quite literally run after the buzzing Hound.
Sandor makes his way down the hall in a break neck speed, at least for me. I have to catch my breath when we enter the weapons room. I heave and look around the foreign place, eyeing the axes, the arrows, the swords, and the armor displayed all over.
"Your pretty boy has good taste," Sandor slurs as he grabs a sword mounted on the wall, knocking over a few others as he did.
I cringe at the clank of steel against ground and step back when Sandor begins to wave his blade around. I mumble, "he's not my pretty boy."
Sandor continues to swing the sword. I pull my head back in agitation.
He then picks up the fallen swords but cannot manage to put them back in their place without moving shakily, and dropping a few.
I panic and press my back against the wall, "my love, this is a horrible idea!"
Sandor stops and turns to me, "how is it horrible? Lord Alistair wanted a sword fight with me, and that's what he's gonna get. He chose this nameday gift, not I."
I watch as he finally manages to put away the swords.
"You were there, my jittery bride."
I straighten up and slowly walk towards him with my palms cautiously raised. Sandor is perfectly still when I come close. I release a sigh of relief when I manage to grab his arms, "please listen. I was also there when you downed three ewers of wine, puppy."
He leans down.
I clench my jaw.
I can feel his breath, smell the alcohol in it, as he mutters, "I'm not a lightweight."
I gasp when he comes low enough to kiss my neck.
My skin pricks when he whispers hotly, "and I'm not a puppy."
My heart is racing when he straightens up. He does so in a rather staggering manner, telling of the effects of his alcohol consumption.
"You're drunk."
"Am not," he rebuts.
I scowl at him, "you're a drunk puppy, my dear."
He smiles, "I thought I was your love?"
My stomach churns.
Sandor purses his lips when I do not respond.
I feel my face prick with heat, "would you listen to me if you knew that I loved you?"
He chuckles, turns his back on me, and heads for the door, "well, do ya?"
I feel like vomiting. I whisper under my breath, "I do."
He reaches for the knob and opens the door, "nice try, beautiful," he reaches a hand out, "come. Maybe your pretty boy will manage to ki-"
"WILL YOU STOP CALLING HIM THAT!" I snap and storm over to him. "Lord Alistair is NOT my pretty boy! He's not mine and will never be!" I feel my blood boil and my eyes begin to fog, "and stop calling me names!"
He pulls his chin back. His face hardens. He opens his mouth to speak but beat him to it before he can say a word.
"Stop mocking me! Stop calling me pretty squirrel! Stop calling me beautiful! It's driving me mad!"
"I'm not mocking you," he speaks lowly, "why would I mock-"
"Well, whatever it is, it needs to come to an end," I point at him, "now let's get this over with. I want to go home."
I storm off and head outside.
I make my way to the back of the Alistair dwelling, which had a large field where the sword fighting will be held.
I stand by the crowd of people and sigh through my nostrils. I watch as Lord Alistair does tricks with his sword, enticing the crowd to laugh and cheer for him.
I feel out of place in my spot because I didn't know anyone else, and because was not at all entertained by the spectacle. All I thought of was how badly I wished this to be over. Damn my drunken husband for agreeing to this.
"Trouble in paradise?"
I turn over and find the smile of Lord Baelish. I release another sigh, "please. Not anymore, Petyr."
Petyr chuckles and shrugs, "I've barely said a word, my dear."
His term of endearment triggers my vexation. I cannot help the way I roll my eyes at him.
He laughs harder, "what darling reaction."
I move away from him.
He steps closer, "did you know there are necromancers in Volantis?"
I glare at him just to look away again.
He gives me a smirk, "they are learned of tar monsters who enjoy eating village folk."
I turn back to him.
He nudges me with his elbow and turns front, "I've put in good word for you. All you have to do is take a ship to Essos. A witch there will get rid of your problems for you at a fair price."
"Hmm," I raise a brow, "oh, undoubtedly. It clearly is that simple."
Petyr turns to me, "it certainly is. Once the woodland monsters are gone, you'll be able to hunt and gather timber from the forest again," he nods his head, "and so will I."
Aha. I purse my lips and debate his words for a moment.
"And I trust you will allow me to fish in the Sterling River as well."
I look forward when the crowd cheers. I see before me, Lord Clegane and Lord Alistair, circling each other, the latter laughing in excitement, the former blank faced and stern. I turn back to Petyr, "very well."
He nods once more.
I look straight again.
"Perhaps a trip to Volantis is exactly what the loving couple need."
I roll my eyes at him.
Sandor and Cedric begin to tussle. The sound of steel biting steel fills the air. Cedric is an eager opponent, pressing forward every chance he gets. Sandor is relaxed and playing the defensive.
This continues for a while, metal clashing, boots skidding, voices grunting, and it was a rather showy match, at least on Cedric's end. Sandor is barely trying, I could tell. He must be conserving his energy. I've seen the way he's trained with the boys in Brown Wood. He's definitely trying to tire Cedric out.
"This is going to be a long match," Petyr whispers to me.
I turn to him and sigh, "a very long one."
Sandor catches this and feels his lips twitch. He turns back to Cedric.
I gasp when Cedric manages to disarm Sandor. The crowds gasp as well, and Cedric too seems surprised.
Sandor shakes his head, " 'm too fucking drunk for this."
Cedric straightens from his defensive stance.
Sandor nods, "well met."
Lord Alistair nods back, smiles, and turns about to bask in his victory.
As he bows to his guests, the Hound makes a beeline towards me. I watch as he comes close, my heart slowly speeds.
He grabs my arm, "we're leaving."
"Oh!" Cedric calls and gestures our way "a round of applause for the Hound."
The guests turn and cheer for him.
Sandor pulls me to his side.
"Come now," Petyr smirks, "won't you even try to best Lord Alistair in another round?"
Sandor leans down towards Lord Baelish and growls, "fuck off."
With that, I am dragged away.
"Sandor."
The Hound's horse continues treading in front of me.
"Sandor."
The Hound still does not stop, turn, or respond.
"Sandor!" I say louder.
Still nothing.
I make the horse I was riding gallop to his side. He had not spoken to me the whole way back, not when we got on our horses, not when we stopped at an inn for the night, not when we started our journey, and not now that we near the gates of Brown Wood.
"Have you chosen never to speak to me again?" I quip, tightening my grip on my reins. When he looks the opposite direction from me, I scoff and roll my eyes, "should it not be I that never speaks to you, Hound? You've been nothing but insufferable the entire time we were at the feast!"
Sandor still does not budge.
I look forward and catch sight of Brown Wood. I give my horrible husband one last glare before growling and galloping away.
Sandor watches this. He does no effort to follow after.
When I get to the gates, I am immediately greeted by many servants. Polly, in particular, excitedly tells me he's taught the puppies tricks, and quickly leads my horse away after I dismount, keen to tell me more about it.
Lucy, though happy to see me, raised a brow at my missing chaperone, "did you lose your Hound, milady?"
I roll my eyes, "do not speak to me of that beast."
Lucy is bewildered.
I sigh and slump forward, regretting the harshness of my words. I shake my head, "have you prepared a bath for me?"
She knits her brows and nods slowly, "....did something happen at the feast?"
"Of course something happened," I muttered, "the gods are truly testing me." I brush Lucy's arm, "I will tell you more of it later. For now, I need a warm bath."
Lucy nods again and watches me walk off.
Before Polly could follow after, Lucy hooks her fingers into his collar, holding him back. The boy makes a choking sound, stops and turns, staring at Lucy.
"Our lady will not be bothered," she says.
"But the puppies!"
"Later," she pulls her hand away, "go finish your chores if you still have some, boy."
Polly makes a face and grumbles, though he does listen.
Just then, Lucy turns and sees the Hound walking towards the gates, leading his stead by the reins. She waits for him to enter, and the moment he does, she runs her mouth.
"Are ye not tired of playing this game?"
The Hound squints but spares Lucy no glance. He heads for the stables and undoes the ties on his horse.
Lucy flares as she follows after him, "can't you just do us all a favor and stop?"
"I'm not in the mood for nagging, wench."
"Then admit it!"
"Fuckin' what?!" he glares at her.
"That you're mad about your wife!" Lucy snaps.
Sandor stills.
"That you would die for her! That you're upset she wanted to go to another lord's nameday celebration!"
He removes his horse's saddle, "that was a formality."
"YOU'RE A FUCKIN' FOOL!"
Sandor whips his head to her.
"And a coward," Lucy raises a finger.
The Hound chucks the undone saddle to the side and steps forward. He looks down at Lucy, but she is unbothered and unafraid. He is shocked when she shoves him. He topples back.
"She's only ever wanted your love, you thickheaded oaf! Don't you see how hard she tries to please ya?!"
"Please me?" Sandor scoffs, taking another step forward.
"YES!" Lucy shouts, "she wants to be your perfect bride but you know nothing but cruelty. You repay 'er with bitterness."
The Hound feels his mouth sour.
"And puppies."
Sandor watches her wipe her face.
"Because you're not as cruel as you make yourself out to be, milord," Lucy says with frustration.
Sandor feels like the wind was knocked out of his lungs.
"I've caught you when you think no one's looking," she speaks softly, "you love her."
Sandor feels his body burn.
"She loves you."
"She d-"
"Fix it before it gets worse. I beg," she sighs.
The Hound is stunned as the maid walks off.
When Polly spots him, the boy unknowingly grates his nerves as he leads the puppies over and shows all the tricks he's taught them. It wasn't much, in all honesty, just a 'stop' and a 'come here', but the three pups did them well.
Sandor couldn't be impressed, he was far too out of it to be anything but queasy.
He tells Polly he's tired and heads to the bedroom. Polly tells him he wants to show Lady Clegane the tricks before they sleep. He doesn't answer the boy.
Sandor is both disappointed and relieved to find the room empty. His head is heavy as he changes. He feels like he'd sink to the bottom as he goes to bed.
The Hound had been pacing around when I got to the bedroom. He froze when I entered and awkwardly walked back as I headed for the bed.
I didn't speak a word as I went under the covers and laid down. I eyed him as he sat on the edge on the other side, back turned to me. I burn holes into his back with my glare.
It takes a few seconds of him rubbing his lap and him sighing loudly before he breaks his silence.
"I..." he trails off.
I shift in my spot to look at him.
He straightens, "I didn't like the fact that pret-" he cuts himself off and sighs, "that Lord Alistair and Lord Baelish were all over you."
I can't help but scoff, "and you've decided not to speak to me because of some two men's doing?"
"I DIDN'T want to fight," he blurts loudly then softly.
I watch as he slouches and moves on his side to bring himself under the sheets. He sighs as he covers himself and speaks without looking at me, "I don't like fighting you."
I purse my lips at the thought. His words conflict me. I find it aggravating to hear when it felt like he liked the opposite. A side of me is also unwilling to believe it because it was too hard to believe.
The part of me that was still angry at him for being so petty wants to fight back with equal pettiness. But an even larger part of me felt too exhausted and defeated to argue.
"And yet you always do," I speak plainly as I turn my back on him and fluff my pillow. I take in a deep breath while bringing the sheets over my shoulder. I lay down, facing away from him.
I knew he wouldn't have anything to say to that truth, and yet I take a moment to listen in on him. He doesn't speak nor move at all.
I close my eyes, "go to sleep, husband. It's been a long day."
"Aren't you upset with me? I don't want you to sleep upset with me."
My eyes open. My stomach churns. Did he actually care? My lips part but I can't find myself to speak.
"I didn't speak to you because I know what I'd've done if I did."
I take in a sharp breath and give out a broken whisper, "you've done worse."
Sandor lets out an airy chuckle. It doesn't sound amused at all though.
He doesn't respond anymore. Instead, he shifts in his spot and lays down, as far on his end as he could be. He is on side, staring at the dark corner of the room. He musters all his courage, "forgive me, my lady."
My lips part.
Did he just say that?
"What?"
I am shocked when I hear him repeat, "forgive me."
I roll on my back and look at him. I feel like I'm going to vomit. I think my body was shaking.
I inhale deeply through my nose, "what would you have done?"
He takes a moment to respond, "what?"
My courage flees me as I find the need to repeat myself. I turn my back on him again and clutch my chest. I can hear my heart pounding, "what-... you said you didn't speak to me because you knew what you would have done..."
I feel Sandor shift behind me.
I gulp and curl up tighter into myself.
I wait for him to act but he does nothing.
I release a deep breath before speaking, "would you... have hurt me?"
My skin pricks when I hear him sigh, "aye."
I feel sick to my stomach. How could he admit that so easily?
I think of all the worse things he could have done: smack me, shove me, slay me. I feel body begin to grow hot.
Sandor stares at the ceiling then turns to his side. His chest tightens yet he manages to mutter, "I only want to be gentle with you."
I scoff but it sounds strangled because of how tight my throat was. My eyes begin to well up. My broken voice croaks, "how could you say that?!"
The Hound says nothing.
"What?" I scoff, "you hit me then you tend my wounds?"
He doesn't say a word.
I begin to feel my insides burn.
The longest moment passes.
"How did you want to hurt me?" I snap.
He clenches his jaw then chuckles at himself, "I wanted to make you scream my name as I fucked you against a wall."
My heart leaps into my mouth.
The Hound continues, "I wanted all those fuckers to hear, to know what you were mine, that I was the only one who could do that to you, that I was the only one you'd allow to do that."
My blood runs still.
"The things I'd do to you," he mutters, "you'd be disgusted to know them."
My lips quiver as confusion ripples through me. This was the kind of hurt he wanted to inflict?
"But I want to be gentle," he adds, "I really do."
"Is that why you lied about the pups?" I find myself choking out.
Sandor is taken aback. He also hates how apparent the sound of sadness was.
"I know you were the one that found them and brought them home, not Lucy," I whisper.
"Lucy," he sighs, "she loves you so much, that Lucy. And you love her... You'd take a gift from someone you love."
I shake my head, "that's why you lied? You didn't think I would keep them if they were from you?"
"I didn't want to shroud the pups with my being."
"... I can love more people than just Lucy."
I feel him shift behind me.
My heart thunders in my chest.
"One day... maybe I'll be gentle enough for you to love me."
I feel tears rush down my eyes. I move to turn to him, but then his arm comes around me and holds me back.
"Please," his voice breaks, "I can't stand to see you cry or look at me with pity."
My hand comes atop his arm, "Sandor-"
"Can I kiss you?"
My breath catches in my throat.
His heavy breathing makes my entire body burn.
I slowly nod and manage to squeak out a yes.
Sandor immediately sinks his face into my neck and begins to kiss my skin. His lips were hungry and his beard left scratches all over. He snakes his arm tighter around me and pulls me into his chest. My entire body reacts to him, it burns and pricks and pulses. He kisses my cheek; he kisses my tears away.
My belly tumbles when he rubs it. He props himself up on his other arm, "I'll die a happy man to see you love my babe," he trails kisses up my jaw to my ear, "it's more than I'll ever deserve."
I suck in a deep breath and lean into his touch. I press my body flush against his and this elicits a groan from him. He fists my nightgown into his hand and nips my lobe. He draws in deep breaths and sighs against my ear, "I can be gentle. I can be so gentle."
I take his fist and he immediately releases my clothes. His breathing grows more strangled as he shifts behind me.
I push his hand down and he shudders when it comes in contact with my thighs. I release his hand and bring my leg atop of his. I pull my skirt up and mumble, "gentle."
"Fucking gods," he kisses my shoulder and pulls my gown up. He rubs my thigh a few times then sinks his hand underneath my smallclothes.
He shushes me as I grow rigid against him and kisses my neck some more.
I whimper when he pulls my undergarments down and moves his fingers into my soft spot. He very much so gently touches me until I begin to melt against him. I arch my back and lean into him.
"Good girl," he mutters, "such a good girl. My beautiful girl."
"More please," I heave.
Sandor presses his body against mine, "don't have to tell me twice."
I whine his name when he sinks a finger into me. My toes curl and my hand grabs onto his bicep.
I make a sound when he pushes deeper, and an even throatier one when he adds another finger.
Sandor brushes my hair away with his other hand then sinks his face into the crook of my neck. He peppers kisses on my skin and my body burns all the more because of it. I turn my face to him and move my mouth close to his.
Flames rage inside my belly when our lips meet.
He goes still for a second when I kiss him. It takes a few moments before his lips move against mine. Though his beard was tickling my skin, the exchange was lovely. It was warm. It was right.
I bring the hand I had on his arm up to his cheek. My fingers find their way to his scalp where I begin to tug his hair gently.
We pull away when I yelp at the feel of his hand going back to work. Sandor does not relent his kisses on my cheeks, nose, and eye lids.
"Does it feel good?" he asks in between pecks.
I whimper as I nod.
Sandor sighs and grazes his teeth against my neck, "so good."
I mewl when he begins to pump his fingers faster into me.
"So sweet and soft and beautiful-- so, so beautiful against me."
"Sandor-"
"I want to feel you," he growls under his breath, "want to be inside you," he nips my lobe again, "want to fill you up, give you the babe you want."
I nod and chase after his lips. I kiss him desperately, "please."
It's not long until his fingers are replaced by his cock. We both tense against each other then slowly relax and reconnect our mouths.
I am surprised when I feel his tongue brush against my lips. I squeak when he begins to buck his hips into me at a slow but purposeful pace.
He presses his fingers into my inner thigh, pulling that leg closer towards him. I bring my hand down to his forearm and grip him for dear life. He pushes his chest into my back and breaks our kiss to allow us both a breath.
Sandor maneuvers himself into a better position. He nearly has me sprawled on top of him. He locks his grip on my hips and snaps into me with all that he's got.
He calls my name. He calls me beautiful. He calls me his wife. He tells me he loves me.
It's all too much that my eyes begin to water and my belly begins to tighten.
Though his movements were wild and sharp, and though the sound we were both making were loud and lewd, there was something sacred about it, something sincere.
I nearly sob when I come undone. I cry out his name as I feel intense pleasure crash all over my body. My mind is too misty to take into account that Sandor had been repeating the same three words as he too fell into bliss.
He doesn't immediately stop moving. He only does so when I'm laid back on my side again.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel him shift away from me.
"Don't pull away!" I snap. I grab his arm and wrap it around me, trapping it between my own. I lean back into him, "don't leave me! You keep leaving me."
Sandor, who was just catching his breath, feels like he was winded all over again. He thinks about the discomfort that this position will bring, but he figures sex just leaves people emotional and clingy sometimes.
He kisses my cheek, "we'll stay like this, if that's what you want."
I nod enthusiastically and turn to kiss him.
When I do however, he pulls his face back. It makes me go rigid.
It takes a second for Sandor to realize what he did. He is now overly conscious of the scar on his face and the damned reflex he has for it. He opens his mouth but he doesn't say anything.
I begin to feel my face burn and yet I'm too stunned to move.
The next moment, we speak at the same time then immediately go silent.
I gulp and turn away from him, bursting out as I did, "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to overstep."
"You did nothing wrong." he shakes his head.
"You asked if you could kiss me," I mumble, "I didn't do the same."
"You can do whatever you want with me-"
"Sandor-"
"-I belong to you. I am your hound. That's all I am."
My eyes glass at his words. I feel him kiss my nape. My skin pricks when he rubs his hand down my belly.
He sighs heavily, "... sorry for being so broken."
I screw my eyes shut.
"... you can kiss me... if you really want to."
I nearly break my neck turning it back so quick. I press my face against his and just remain like this for a moment. I brush my nose against his textured skin and recall the time I did the same during our wedding night. He pulled away then, he pulled away now.
"I'm sorry you can't trust me," I whisper.
Sandor doesn't have the time to react to that.
I leave about a hundred kisses on his scar before my neck begins to tire. I knit my brows and whisper again, "don't let me go."
I face front and feel sleepiness catch up with me.
"Good night, Sandor."
I vaguely hear him whisper I love you behind me.
Sandor woke up with sunshine shining down his face. He was more than well-rested. He honestly doesn't remember the last time he slept this good.
He stretches in bed and groans. It takes him three seconds to realize he was alone.
It's almost enough to make him shoot upright in panic. The only reason he doesn't is because he quickly thinks it was fucking stupid of him to feel anything, any sort of panic or worry-- worse, hurt or sadness for waking up alone.
He did that many times over, left her alone-- too many times to count, surely more times than the good night's of sleep he's had.
So, he lays there with a stone-heavy pit of emptiness in the middle of his rib cage. There was nothing else to do with it crushing his chest. No amount of reasoning, of rational explanations that his wife was the lady of Brown Wood, who was always busy, who was always attending many other people, nothing could lift the stone weighing down on his chest.
He feels like he's slowly choking.
The Hound only gets up when he hears the small barks of the pups coming from outside. Somehow the idea of his wife waking up to attend to the dogs made this ordeal bearable.
He heads to the bathroom first and freshens up.
After, he heads to the living area and tenses when a pair of servant girls greet him good morrow. His lips twitch as he grunts and nods at them. The girls perk up and stare at him for a second as they pass. He vaguely hears them mumbling 'did he just greet us back?' as they each head their way.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. He should have said good morrow in return. Fuck.
It probably doesn't matter. He's been ignoring everyone since they've moved here. Why start now?
Well... he was ignoring everyone except Lucy, who vexingly demanded his attention; Daisy, who used to do the same... and his lady.
Sandor opens the front door and steps outside.
His-
"Lady Clegane," Petyr fucking Baelish nods and reaches a hand to his wife.
Sandor is stunned. This wretched, slimy looking Littlefinger-man was up on his stupidly embellished steed, which, mind you, was too big for the fucker, kissing his wife's knuckles a goodbye.
What the fuck was he doing here so fucking early?
Littlefuckingfinger smiles and straightens up as he releases her. His wife waves goodbye.
As she does so, Littlefinger catches sight of Sandor and his smile pulls into a self-satisfied little smirk. He nods his head once to him and fucking rides off. Even fucking Polly waves him goodbye and it makes him want to chase after him and gouge his eyes out.
"Husband."
The Hound averts his gaze.
Sandor's breath is knocked out of his lungs when he sees his wife gleaming at him.
Fuck, she's walking over.
Everything in him is so overwhelmed by her that he nearly steps back.
She holds something in her hands as she gives him a lopsided smile, "you had a good sleep."
He opens his mouth to speak but a lump in his throat stops him. He gulps.
She laughs. She does so with grace, her pretty teeth all bared to him, "I wished to stay with you until you woke, but I could not leave Brown Wood unattended till late in the afternoon."
For a moment, he is in disbelief and doubts it was actually midday. He looks up and sees, indeed, the sun was at its height.
He looks back to her to apologize for sleeping in, but again, his voice is lost to him. By only taking one step towards him, she renders him powerless. She intensifies it by taking his arm and giving him that look, that look of apprehension that was masked in sweetness. It was maddening.
"Will..." she draws a deep breath, "you let me kiss you?"
What the fuck?
Her brows raise. She pulls her hand away, "y-you don't have to."
"Wait-" gods, did he say that aloud? "-no. You can! You can!" he responds with desperation, "you don't even have to ask."
His wife smiles back at him, but it's not the same.
Gods, he's ruined it again.
He is surprised when she still leans over and gives his cheek a quick peck.
He barely has time blush as he's turning his head to watch her as she walks past him. She says something about breaking fast and he mutters something incoherent in response.
Sandor doesn't even realizes that he's been made to sit down on the dining table, until one of the pups take his seat before he can.
Where did they even come from?
"Fuck off then," he says, shooing the small thing. It barks loudly and then he realizes it's the loud one, Lilac. He growls, "off, Lilac!"
Lilac makes a smaller sound of protest but has no other choice but to get off the chair when Sandor tips it over.
He quickly sits down and makes a victorious face to the puppies, who continue to bark at him.
He watches as the pups quiet down as his wife comes back holding a bowl of stew and a spoon. His insides tingle when she leans close to him to set it down before him. She then drags a chair and sits next to him.
He takes the spoon.
She smiles at him and rests her head on her hand, her elbow on the table, "eat up."
Sandor releases a breath and does just that, "thank you."
He realizes just how hungry he was at this moment. He begins to pig out.
"Thank you for holding me throughout the night."
The Hound almost gargles his food in his throat trying to muster up a response.
She laughs and touches his arm again, "it's alright. Just eat."
Sandor doesn't have a moment to say that he would hold her until she gets sick of him.
His wife straightens up and pushes a something towards him, a letter, it seems, "Lord Baelish gave this to me."
He nearly chokes as he swallows.
He doesn't like the way his wife smiles when she continues to speak of him, "he's given me a map and letters to aid my passage to Volantis-"
"Volantis?" he sets his spoon down with more force than necessary, "the fuck is in Volantis?"
She straightens up, "remember we met at Lord Alistair's nameday?"
"Fucking Alistair."
She sighs through her nostrils, "Lord Baelish spoke to me then of someone who knows how to get rid of the monsters in the forest."
"Am I not enough for you?" he turns his body to her, "you need to hire some sellsword on the other side of the world to kill those fucks for you?"
He watches her withdraw before his very eyes. She brings her hands together and places them on her lap. She purses her lips into a soft smile before speaking, "there is no one in the world, this side or the other, that I would trust with handling the monsters in battle. But," she sighs, "Lord Baelish didn't speak to me of a sellsword. He spoke of a witch."
"And you fucking trust him?" he quips impatiently, "you'd trust a witch vouched by Littlefinger?"
She sighs again. She no longer finds it in her to pull a smile, "I do-"
"Well, don't."
"-because he'll get something out of it."
The Hound clenches his jaw and rubs his knuckles with his thumbs.
"In return for his help, I would be allowing Petyr to access to our fish, game, and wood."
The Hound sighs heavily, "Petyr.'
She shakes her head and chuckles. She chuckles until she breaks into a genuine laugh, "but matters not. If my lord does not approve then there is nothing more to do."
Sandor's stomach sinks when she stands up.
"I'll go ahead with my errands now," she nods and offers a lopsided smile.
Just before she walks away, Sandor grabs her hand and weakly mutters, "no, please. Please stay."
She laughs softly; she laughs sweetly. She places her palm on his knuckles then takes his hand in both of hers. She kisses the back of his hand and shakes her head, "I am not leaving, my lord, merely going off to do my errands."
The Hound stops her from letting go. He clutches her hands firmly in his larger one. He parts his lips to beg her to stay.
But then, he sees her change. He sees her slip on a mask of a dutiful wife. She is about to smile, about to tell him that if he insists, she will stay, for him. He knew in his bones that she would.
And so he lets her go and looks away in shame. He can't bear to look at her, so he clears his throat and compromises, "I'd like to eat with you later... if you have the time."
It takes a long moment for her to respond. Sandor, whose eyes were stuck to the floor, find the pups were now sleeping under the table.
"I would like that too, my love."
Sandor chuckles drily at the pet name and grabs his spoon. He rather bitterly says, mostly to himself, "you don't have to call me that."
He waits for her to walk away.
She doesn't.
He turns to her when he vaguely hears her mumble something. He waits for her to repeat herself, but she doesn't.
"What was that, pretty squirrel?"
She shakes her head and curtsies, "I said enjoy your food."
He watches her walk off. He wonders what she actually said, because it sure as hell wasn't that. He swirls his stew around idly.
#sandor clegane#sandor clegane fanfic#the hound#the hound fanfic#sandor clegane x reader#sandor the hound clegane#sandor fluff#sandor x reader#sandor fanfic#sandor clegane smut#sandor clegane fic#sandor clegane x you#sandor clegane fluff#sandor fic#game of thrones#game of thrones fic#sandor smut#game of thrones fanfic#sandor clegane angst#sandor angst
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show me how to lay my sword down long enough to let you through - clone^2 ch1
A little boy has landed in Amity Park, and he looks suspiciously like the 13-year-old Damian Wayne living in Gotham. Good news: he landed in front of Danny just as he was finishing up his fight with a ghost. Bad news: the little Damian-look-alike doesn't speak a lick of english, has a sword, and seems very keen on using it whenever he can. Against Danny specifically.
Danny already has his own issues to deal with -- like how it's not even been a year since he found out he was a clone of Bruce Wayne specifically, with all the identity issues that come with such a revelation -- and a stab-happy six year old that was very obviously a clone of Damian Wayne was not one of them. However, the kid was alone in a foreign country, and despite his hostility, it's very clear that he's terrified.
Call him a bleeding heart, but Danny takes him home.
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womp i wrote it and posted it. truly, it was only a matter of time before i did. my clone^2 au except now it's a fic! Here is the humble beginnings of this au if anyone is interested. The full thing is also posted below the read more if you want to read it here instead.
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Danny knows more than he probably should about ghosts, ectoplasm, and all things relating to it — courtesy only in partial credit to his parents and largely to every ghost, spirit, mythological creature, and conceptual entity taken sentient form he’s ever come across in the last two years of his run as Phantom.
For example: he’s learned how to classify the difference between a ghost and a spirit when the words are synonymous with each other. He knows that ghosts cannot pass into the Realm of the Living without a naturally-made or manmade portal that splits the seams between dimensions like holes being chewed through a shirt.
He knows that spirits are just weaker could-be ghosts that are trapped in the Living Realm, unseen by the Living, with unfinished business until someone can come along to help them move on. He’s helped quite a handful of them in the last two years thanks to his clairvoyance, but the city has more spirits than he could possibly know how to deal with. So his efforts are like trying to empty a pond with a bucket.
Danny still tries, anyway. One afterlife saved is one afterlife saved, right?
What he also knows is that natural made portals are exceedingly rare. That they occur when ectoplasm in any given area for some reason or another currents against each other, condensing and building in energy and density until eventually something gives and like snow on top of a roof it caves in and creates a portal.
He knows that these natural made portals typically only last a few seconds at a time, and vary between the size of a rodent and a marsupial no bigger than a wallaby. He knows that most natural portals only last from a few seconds to a few minutes, with the record-holder being five minutes from a portal that was the size of a toddler.
And the reason they never last so long is because ectoplasm is an energy, like most energy, it usually has somewhere to go. It cycles through plants, through the animals, through the ground, anywhere it can reach. It’s cousins with solar energy in that sense. Meaning it, usually, has little opportunity to clash and current with the rest of the ambient ectoplasm in the area.
But it does happen, albeit rarely, and only for a few seconds. Like the equivalent of a static shock; it’s only there for a moment before it collapses in on itself and disappears.
So with that being said, Danny likes to think he’s — maybe not an expert — but fairly knowledgeable about the existence of natural made portals. The Ever-Infinite Bridge Between Realms is ever-expanding, ever-growing, and with it so is the information he has on it. Anything could become obsolete in a moment.
And the only reason he’s thinking about it is because his parents were talking about portals in the kitchen earlier that evening, talking about their portal specifically, but Danny latched onto it, and his mind wanders. He’s not sure why they were talking about it, the portal has been running, unfortunately smoothly for the last two years. He has the scars and eyebags (and trauma) to prove it.
Besides, his mind should be on other things.
Like the goddamn flying snake he’s been chasing across the city skyline for the last thirty minutes. An amphiptere his mind unhelpfully supplies, a word he grabbed nearly two years ago when he first started out as Phantom and was desperately looking up the various ectoplasmic creatures slipping through his parents’ portal.
Some of them didn’t have proper names — like a three-eyed fox he once saw with the tail of a peacock and hooves of a goat. He managed to lure it out of the alleyway it backed itself into with a nasty burger. It tore into it with the fervor of a starving coyote and Danny let it finish eviscerating the burger before sucking it into his thermos.
It was incredibly disturbing to watch at the time, since the thing had an almost beak-shaped muzzle, but now he wishes he was back in the alleyway trying to coax out a ecto-fox-griffin thing rather than chase after what was basically a dragon with no legs — it doesn’t even have the decency to be a wyvern.
He’s only keeping up with the stupid snake due to his grappling hook, something Danny made a year ago in order to keep up with the ghosts flying around the city, and his best fucking self-made invention yet — made from the discarded inventions from his parents’ lab — with his jawbreaker gloves coming in at close second, if only because he gets to call them his jawbreakers.
(It was remarkably simpler than the grappling hook — he just reinforced the knuckles on his gloves.)
Because as much as he likes running, he was going to give himself a heart attack if he chased every ghost he came across on foot. It’d take him all night just to find one. And there was something inherently freeing in the terrifying, adrenaline-rushing sensation of soaring through the air with nothing but hard ground below and endless sky above.
The amphiptere twists its head and looks behind it, and Danny gives it a little shit-eating grin from behind his mask and a small, two fingered salute. The mane of feathers behind the snake’s head puffs up like a frilled lizard, and it opens its maw to hiss — this distorted, almost screeching sound — at him menacingly.
Danny, in response, scoffs under his breath and waves a hand in front of his nose. “Ugh.” he mutters, scrunching up his nose as the snake’s hot breath hits him square in the face. “Someone should throw you one of those dental doggie treats.”
The snake, of course, doesn’t hear him over the sound of its shrieking and the wind. When it twists back around, it dives to the ground, flicking its tail harshly like it’s hoping to hit him as it goes down.
Finally, Danny thinks, dodging out of the way with a twist of his body, and follows it down into the factorial district of Amity Park. It’s already disappeared somewhere when his feet hit the sidewalk, but the buzzing of his ghost sense still tingles on the back of his neck like a seventh sense. So it’s still nearby.
Danny’s grappling hook retracts with a quiet, zipping noise. He hooks it onto the loop of his jeans, and stalks down the side of the road.
Spirits linger beside the buildings. Men, women, and kids wearing clothes from all different time periods congregating in groups and conversing with one another, playing, watching him. Cities never sleep, they doze, and the dead come out at night when the living aren’t there to wake it up. Danny’s spoken to them many, many times.
“Excuse me.” He murmurs, tapping a man in overalls and a railroad cap on the arm. If it weren’t for his faint green glow and how he wisps at the edges, the man would almost look alive. The man turns to him, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead when he sees Danny. “Have you seen a flying snake coming through here?”
The man blinks at him, “As a matter o’ fact,” he says, adjusting the cap on his head, “I have. Flew down the road like a bat out of hell.” The man points down the street, and Danny leans around him to see. “Thought it was gonna knock me righ’ out my work boots.”
Danny presses his mouth into a thin line, making a low ‘hn’ sound in the back of his throat. “Did you see if it went into one of the buildings?” He almost hopes it did, he could probably try and sneak up on it that way. Man, he needs some kind of stunner or something.
“Right in there.” The man tells him, pointing to an old brick factory with the windows grimy and cracked. Of course, Danny sighs out of his nose. If he squints, he can see a green glow coming through the glass.
If he’s lucky, he won’t run into the Box Ghost while he’s in there. He turns to the man and nods politely, “Thank you.” And when the man nods back, Danny turns and hurries down the street. He weaves around the spirits congregating around him, he’s heard from one-too-many spirits how irritating it is to be walked through by the Living.
The door is rusted and locked when he finds an entrance, only made worse by the chain wrapped around the door for good measure, with a padlock. Of course. Rolling his eyes, Danny reaches for his pocket and pulls out a lockpick — too many times doing this has taught him to bring one along, just in case.
(Man, he was envious of ghosts’ abilities to just phase through things. It would save him a lot of trouble. And roadburns, bruises, broken bones, and every other injury known to man.)
He jams the lockpick into the padlock, jiggles it roughly, and unlocks it with a soft click. “They need better locks.” Danny mutters, pulling off the chain carefully with quiet, metallic clattering, and putting it on the ground. He jams the lockpick into the door lock, and with a little more finesse, unlocks that one too.
The door opens with a heavy creak that has Danny scrunching his shoulders up to his ears and his mouth pulling back with a sharp inhale. Shit, he freezes in place, darting his eyes around for the amphiptere.
He sees its glow off in the corner, stark ectoplasm green against the red brick walls, half hidden behind empty conveyor belts and forgotten, empty metal barrels. It doesn’t notice him, with the door open he can hear a loud crrrchk-ing followed by intermittent bangs.
It’s chewing on something, wriggling around like a cat playing with a toy mouse. Danny silently creeps in and slips through the gap between the door, closing the door behind him slowly. His eyes never leave the amphiptere. It still doesn’t notice him.
Two years isn’t that long to teach yourself how to be stealthy, but when you’re doing it every night, you learn quickly. Danny keeps himself low to the ground and his footsteps light. The amphiptere is oblivious to him; its clanging, hissing, snarling drowns out the room to any other noise.
As he gets closer, Danny unhooks his thermos again. There’s a quiet click as he opens the lid with a press of a button, and the thermos hums to life in his hand, warming up against his palm. He creeps around the conveyor belt, his breathing slow and steady.
When he reaches the amphiptere, its back is facing him. It coiled itself close to the ground, its jaw clamped around a metal barrel that’s been crushed like a tin can down the middle. Danny clenches his teeth, discomfort shivering down his spine. That could’ve been his arm had it decided to fight back.
Silently, he raises his thermos at the snake, and with his arm steady, his thumb slams one of the buttons. There’s a recoil like he’s firing a gun, and Danny finds his purchase on the ground as a beam of light lashes out and hits the snake.
The reaction is immediate. The amphiptere drops the barrel with a hideous, furious shriek and lashes out, trying to escape from the beam dragging it towards the thermos. But Danny’s long since learned that the pull of the thermos is much stronger than most ghosts, so long as he doesn’t disturb the tractor beam.
One thing is for certain — keeping the damn thing steady is one hell of a forearm workout. His arms used to shake after a fight, and they’d feel sore in the morning. Not so much anymore since Danny started working out with Sam.
(Tucker declined when they asked him if he wanted to join — he’ll stick with his tech and walking on the treadmill.)
When the amphiptere disappears inside the thermos, Danny slams the lid back on and slumps with relief. Finally, he groans quietly, clipping the thermos onto his belt and pressing his hand to his lower back to stretch. There’s a satisfying pop-pop-pop, and Danny sighs from his nose. He’s calling it a night.
He glances at the time on his phone. It was three am, fantastic. He has school in four hours.
Other than the snake, tonight had been blessedly quiet. Danny spoke to some of the spirits lingering around Third and Main downtown, got some of their information so he could start helping them with moving on — two murders and then a simple fetch quest, — chased down a few other ghosts — most of them just ecto-entities, but there was a young ghost child who he had to play hide and seek with before she would agree to be taken home in the thermos.
He also got into a fight with a fellow teen ghost who wanted to see the “Death-Touched” and if Phantom was as good a fighter as the rumors say he was. Danny’s been called “Death-Touched” since the night he snuck into the lab and released every single ghost his parents had trapped in cages, that wasn’t unsurprising. A little a lot ominous at first, but Danny is nothing if not adaptive.
He’d kicked the other teen’s ass, dragged him into the thermos, and moved on.
But other than that, tonight had been tame. So before Murphy can come and kick him in the teeth, Danny’s calling it a night.
Danny is one step towards the exit when he hears a loud, suctioning noise followed by something akin to a glacier cracking down the middle. His heart sinks instantly to his feet, and the chill of his ghost sense crawls up his throat and freezes the back of his teeth. No mist spills out, yet.
Ah, fuck. Danny stifles a groan, turning back around. There goes the rest of his night.
A portal the size of an acorn swirls into existence right before his eyes, and then rapidly grows. Swirling like a whirlpool, it grows bigger and bigger until it’s half the size of him. The bigger it gets, the tenser Danny becomes — the bigger the portal is, the bigger the ghost that can slip through gets.
Please don’t make him face the snake’s fucking cousin. Danny prays, rapidly scurrying back with his hands raised defensively. He scowls under his mask, and waits tersely for something to fall through. Whatever comes through, he hopes it’s friendly. Or slow. Or maybe both.
Danny doesn’t get another winged snake.
Instead, a child stumbles out of the portal. A non-glowing, living-colored child who couldn’t be any older than six, and who rapidly spits out a phrase in a language Danny doesn’t catch. Danny’s hands drop slightly from his side, bewilderment settling in the back of his throat.
As the child rights himself, the portal dissipates behind him with a hissing sigh. It takes Danny’s ghost sense with it, and the chill evaporates from his mouth.
Oh, oh no.
Danny’s heart drops from his feet straight into the ground. Six feet into the ground. Oh, fuck.
That was a living child. That was a living child. That was a whole-ass living child.
If natural portals were rare, then whatever the hell this was — teleportals, Vlad’s teleports, whatever — was unheard of. The only time he’s seen a portal that transported someone from one place to another on the same plane of existence was Vlad. His man-made teleportals.
Natural portals between one place to another? He’s never heard of such a thing. And one just opened in front of him and spat out a child. A human, living child. A portal just kidnapped a child.
A child who, Danny realizes, is holding a sword. A katana, of all things. One that was designed to match his size. A child who was, for a lack of better words, wearing something Danny would expect a ninja to wear. A child who was dressed from head to toe in black.
A child who looks suspiciously like a baby-faced Damian Wayne. Brown skin and green eyes and all, but with youth still clinging to his cheeks. It couldn’t be Damian Wayne himself — that boy was thirteen, and Danny would’ve heard from Sam if something happened to him.
So this meant either two things: Damian Wayne was just now turned into a child and dropped into Danny’s lap, or this was a clone of Damian Wayne. Danny was thinking it might’ve been the latter.
Fuck you, Murphy, he thinks instantly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. This was mean.
He stares, uncertainty — and perhaps a little bit of nausea — forming a pit in his chest, as the child makes eye contact with him. The air is silent and thick — with dust, asbestos, or just the silence, Danny isn’t sure. Maybe all three. But they stare at each other for a long, suffocating moment.
Then the kid — Damian — lunges at him, his sword quickly unsheathed.
“Shit!” Danny dives back, just barely dodging being grazed by the gleaming blade. That was fast. Danny isn’t around living kids often but that was too fast, that much he knows. Kids don’t move that fast on their own. Not without being taught.
Damian spits something at him in that foreign language, his face twisting with anger, and the kid turns himself and lunges once again. Danny dodges again, swatting the sword away reflexively with the side of his gloved hand.
“I can’t understand you.” He tells him, his voice comes out rougher than he meant it to, and it comes out muffled from his mask. Please tell me you know English, he hopes, hopping up onto the old conveyor belt.
“'Akhbirni 'ayn 'ana walan 'aqtulak.” Damian snarls, chasing up after him with worrying ease. Danny swats away another stab at him, frowning when the blade leaves a cut in his leather glove. It doesn’t reach skin, but the fact of the matter is that Damian still cut his glove.
He doesn’t know English either, great. Perfect. Fantastic, even. Danny backs up on the conveyor belt, twisting away from Damian’s attacks with… well, not relative ease, the kid is faster than Danny’s expecting, but he’s not getting hits in. So some ease.
But Danny’s been fighting ghosts for the last two years. Fighting entities capable of moving at the speed of light leaves you with quick reflexes and even quicker eyes. Damian jumps up to try and kick him in the face, and Danny ducks down and dashes off the conveyor belt, hopping to the next one over.
When his feet hit the belt, he uses the momentum to leap up onto a rusty shelf. His fingers dig into the sides, and he climbs, vaulting his legs up to the top once he’s high enough. He twists around and stares down at Damian, instinctively crouched on his fours. “I’m not fighting you.” Danny says sternly, watching the kid hop after him. “I don’t fight the living, and I don’t fight kids.” Living ones, that is. Youngblood was fair game.
Damian scowls, pointing his sword at him accusingly from the conveyor below. “Tawaqaf ean alrakd wawajahani 'ayuha aljaban!” Then he’s jumping up after him, doing an impressive flip in the air before latching onto the lower shelves and climbing up.
Admittedly, Danny is rooted to his spot with disbelief. What the fuck? “Who taught you that?” He says unwittingly, bewilderment slipping into his voice. Seriously — who taught him that? What six year old knows how to do a backflip at this age? Who made you, kid?
Naturally, Damian doesn’t answer him, and Danny grabs his grappling gun and aims it at the rafters. With a quick pull of the trigger, the hook shoots out and wraps around one of the beams. Danny yanks back, and he braces as the cord yanks him forward in return. When he reaches the beam, he pulls himself up as the cord unravels itself and retracts back into the gun.
Danny shoves his gun back onto his belt, and disappears into the shadows of the ceiling.
Just in time, Damian was at the top of the shelving unit he was just on, and the kid stomps his foot angrily. Briefly, a smile tugs at the corner of Danny’s mouth, amusement fizzing out in his lungs. “Tawaqaf ean alrakd!” The kid yells, his hands shaking at his sides. “'Ayn 'akhadhatni ya Lieazir!”
He swivels his head around, his face scrunched up in the dark room as he searches the rafters. Danny silently crawls across the beam, stooping low and moving slowly, and never taking his eyes off Damian.
The kid is wound up like a spring, and jumpier than a war vet on the Fourth of July. It’s a little funny, but as Danny creeps through the ceiling, the kid only grows more frantic. The only light coming through is the muffled, yellow dim of the streets, and the moonlight that was in the middle of waning from gibbous to crescent. Good enough that Danny can see the kid’s face shifting from anger to fear.
“Laeazir!” He yells again, and his voice cracks. Danny stills. “Akhruj huna Lieazir!”
Okay, it wasn’t funny anymore. Danny holds his breath, watching as Damian’s expression fluctuates between scowling fury and wild-eyed panic. He’s twisting on his feet, whatever lethal grace he had earlier from their brief fight is gone now, replaced with clumsy, fawn-like alarm.
Damian breathes in deeply, and Danny can see the whites of his eyes when he turns his head wildly in his direction. “Azhar nafsak!”
He’s scared. Danny realizes, pricking up slightly from the rafter. He’s scared. That’s why he attacked him, he’s scared. Of course he is, Danny thinks, feeling like an idiot. He crawls over the beams again, creeping around Damian, keeping his gaze sharp on the kid’s feet. With how much he was spinning, he’s a little worried he was going to fall off the shelf.
Of course he’s scared, he thinks again. He’s a kid, he doesn’t know any English, and he’s alone. Danny can’t imagine what’s going on through his head — of course he’s scared. He must be terrified. He looks terrified.
Danny raises himself up carefully, gripping onto the rafters, and dashes across quickly. Damian whirls around towards him, his hands flying to his katana at his sheathe. His fear smothers on his face, and Damian tenses up defensively.
The grappling gun finds its way back into Danny’s hands, and Danny shoots it at a beam connected to one of the pillars. When it catches, he leans to the side, and lets himself fall. The cord goes taut, and Danny flicks a small button on the side that allows him to lower to the ground with some relative ease.
With his back to Damian, he hears a quiet scuffle and the shelf creaks. When his feet touch the ground, he tugs on his gun and the cord retracts. Danny can hear quiet, rapid-approaching footsteps coming up behind him, and he shoves his grappler back into its place and whirls around.
And immediately, reflexively, catches the blade being swung at him with both hands. Shit, he wheezes out harshly, eyes widening in shock. The blade digs into his hands, but there’s no sting — his gloves had taken the brunt of the hit. They were probably ruined after this, but Danny’s less upset over that more than he is relieved.
Damian glowers up at him, and this close up, Danny can very barely see a watery sheen covering his bottom eyelashes. His heartstrings pull, but it doesn’t stop him from curling his fingers tight around his katana to prevent him from pulling away.
“Let me help you.” Danny says, rushed. He doesn’t understand him, the obvious part of his mind whispers. He needs to get him to understand him. Damian’s arms tremble slightly, he pushes down harder on Danny’s hands. But he doesn’t budge.
He tries to yank it back instead, and it gives slightly — only for Danny to readjust his grip, despite the fear spiking in his heart. Cold metal kisses at part of his palm. It’s cut through his glove more. “Put the sword down.”
“'Ayn 'ana.” Damian snarls at him, there’s still a tremble in his voice. “'Ayn 'akhadhatni.”
A low, frustrated sound emits in the back of Danny’s throat. “I can’t understand you.” He snaps, if the kid would stop trying to kill him for five seconds, maybe they’d be able to get somewhere. “And you can’t understand me.” But if you’d stop attacking me, I could figure out a way how.
Something takes mercy on Danny — because Damian gives up on trying to take back the sword. He lets go of the handle, and Danny sees an opening. Immediately, he tosses the sword off to the side, ignoring the clattering and skidding it makes against the concrete floor. The kid is fast, but Danny is faster. He wraps his hand around Damian’s forearm and yanks him forward.
Damian yells angrily, and Danny traps his arm against his chest and twists him around so that his back is to his chest. Danny is also stronger. Both as a given from his size, and what he does every night. Trapping Damian against him is easier done and said, and Danny immediately sits them both on the ground once he has a good purchase on him.
“'Utliq sarahi!” Damian yells, thrashing against him violently. Danny simply tilts his head up to prevent Damian from headbutting him in the chin, and wraps an arm around his torso tightly so he can fish for his phone. “'Ayuha alqadharatu! 'Utliq sarahi!”
Danny doesn’t know what he’s saying but he can guess, and he readjusts his arm when Damian nearly slips out. “No.” He says curtly, and when he gets out his phone, he sets it down briefly so he can pull his glove off. With his other arm preoccupied with keeping Damian still, Danny tugs it off with his teeth instead.
Silently, he inspects his palm for any injuries from the katana. He hadn’t felt anything, but it doesn’t hurt to check. He smiles faintly, relief weighting off his shoulders, when all he finds is a small cut near the meat of his palm. Not even deep enough to bleed. It stings, but it won’t even scar.
He picks up his phone again, and with his mask on he can’t use the facial recognition. Danny taps in his password with his thumb, and quickly pulls up a translator. In his arms, Damian continues to thrash around, twisting and trying to pretzel himself out of his grip.
“'Ana Damian Al Ghul, dam Ras Alshaytan!” Damian demands. Danny is a little worried that he might bite him, and he hoists him back up onto his lap when he tries to wriggle down. “Yajib 'an tastamie li'awamiri ya Lieazir!”
Al Ghul. Danny’s never heard that last name before, and he pauses from his typing to frown. “Hm.” Damian — the original, that is, not the clone in his arms, — went by his father’s surname, and Danny can’t remember if it was ever released what the mother’s last name was.
He quickly swaps the tab on his phone to a new one, and types into the search bar: ‘Damian Wayne mom last name’ and clicks enter. There’s a few seconds where his phone is loading, and then it pulls up the results. And with it, is a chunk of text from the top article: Damian’s mother was kept anonymous for her privacy’s sake. Who she was, what her name is, it’s all unknown other than that she was Chinese-Arabic. A remarkable feat of anonymity in the grand scheme of things and the all seeing eyes of the internet.
“Hn.” Danny’s mouth presses into a line, and he glances down to Damian. Original Damian’s maternal surname was unknown, and now he knows that his clone was calling himself Damian, what was the off chance that ‘Al Ghul’ was a random last name given to him, and wasn’t actually his mother’s surname?
…Not likely. Or it was a low chance.
Putting that aside, he swaps back to the translator and converts what he wrote into Arabic. Damian’s mother was Arabic-Chinese, and the language Damian was speaking didn’t sound like Chinese. So, fingers crossing, he hopes it’s Arabic.
Turning up the volume as far as it could go, he looks back at Damian, whose struggling and yelling has slowly begun to cease. Danny doesn’t trust it, and he smiles a little amusedly, that’s not going to get me to let go. He checks the translation to make sure it’s what he wants it to say, and then hits the play button.
[I can’t understand you, but my name is Danny. I want to help you.]
Damian jerks, hitting his head against Danny’s chest in surprise. “'Utliq sarahi 'ayn 'ana?” He sneers, “'Ana last bihajat limusaeadatikum.”
“I just said I can’t understand you, bud.” Danny sighs, once again adjusting his hold on Damian. The kid kicks at him and misses him entirely. His arm was starting to get tired from the strain of holding Damian on its own, so Danny puts his phone behind him and swaps them.
He honest to god gets hissed at when he has to adjust Damian as well, and Danny pauses for a moment just out of pure wonder at the boy in his arms. He was hissed at, as if he was scruffing a stray cat. He was so telling Sam about this when he gets this kid home.
Smiling faintly, Danny pulls his other glove off with his teeth, checks for injuries, and then with a little bit of contortion, grabs his phone and pulls it back up. Then his train of thought catches up to him, and he freezes just as he’s about to type into the translator again.
Take him home? The kid? Danny can’t do that. There wasn’t any room in the house, and how would he explain this to his parents?
‘Hey mom, dad, this is Damian. He’s a clone of my genetic template’s son! Yeah, yeah, that template, the one who just so happens to be the old college buddy that you accidentally cloned instead of dad? The one who just so happens to be capable of suing our family out of existence if he happened to catch wind of my existence? Oh, where did I find him? Last night while I was out. Why was I out? Oh, because I just so happen to be the Phantom, your sworn enemy and the ghost-hunting vigilante who you are convinced is also a ghost. Can we keep him?’
Yeah, yeah, he can see how well that would go down. He might as well take off his mask and tell Bruce Wayne he had a clone already. But… where else would Damian go? He doesn’t know any English, he was alone in a foreign country with no money, no way to get home, the worst thing Danny can do is abandon him right now.
Danny presses his mouth into a thin line, a frown beginning to pull at the corner of his lips.
…He could figure something out with his parents, Jazz will help him once he explains the situation. And if he can get Damian to agree to stop trying to kill him, then they can both make it back to Fenton Works before sunrise… Hopefully.
Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Danny starts typing into the translator again. [You’re in America right now. The translator doesn’t translate the name of my city well, but we’re in Illinois. You are very far from home.]
Damian jerks once again, twisting his neck to look up at Danny with disbelief. “'Amrika?” He says, the corner of his up curled up. Danny nods curtly, he doesn’t need to know Arabic to know what ‘Amrika’ means. “Hadhih Amirika?”
Danny nods again, “Yeah, America. You’re in Amity Park.” He points to the ceiling, and gestures around them slowly. Damian watches him carefully, his eyes narrowed. “Am-i-ty Park.” Danny says, enunciating the syllables slowly.
Green eyes narrow at him further. “Amity Park.” Damian says, slowly and sharp. When Danny nods, he drops his head and Danny tilts slightly in order to see as Damian casts the room a disdainful look. “Amity Park.” He repeats, voice full of enough venom to kill a full grown man.
He can’t help himself, he snorts to himself and grins underneath his mask. The sound causes Damian to snap his head back up at him, and return his glower full force. He tries to wriggle again, but, like all other times, it’s in vain.
“Sawf tutliq sarahi.” Damian orders, mouth twisting back into a scowl. Danny almost wants to tell him that his face will freeze if he keeps doing that. He’s already got his thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Yajib 'an 'aeud 'iilaa aldawrii.”
Danny types into his phone, [I want to help you. You don’t know English, so getting around on your own will be next to impossible. If you promise not to attack me, I will take you back to my home and we can figure out how to get you home.]
It’s… okay. Danny doesn’t really want to help the kid get home. Wherever that is, it’s teaching a child how to kill people, and it’s making clones of people. Statistically, that’s a bad sign. It also means that, for all intents and purposes, Danny should help the kid get home so he can find out whatever this organization is and, hopefully, put a stop to their cloning.
However, Danny has his own city to take care of. Amity Park is full from head to toe with ghosts and spirits, and with his parents playing whack-a-mole with the portal’s door controls, he doesn’t feel comfortable leaving the city for even a few days. His parents can catch a lot of ghosts in only a few days.
His parents can spill a lot of blood in only a few days.
The evil cloning organization that made Damian will just have to be something Danny can leave in the capable hands of the older, more experienced heroes. For now, he can try and stall Damian’s homecoming and also keep him safe by keeping him housed.
Damian, instead of wriggling again, slumps against him with a throaty huff. Danny peers over his head, checking to see if he was just pouting or had, somehow, passed out. Damian was scowling, his shoulders slumped up slightly, and Danny internally coos.
He’s pouting. It was adorable.
The boy is silent for a long minute, a scowl carved like marble in his face, and Danny is content — no, wait, slightly content. He still wants to get home at a semi-reasonable time, — to wait him out. He is stronger, bigger, and faster than him. Eventually, Damian makes a low grumbling noise, something Danny can almost mistake for as a groan, before the kid slumps against him.
“Hsnan, sa'abqaa maeak hataa natamakan min 'iieadati 'iilaa aldawri.” He says, sounding significantly less full of indignant rage, and more so full of indignant irritation. He also no longer wriggles, and Danny feels hope sparking low in his gut. Did he finally get through to him…?
More seconds pass by with the two of them just sitting there in silence, before Damian wriggles again — but rather than trying to escape, he twists his head to give Danny a dirty, expectant look. Danny frowns, confused, and then jerks — Oh! Oh!
He fumbles for his phone, [Was that a yes? Nod if it was a yes?]
Damian scoffs at him, looking very much like Danny was nothing more than dirt under his shoes. But he nods curtly, “Naeam sa'adhhab maeak.”
Danny cheers, loudly. The hand curled around his phone punches skyward, like a fistbump to the ceiling, and Damian drops his head away from him. He yells something at him — probably telling him not to be so loud, but Danny pays it no mind. He’s only focused on the pure, utter, relief, pouring into his lungs and trying to trick itself out of his mouth as a laugh.
Yes, yes! He convinced him! That’s one less worry to worry about, and as Danny drops his hand with his phone, his other arm starts to loosen up around Damian's waist — something Damian very much notices. As he stiffens up and is halfway through shoving himself out of his grasp.
Danny lets him go, remembering abruptly the mask on his face. He lets Damian get to his feet, but he’s quickly scrambling soon after, not to grab him again. But to scramble for the katana he’d tossed out of the kid’s reach. Damian exclaims behind him, but Danny has his fingers curled around the handle before the kid can chase after him.
When he stands and faces Damian again, the kid is all puffed up with rage again. Danny doesn’t doubt that, if the kid is trained to be some… kind of ninja…. that he has more weapons on him. But Damian looks more focused on his sword, so Danny holds up his phone-hand in a gesture to hopefully make Damian wait before he attacks him.
“Wait, wait, wait!” He cries. Damian does, fortunately, and Danny quickly types into his phone again. [I will give you back your sword, and I will show you my face when we reach my home. But you must promise you won’t attack me once I do.] He pauses for a moment, and then types in as well: [I’ll also show you how to use the translator so we can talk both ways.]
He doesn’t know if Damian even knows what his… father? Looks like, or what his feelings on him are if he does. But Danny was going to cover his bases, and if there was the off chance that Damian held negative feelings for his dad, he didn’t want the kid to attack him, again.
(It probably wasn’t a good idea to do this at home, but at this point Danny just wants to be in his room.)
Damian eyes him up suspiciously, tense as a wooden plank and hunched like he was ready to pounce anyways, but he nods curtly. “Aeidak.”
“Okay.” Danny breathes out, slowly straightening up. He’ll take that as Damian promising not to attack him. “Okay, good. Good.” Lowering his hand, he pockets his phone back into his jeans and flips the sword around so that the blade is pointing downwards. He holds it out for Damian, and the kid, quick as a whip, snatches it back from him and sheathes it into its scabbard.
Great, finally. Now he can leave. Danny’s hands drop to his sides and he wriggles his fingers at Damian, absently gesturing for him to grab his hand. He turns his head away, searching for the door. “Let’s go.”
No hand takes his, which Danny should have expected, so he drops it back to his side and leads Damian to the exit. The kid sticks close to him, but keeps just barely out of sight from his peripherals. His steps are quiet, Danny would say almost silent but that wasn’t the case. If he wasn’t paying attention, though, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Ninja stuff, probably. Danny’s a little, no, a lot concerned that he’s so good at that.
Ancients, bud. He thinks again, disbelief returning like a hand around his throat. Danny keeps glancing back at Damian to make sure he was still there. Just who, exactly, made you?
When they get outside, the night air hits them cooler than it was inside. Spirits were still lingering around the sidewalks, chattering amongst each other and throwing him various, curious glances. Danny suppresses a frown, but can’t stop himself from making a low ‘hm.’
They probably felt the shift in the atmosphere from the portal opening. It may have dissipated, but the excess was still lingering around. Without his focus solely on Damian, Danny can feel it too. Like a fog in his chest. Or, perhaps more accurately, like going through the day in a tired glaze, only to be hit with pin-startling clarity. The spirits were probably trying to soak up as much as possible in order to gain a stronger physical form.
Which, unfortunately for them, wouldn’t happen from this portal alone. Too many spirits trying to do the same thing. Not enough ectoplasm.
He leads Damian down the steps, and over to the sidewalk. On instinct his hand reaches for his grappling hook, but Damian, still loitering in his peripherals, tenses up. Oh, right, Danny thinks, and switches for his phone instead, this is a two-person trip.
It’d probably be rude to just grab Damian and start flying. Damian might try and stab him, or worse, try and get out of his hands again. The mental image of Damian falling nearly fifty-feet in the air flashes behind Danny’s eyes, and he represses a shudder.
Yeah, let's tell him first.
His fingers fly across the screen. [I’m going to use a grappling hook to get us back to the house. It’ll be faster. I’m going to pick you up, hold on tight.]
Damian scoffs at him, but nods. Danny pockets his phone, swaps it out for his grappling hook instead, and lets Damian look at it for a minute before he crouches down and wraps his free arm around Damian’s legs and hoists him up.
Something gets said to him by Damian, harsh and scowly, probably an insult, but he wraps his arms around Danny’s neck and his legs tight around his torso. At this point Danny just rolls his eyes and adjusts his arm to hold him tight around the waist. “Hold on.” He mumbles, and points his gun to the sky.
Flying through the city is admittedly trickier with the extra weight on his front and only one hand free, but Danny takes it as a challenge rather than a problem — if only so he doesn’t think too much on it. Damian’s fingers claw into the back of hoodie the moment his grappling hook pulls them through the air, it borderlines almost painful, and Danny doubts he could drop the kid even if he tried.
There are a few close calls where Danny nearly clips the edge of one of the skyscrapers, but it takes one easy twist and a little bit of spinning to correct the angle. The threat of it sends a rush of adrenaline through his veins, and Danny can’t say he didn’t laugh a few times. Becoming Phantom turned him into an adrenaline junkie, he thinks.
Damian doesn’t seem to be having much fun though, his grip suffocating on Danny and his face buried into his shoulder. He’s choking Danny a little, but he wouldn’t dare try and correct it while in the air, and it’s only bringing him mild discomfort.
Not fast enough but all too soon, Danny is touching down near the residential area of Amity Park where the buildings are too small for him to grapple through. He drops onto one of the apartment rooftops, and his feet are barely touching the ground before Damian clambers off him like a wet cat trying to claw its way out of a pool.
With the sound of his grappling hook receding, Danny laughs low under his breath. “Flying not for you, bud?” He asks, slightly breathless and grinning under his mask. The hook clicks into place in his palm, and Danny shoves it back onto his belt.
The kid glares at him amidst brushing off his clothes and patting at his sides. His hand brushes over his sword, and when he feels the hilt still there, Damian drops it. The kid straightens up like a soldier — immediately killing Danny’s sky-flushed mirth in the process — and stares up at him, awaiting orders.
Danny’s smile falls, and he clears his throat. Okay, he thinks, checking himself over for anything out of place, before looking back to Damian. Resolve hardens like cement in between his ribs. He’s not going back. Not if I have anything to say about it.
He moves around Damian and steps over to the roof ledge, swiveling left and right for the direction of his house. Which is unnecessary, he can see Fenton Works from a mile away, but he does it anyways. Anything to distract him from the discomfort that’s been sledgehammered at him. “This way.” He murmurs, gesturing for Damian to follow. Shuffling feet, and Danny can sense more than see the little boy at his side.
Considering the way he saw Damian hopping around earlier, Danny is confident in his ability to roof hop with him — confidence well deserved because Damian follows him with relative ease. Which is still real damn worrying, but he can dwell on it when they get to the house.
Still, he keeps a close eye on Damian the entire time they’re leaping rooftops. The boy was six, he didn’t have the same stamina nor height that Danny did — it’d be too easy for Danny to lose him on the way to the house because he couldn’t keep up, or he decided to change his mind while Danny was distracted and book it in another direction.
They reach the house in no time, and Danny’s fishing for his key from his belt the moment his feet hit the concrete of the rooftop. Damian remains behind him, an ever-constant shadow as Danny ducks under the various legs, wires, and poles of the OPPS Center and unlocks the door to the roof.
Getting to his room is a relief. The strange, buzzing sensation that settles through Danny’s eyes like a thin film whenever he’s using his ‘scary eyes’ dissipates, and he’s kicking off his boots with a low sigh before he can really think it through. He’ll put them back in their place when he’s done — but for now, he just wants them off. Damian pools in behind him, slinking off to the corner of the room as Danny shuts the door.
His room is spotless — a cleaning habit he’s kept meticulously since he wanted to be an astronaut. He had planets hanging from the ceiling, glow in the dark stars muttered against the walls, and posters of astronomy, Dumpty Humpty, and NASA plastered beside the stars. And a large corkboard hanging above his desk.
“Finally.” he groans, twisting his hips and stretching out his back before reaching over and turning on the hanging lights. A soft orange glow fills the room, and Danny turns just in time to see Damian jump in surprise. He’d moved over to Danny’s bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, his body half turned away and tilted like he’d been inspecting it.
Danny stifles a smile, and tugs off his thermos and grappling hook and places them on the desk. Damian straightens up, shuffling away from the bookshelf and back over to him, his brows beginning to furrow with a look of determination.
He marches towards him, “Laqad wasalna 'iilaa manzilika, walan ealayk 'an tafi bikalimatik watakhlae qanaeaka.”
Danny doesn’t know what he’s saying, but Damian points to his face while he’s speaking so Danny figures it out relatively quickly. Besides, it’s not like he’d forgotten either. He has to take off his mask to sleep, and it’s easier to change when he’s not wearing it. He grabs his phone from his pocket.
[I know, I’ll take off my mask. But remember: you can’t attack me.] He hits play, and watches Damian scoff for the nth time, roll his eyes, and nod. As if to reassure him, or to prove that he wasn’t going to attack him, Damian folds his arms behind his back.
Briefly, Danny feels himself nearly frown again at Damian’s almost soldier-like posture. But he has time to worry about that later, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Danny raises his hands and curls his fingers around the bottom of his mask.
Carefully, mindful of the straps, Danny pulls it off. The cool air immediately rushes over his damp forehead, and he quickly shakes his head with bated breath to get the strands of hair plastered to his skin off. He locks eyes with Damian, tense, and with air trapped in his lungs.
Damian’s eyes widen comically, his scowl softening for a moment. For a moment, Danny thinks that maybe things will be fine…ish. But then Damian’s face is scrunching up again, his face sharpening angrily, and his hands reach for his sword.
“Dijaal!” He hisses, fire lighting in his eyes as he grabs for his katana.
Danny takes a step back and holds his hand out, narrowing his eyes defensively. “Hey, hey, hey!” He hisses back, he points a finger at Damian accusingly, arching an eyebrow. “You promised!”
Apparently, the tone of ‘no takesies-backsies!’ transcends language, because Damian freezes where he stands and simply remains glowering at him. Danny raises his eyebrow higher, locking him in a staring contest, and Damian takes his hand off the hilt.
Great. Good. Fantastic even! Crisis avoided, and no parents woken up in the process. That’s a success if Danny’s ever heard one. He keeps his eyes on Damian, before slowly reaching for his phone again. It’s like having a stand-off with a bull. A tiny, six year old-sized bull with a sword rather than horns, but a bull nonetheless.
He gets his phone out safely, and gets out the translator. Again. [I know I’m a clone of your dad. I didn’t ask to be. I still want to help you.] And he does, he so much does. Danny was a bleeding heart, forever and always. If he can help, he will. He hopes that the blood he is made from won’t stop Damian from accepting that help.
Damian stares him down, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to analyze Danny’s every move. Danny stays still and lets him, waiting for the jurisdiction of the small assassin.
Whatever it is that Damian sees, it causes him to drop his hands to his side with an irritated sigh just like before. He says nothing, but the resigned slump of his shoulders tells Danny all he needs to know, and he beams.
Success, he thinks, laughing quietly in earnest. [Stay here.] He quickly types into his phone and plays. He reaches for his thermos. [I need to release the ghosts in my device, then I’ll show you how to use the translator.]
He plucks the thermos from his desk and tosses his phone over Damian’s head and onto the bed. It bounces, Damian grumbles something under his breath, and the phone bounces again. Danny puts the mask down, and dances out the door and down into the lab with practiced ease.
When he returns, Damian is snooping around his room, looking around his desk this time around. He straightens up when Danny steps into the room, and Danny doesn’t bother addressing it — instead he grabs his phone again and gestures for Damian to sit on the bed with him.
It takes a painfully long amount of time to show Damian how to use the translator, with a ton of repetition and fiddling around. But they manage, finally, to get a system up where Danny will type something into the translator, play it back to Damian, and then hand the phone to Damian. Damian then would swap the translation, use text-to-speech, and play it in english.
Naturally, text-to-speech has its flaws, and Damian is only recently learning how to read, so Danny figures out the translation errors on his own. They don’t talk for long, Damian is shut off, snooty, and reserved to him. All Danny knows is that his name is Damian Al Ghul, and he is the blood son and second heir to something called the League of Assassins.
How cheery. “League of Assassins” sounds definitely evil. Ancients, Danny doesn’t wanna know. He’ll have to get involved if he knows any more.
He lets Damian fiddle with the translator more in regards to searching his closet for clothes for Damian to wear. He doesn’t have any shorts that will fit, but he pulls out an old NASA t-shirt that still somewhat fits him, and tosses it to Damian.
After much arguing, he gets Damian to wear it, and he gives Damian the bed. That takes less arguing — Damian is all too happy to sleep in a bed rather than the floor, and Danny pulls his beanbag chair out from its nook to shove it under his desk.
He’s still awake by the time sunlight begins peeking over the buildings, his eyelids heavy and sore with exhaustion, and his limbs feeling loose and disconnected. He’s fixed up his gloves — torn from the katana, but now half-heartedly sewn up with thread and a lot of muttered swearing on Danny’s part. His mask is shoved in a hidden pocket in his backpack along with his thermos.
Damian is fast asleep in bed, and with nothing else to do, Danny keeps his sharp eye on him. Swamped in Danny’s shirt and curled up under the covers, Damian is teeny. Well, he was small even before that, but it is even more apparent when tucked under blankets meant for people bigger than him.
And, for perhaps the third time that night, Danny is hit with just the sheer longing of how much he wants to help him. Danny is the hand that feeds, and Damian has a lot of teeth. The cut of his gloves is more than proof enough of that. But Danny wants to help him, Damian has no one else here to. Danny, so far, is the only one who can help him.
He is also hit with the sheer magnitude of what he’s just done — the terrifying revelation that Danny’s just taken in the clone of his template’s son. What the hell does that make for him and Damian’s relationship? Genetically, Danny is technically his father, but they’re complete strangers to one another.
What does that mean for Danny? It’s been four months since his parents revealed their betrayal. Their lies. Their backstabbing, earth-shattering, fifteen years of astounding— the truth to Danny about his… birth. Four months isn’t long enough to deal with something like that. He is still questioning everything he does — whether his actions belong to him, or to Bruce Wayne.
And this? This just takes the fucking cake.
Danny breathes in deeply, snapping himself out of the slow-creeping spiral threatening to drag him under the waters of his mind. His eyes flick to the window. It’s too early to think about this. Much, much too early. He slinks into his beanbag with a low groan, stifling back a groan.
He can worry about the identity crisis and his crisis of autonomy later. Later, when he’s not mind-numbingly exhausted and already mentally fragile from that alone. Not when there’s a teeny baby assassin sleeping in his bed who happens to be his son? Cousin? Brother? template’s son’s clone.
With sunlight peeking through the windows, he slinks out from under his desk to prepare for another day.
#dpxdc#dp x dc#dp x dc crossover#dpdc#dpxdc crossover#danny fenton is a clone#clone^2#dpdc au#dpxdc fic#dpdc fic#danny fenton is not the ghost king#starry's writing#ao3 tag highlights: Accidental Little Brother Acquisition#Cat Distribution System Except Its A Child#i crave validation and attention so whoops#danny: wow that is a child! Why Is The Child Violent#danny: ahaha i can ignore my identity crisis if i focus on Literally Anything Else
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of course first post has to be nsfw blog rite of passage…… my take on the nsfw alphabet :3 gonna go thru and edit a bunch of fics to start posting but until then have this !!!!! been thinking long and hard abt heeseung&02z …….. needed to get this off my chest rly
cw warnings : major nsfw under the cut, cumplay, masturbation, piv sex, etc etc
MDNI !
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
i don’t see heeseung as swaying particularly dominant/submissive…… not necessarily vanilla but almost lazy in the way he has sex so i don’t see aftercare being a big deal to him
ofc expect the bare minimum: cleans u up, helps change the sheets, kisses n cuddles
heavy on the cleans them up.. ..… …. can’t help but think abt how much heeseung LOVES to see his partner covered in his cum, whether he finishes on ur chest, ur belly, ur thighs or ur pussy doesn’t matter to him he just loves to see it🤤🤤🤤….. .. … so yeah cleaning u up is a necessity almost every time
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
fav part of himself is his hands…… do i even need to elaborate
just loves touching his partner and why else would he find any other body part as good as his hands when his other body parts can’t grab a handful of ur tits/ass ????
fav part of his partner’s is drum roll plz………….. their tummy
when he’s eating u out he just can’t help but reach out n press his fingers into ur hips n his thumb into ur belly….. .. though he loves to cum anywhere on u his all time favourite is ur tummy, could get him hard again easily if he sees his cum pooling in and around ur bellybutton urrtgghhhhg
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
i literally cannot see heeseung not loving cumplay . like come on
self-admitted jealous type ……… yeah it’s over ur getting painted with his cum and fucked full if u even so much as mention another man
messy with it, loves cumming inside but give him the opportunity to pull out and finish somewhere he can rly see it and it’s a done deal
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
watches league of legends porn . it’s miss fortune …. not elaborating.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
i reckon he’s experienced enough to know what goes where and all that ….. would probs be able to be vocal abt what he likes
i can’t see him getting much time in his schedule to explore his sexuality much so count jacking off and enjoying subgenres of porn as a pillar for experience as well
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
missionary DONT YAWN. just loves being able to bury his head in ur tits and fuck u slow and hard until he cums … and then guess what ……. ur tummy is right there
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
i’d say he can be a bit of a goofball, i don’t see him taking sex too seriously
not necessarily the type to just crack jokes during but not opposed to having a giggle if one of u makes a silly noise or if someone walks in
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
trims but isn’t too fussed about it really, makes him feel manly when he sees his full bush. occasional groomer of the pubes
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
can be super romantic if he rly rly misses u but idk i don’t see heeseung as the sentimental romantic type much…… likes sex cos it feels good and its an excuse to look at ur tits
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
frequent enough . he is a libra after all
probs the type to get a bit bored on his day off and have a wank after going 3/11 on a league game
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
cum cum cum cum cum cum cum
like idk heeseung seems sooo messy to me during sex like if he eats u out he wants to see u dripping onto the sheets nd i don’t need to mention the cumming on ur body thing again ….
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
his bed, he likes it best when ur both a little tired but too horny to sleep so he can just push ur panties to the side and slip in to fuck u slow until ur cumming around him
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
ur boobies . whether they’re out or under a shirt or small or big he just loves seeing them…. plays with ur nipples while u scroll on ur phone in bed, maybe pulls up ur shirt n sucks on them until he makes himself too horny to stop n he has to fuck u (and paint ur tits white)
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
anything too public … likes having u to himself and when ur in the privacy of his bedroom/dorm he gets to make u all dirty, he can’t do that without getting arrested in public unfortunately ://
probs hard dom stuff …. maybe not too shy for a spank here and there but the idea of being rly dominant or degrading u or tying u up etc is just not for him
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
loves receiving, he gets to cum on ur face and tits which is always a bonus👍
not a selfish lover but definitely gets bored of giving head sometimes …. thinks quite literally with his dick like he needs to see it stuffed in u
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
i think heeseung is generally slow and sensual but if u asked he could fuck u faster n harder
he just loves how u clench when his strokes r slow and deep nd he can press against ur cervix without bruising u and ruining the fun
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
quickies are not his forté ! he’s definitely not opposed to them but he prefers being able to take his time…. quickies mean sensible cumming and heeseung would rather wait…..
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
i cannot see him as a risk taker at all, riskiest he would go is having u bounce on his cock in the living room while nobody else is home, but even then he’s just thinking abt how close his bedroom is and how easy it’d be to pick u up while ur impaled on his dick nd take u to bed :((
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
a sturdy 2 rounds if u guys haven’t fucked for a little while, he’s still young his refractory period is in training !!!!
particularly statistically more likely to want a round 2 if he’s a) not tired and b) can see his cum plastered somewhere on ur body (source is my thalamus) …… drives him crazy nd makes him almost desperate to fill u up as well
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
got gifted a fleshlight one time for his birthday but it’s just stayed tucked away in his wardrobe…. tried it once and it was just not as good as the real deal
would be open to using a toy on u for the sole reason that it might make u squirt and he is desperate to see u get that messy
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
gives in instantly . u just need to whip out a titty and he is a goner…. very very weak willed man…..
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
main vocalist like …. do i need to say more
prettiest softest moans uve ever heard ….. breathing into ur chest and whispering how close he is and how bad he needs to fill u up into ur ear
not loud enough for anyone but u to hear tho…. but that’s fine bc u like being able to have him all to urself ^.^
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
can picture him getting randomly horny while playing games while u lay on his bed …. pulls off his headphones to face u and asks u so nicely to come suck his cock while he plays … and of course u do because how could u say no to that face :(( he ends up losing his lane and going afk at base because he’s too busy watching u swallow his entire length like a pro . sorry to his team but the 15 minute afk ban was so worth it
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
not huge but not small, average
a good 5.5 with some juicy balls
circumcised 🙏
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
pretty high but not in the way that its hard to control …… like he just kind of just always wants u
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
after he cleans u up he’s out like a light …… good luck tryna get him to wake up
just accept that ur tits are his pillow for the next 7 hours as he sleeps
#koob navi#heeseung smut#heeseung hard hours#enhypen smut#enha smut#enhypen hard hours#can you tell i’ve thought about this for ages#cannot get the thought of this heeseung out of my brain
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☥ Bunny meat (William Afton x fem!reader x Michael Afton)
Summary: He was a likeable middle-aged man who had wonderful children, his dream job and a beautiful wife. He never blamed himself for his own actions, or to be more exact, he never thought about their consequences.
author note: Ive been thinking for a very long time whether I should publish this fic here. this is my fav fic I wrote for fnaf, I especially like the way I portrayed William here. so please, if any of you would like to see this story here, can you leave a comment? It’ll help me to understand. I’m just unsure if I should post this fic here :’’)
tags: darkfic, unhealthy relationship, angst, smut with plot, p in v, dubcon, oral sex, rough and gentle sex, daddy kink, blood play, knife play, fear play, hurt/comfort, violence, gore/murders, child abuse, follows fnaf lore, moral and physical abuse, virginity kink, anxiety disorder, age gap, daddy issues, unreliable narrator, hallucinations, hidden pairing, William is sick, psychopathy, unhealthy narcissism
Chapter 2.
Chapter 1. Thoughts
Chilly spring night. Light wind and rain. It's so fresh outside that the opposite effect appears: you feel as if you are suffocating from excess air. Outside is your favourite smell of wet grass after the rain. Light smile appears on your lips, and you carelessly go out on the porch of your house, looking at the beautiful view in front of you.
At such moments, everything around seems to be a part of you, you feel some kind of connection with nature and this world. Peace, tranquility, two things what you lack in life.
Today was a bad day. Maybe tomorrow will be better? Tomorrow will be the same. And when will it be better? Does this hell have an end?
Your head is filled with bad thoughts. It feels like every day is getting a little worse than the previous one. You never understood why you deserved such treatment from your father. It was as if he was doing everything so that you wouldn't feel like his daughter. He never even called you that. Something bad happened in your family every day, mom and dad always argued, and you always ran into your room in a state of panic, anxiety. What if father does something to her? That's what happened a few years ago. When you called your aunt in tears, begging her to come, because your father broke your mom's leg and beat her to a concussion. You could have been next if your aunt hadn't arrived on time. That evening, the picture of father changed dramatically in your little child's head.
“Father” means something cold, something cruel. The one who can punch, beat, shout, scream. Abuse.
You live with this thought to this day, but the only thing that has changed is that now there is no father anymore. He died a month ago, which was a shock to your whole little family. You hardly remember what happened exactly on the day of his death, but you clearly memorised your mother who cried all night because she knew well that the only one who could work to feed the family was her husband.
And now, because of this husband she cannot find a well-paid job, because he took care to provide her with a serious disability. And you're too young to work, first you must finish school and university.
Your skin was covered with goosebumps, you went back into the house. Passing by mom's room, you made sure that she was asleep and went to your own one.
Tomorrow is another day.
…
June 22.
“Y/n, breakfast is ready.” you heard mom's voice from the kitchen. Telling her you'd be coming soon, you headed to the bathroom to comb your hair and wash your face.
On the dining table you saw a plate with your favorite breakfast. Pancakes with honey, it couldn't not make you happy. You smiled and sat down opposite your mom. Woman was in a joyful mood.
“Good morning, dear, how did you sleep?” she asked gently, examining your face expression. That's how your conversation started, about everything and nothing at once. She told something about her plans for today, for a week, about her friends, about how one of them gave birth again. You just enjoyed her monologue, sometimes nodding and shaking your head. It was nice for you to see a sparkle in mom's eyes, it was something strange and unique for you, but warming soul. “I absolutely forgot that soon is your birthday!”
“Oh, really? If you hadn't told me, I wouldn't have remembered…” you answered in confusion, fidgeting in your chair and twitching your leg. For some reason, the mention of your birthday made you uncomfortable. Probably because it will be your first birthday without your father. After all, when he was alive, you never really celebrated it. The maximum that was — sweets that your mother gave you in secret from him. You wonder what will happen this time?
“How are we going to celebrate?” Mom asked, smile on her face.
You looked at the floor, nervously fiddling with your shorts. You scratched your head, trying to think of something, but no idea came to mind. Your thoughts are empty again.
“It's your 18th birthday… We need to celebrate it well somehow.” for a second she paused, before looking at you with cheerful face. “Oh… Mr. Afton!”
Your eyes widened in surprise, because after the funeral, your family stopped communicating with Afton family.
“Mom, what are you up to?” you frowned. To be honest, you always got shivers running down your spine from his name, because your last meeting was at that cemetery, on the day of your father's funeral. Memories have entered your mind, forcing you to remember your last dialogue with Mr. Afton.
After the burial itself happened, you ran away from the crowd away. Your heart was racing like crazy, trying to jump out of your chest. You sat down on a wet bench, covering your face in hysterics. Tears streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto a puddle under the bench.
“Young lady,” a low-pitched male voice called you out of hysteria. “Everything is okay? You've been sitting here for hour.”
You opened your eyes and raised your head. Next to you was standing was a tall, middle-aged man with dark brown hair, dressed in black trousers and a jacket. He leaned towards you, holding an umbrella over your head. His face seemed painfully familiar, but because of the hysteria, you couldn't remember who it was.
“Oh god, Y/n? I didn't recognize you, little one. Why are you sitting here all alone?” he smiled broadly as he sat down next to you on the bench, still holding the umbrella for you. “Your mom is looking for you, she's so worried. Her beloved girl is lost.”
You recognised this man. It was none other than William Afton. One of your father's friends, he often came to visit you, and your family also visited him. You were embarrassed by ignoring his questions because you didn't know what to respond. He's been staring at your face the whole time.
“Come on, princess, I see how cold you are.” with these words, he took off his jacket, putting it on your shoulders. “I understand how hard it is for you, honey.”
You haven't received so many nicknames from any men for all your 17 years of life. Never, not once. His voice at some point began to seem more comfortable and soothing. Because of all the surging emotions, you burst into tears again in front of him, no longer hiding your face. William, not wasting a minute, threw umbrella and took you in his arms, so that your face was hidden in his chest. His cold hands stroked your hair, soothing you, calming you. It may have looked strange from out of context, but you really needed support in such hard moment.
“Don't cry, Y/n. You'll be fine, little one.” he talked and talked endlessly, but because of your own tears and sobs, you ignored everything, only burying your nose in his chest more.
“He's the owner of a pizzeria! Do you want to celebrate there? I'm sure he'll give us a discount in honor of such an event.” her smile never disappeared for a second. You were already beginning to doubt at how real her emotions were.
“Are you sure? We don't have much money anyway…”
“Never mind, I want you to finally have the best birthday, dear.” she winked and got up from the table, putting the plates and mugs in the sink.
Your lips curled at the thought of having to see William again.
#william afton smut#fnaf x reader#william afton x reader#steve raglan x reader#fnaf william afton#michael afton x reader#william afton imagines#fnaf x y/n
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🩸BLOODFEST🩸
Week 1
Prompts: Fire. Wound(s). Suburbs. Bondage
Keywords: Acrid. Malignant
Au Courant
(Part 1)
Asa Emory x AFAB Reader
Summary: Meeting your soulmate doesn’t quite go as you’d hoped.
Warnings: Soulmate AU, angst
~ Aeons ago, I answered this ask and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. So, here’s a fic ~
~~
Ding.
The automatic bell above the door chimes as you enter. The grocery store bustles with activity, people fresh from work hurrying to finish their shopping before returning to their sleepy suburbs. It’s barely-controlled chaos.
Retrieving a basket, you check the post-it note list in your pocket. Just a few things.
Aisle 3 first.
You’re slower than the rest as you scan the shelves, eyes unfocusing at random, the different brands of aluminum foil failing to hold your attention. Your mind is elsewhere.
Shelly found her soulmate today.
You knew the moment she walked into the office this morning. The sparkling eyes, the lovesick grin, they way she seemed to float with each step; it’s a look you’ve seen on others before. So, so many others.
Try as you might, you had not been able to avoid her for long. Pairs, as they’re called, could never keep it to themselves for long, seemingly intent on torturing you with their newfound wholeness.
They’d met on the train. She’d been running late and had to take a later line than usual. It was fate, she said. They never would have met otherwise.
Blah, blah, blah. You wanted to puke.
Everyone in your office had found their soulmate, one way or another. Everyone but you. Shelly was the last, the only coworker to whom you could relate. Now, you’re alone in more ways than one.
It would happen, they all told you. One day, your eyes would meet theirs and you would feel it: That spark, that final puzzle piece snapping into place, that pure feeling of absolute plenitude. It’s not something you could comprehend until you felt it, they said.
They’d meant to help, to give you hope, but their words only served to deepen the wounds of isolation. The malignant ache of loneliness festers a little more every year you go without meeting your other half. You’ve almost resigned yourself to a life of solitude.
It has been known to happen. Some unfortunate people go their whole lives without meeting their soulmate. It’s heart wrenching to see them out and about, a single, lonely figure in a sea of Pairs.
Would you be one of them?
Hastily, you shake your head, coming back to yourself and swallowing the acrid tang of self pity creeping up your throat. You slink to the next aisle over. A quick glance at your sticky note prompts you to retrieve a jar of pasta sauce. Bread is next.
You round the corner, eyes on your list. Bread, waffles, maybe you should get some ice cream—
You run headfirst into a solid chest, the impact so jarring you drop your basket. The glass jar of pasta sauce shatters, marinara splattering all over your shoes and the other’s scuffed boots. Strong hands seize your upper arms to keep you from toppling backward.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—
The words die on your tongue when you meet the dark eyes of the man with whom you collided. His expression is one of cold fury. It chills you to the bone, freezes your soul, invokes a terror so deep in your mind you cannot draw breath. Then….
Click.
Your eyes widen. Fear dissipates instantly, replaced with unequivocal certainty. A spark ignites within you, warms your heart, sends a thrill racing up your spine.
It’s like that final puzzle piece snapping into place. No terror, only perfect completion.
Wholeness.
Now, you understand. Now, you see.
You stare in stunned silence at one another, his now shocked expression mirroring yours. A tremulous exhale spills from your lips. The grip on your arms tightens.
You take him in, as much as you can while keeping your gaze locked with his. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. “Powerful” is the first word that comes to mind. His strong jaw is peppered with stubble, the barest hints of gray flecking it and his brown hair. With your eyes, you trace the thin, white scars littering his face: One through his eyebrow, one through his lips, more slashed across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. His eyes…. His eyes are so dark—black?—and they glitter like beetle’s wings.
You inhale, part your lips to say something, to break the tense silence, but then his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips press into a thin line. The cold scowl returns.
He releases your arms like you’ve burned him. Stepping away from you, he spins on his heel and quickly strides away. Incredulous, you watch the back of his jean jacket as he retreats, acutely aware of the knowing looks your exchange has garnered.
“Hey! Hey, wait!” you call, slipping a little in pasta sauce as you hurry after him. You pass a disgruntled employee and murmur an apology, you’ll help clean it up, you promise, you just need one moment….
The door chimes again as the man—your soulmate—all but flees to the parking lot. You pursue, half-jogging to catch up
“Stop! Please, why are you—
He turns to face you so fast you barely register what’s happening. A palm returns to your upper arm, another wrapping around your throat as he seizes you, spins, and shoves you up against the nearest vehicle. The noisy thud as your back collides with steel disturbs the muted hustle of post-work suburbia.
You gasp, equal parts shocked and impressed by the show of speed. You’re bewildered by your feelings, heart thudding in your chest, face hot. He just slammed you into a car and you’re blushing for chirst’s sake.
His own expression is pinched, strained. His voice, so pleasantly deep and rough, is terse as he speaks through his teeth, “You do not want to go down this road with me.”
You blink, your frenzied mind racing to process his words. “I…yes, I do. You’re—
“Forget this happened. Forget. It.” You flinch like he cut you, his words stinging like alcohol in a wound. You shake your head.
“…How?” you whisper. Your eyes burn. There’s no way you could ever, ever forget him now, not in any sense of the word. You’re connected on the deepest level, your very souls entwined. How could he say something like this? How could he want this? Does he not feel this bond like you do?
His jaw clenches. He pushes you away, not hard enough to make you fall, but firmly enough to make a point. Keys jingle as he retrieves them from his pocket. They rattle against the truck door—the one he’d pushed you against—until the lock clicks. He doesn’t look back as he slides into the driver’s seat, slams the door. The engine roars to life.
You watch, frozen to the spot, adrenaline and distress thrumming under your skin as the vehicle pulls away. It ambles through the parking lot, makes a left turn onto the street, disappears into traffic.
Your eyes burn.
Slowly, like your arm weighs a ton, you reach up to touch your cheek. It’s wet. You’re crying, you realize.
A new wound opens up, settles into your chest next to the loneliness:
Heartbreak.
#sfbf23#asa emory#asa emory x reader#the collector 2009#the collector x reader#the collection#thesightstoshowyou#bloodfest
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Leon S. Kennedy - Lay On Hands
Summary: Successful in his rescue attempt, Leon and Ashley travel back to the states but before they can go home one thing stands in their way. The post-mission hospital visit.
A/N: hi wow um it’s been a while. this was a request i got all the way in june that i’ve been sitting on throughout my writer’s block. i’m still not very confident right now, but I hope you guys like this fluffy mess. the title's a really lame d&d reference.
rly wanna thank @roseglazedlens for helping me outline the ending of this fic. i love her to death please go check her out, she's got some really cool stuff coming up.
ngl this was a relief to finish up and put out there~. I'm very sorry to keep the lovely anon that requested this waiting.
cw for: fluff! gn!nurse!reader, inaccurate nurse portrayal probably, one whole kiss
wc: 2.2k
gentle reminder that all of my works sfw or not are intended for 18+ audiences.
The inbox is open for requests.
“I cannot wait to get off this thing.”
The sound of Ashley’s voice chitters in his ear, slightly distorted in the staticky headset as suddenly, her hand closes firm around his forearm, ripping him from his thoughts.
“Hm?” a hum of acknowledgement crackles back towards her as tired eyes turn from the cityscape below to the blonde girl who had suddenly come to life beside him.
“You’re telling me you weren’t paying attention?” her head tilts, gentle smile blooming on her features as she meets his gaze. “We’re landing soon, home this time.”
Managing a half cocked smile and a huff of a laugh, Leon shook his head while shifting his attention towards her. Stiff joints groan in protest at the ever so slight movement. The hours of inactivity after days of absolutely no rest in the days prior left his body far more sore than he’d like to admit to.
“Left that up to you. Thought you’d want some practice.” he quipped, trying to keep his energy high for Ashley’s sake despite the screaming ache that radiated deep into his bones.
“Right, gotta be tip top shape if I’m going to be your replacement.”
She giggles, and he lets out another soft chuckle, pleased enough with her reaction. “Just tell me when we’re on solid ground again.”
“Sure. You can count on me, Leon.”
-
Feet connect with the solid asphalt surface of the hospital’s helipad, and Leon lets out an audible sigh of relief before reaching a hand out to help the young woman off the helicopter. He’s careful, right hand in hers while the other braces her upper arm to make sure that she makes it off of the aircraft without issue.
“You okay?” The familiar question slips from him as Ashley’s hand leaves his, the hand below her shoulder hovering for a moment longer before dropping heavy to his side.
“I’m good.” She nods, brushing her hands over her disheveled clothing. “Just ready to go home.”
“You’re almost there.”
Before either of them could say any more, they’re surrounded by the flurry of suits that had been waiting for the chopper to touch down. Muscle memory takes over as he steps in front of the girl, every instinct in his body telling him to protect her despite the miserable state he was in. He scans the faces as they approach, brows furrowing as he tenses, one arm raised to cage her behind him and the other hovering over the pistol strapped to his thigh. Ready for anything.
“Welcome back Agent Kennedy, Miss Graham.”
Shoulders stoop slightly and tense muscles relax, the arm he had raised to shield the younger woman from potential danger dropping to his side as he recognized the voice.
“Hunnigan.” he nods, eyes turning up to meet hers.
There’s no longer a need for the established codenames now that they’re on home soil, however being addressed as ‘Agent’ made him far prefer the comfort of condor. However, it was nice to put a face to the disembodied voice feeding him information through the earpiece he had shed once in the safety of the chopper.
“Miss Graham if you would come with me.” One of the secret servicemen took hold of Ashley’s arm now that Leon had backed down. “We’ll get you checked in and then you can see your father.”
Green eyes flicker in excitement before flying in Leon’s direction, waiting for his instruction. A showcase of the trust she had placed in him over the duration of their time together.
“Go.” he met her inquisition with a nod, giving her the permission she was seeking.
She nods in turn, fingers curling around the silver pendant dangling from her neck as she hesitates for a moment.
“Thanks, Leon.”
Before he could answer, an arm is hooked around her shoulders, leading her rather hurriedly into the depths of the hospital with the other two secret service members and leaving him alone with Hunnigan. She quickly began dumping information on him, ushering him to follow her off the windy rooftop and into the hospital himself.
He didn’t have the energy to listen to everything she was saying, picking up only pieces here and there. Something about mission debriefing in the afternoon ( something he dreaded simply due to the fact he’d have to wear that crumpled suit in the bottom of his closet he hated so badly ), a mess of updates about the island’s explosion, vague words of thanks from President Graham and …..
“You and Ashley are going to be staying overnight, just to make sure there’s no lasting effect from the plaga.”
That was the last thing Hunnigan spoke as she ushered him into an empty examination room, the door closing quietly behind him.
-
The door to the exam room creaked open just as he finished unclipping the utility belt from his waist. Leon unceremoniously dropped the belt onto the pile of gear he had already collected in one of the spare chairs in the corner of the room, not quite ready to break the quiet lull and stream of thoughts that he had found comfort in during the wait.
“Getting comfortable Mr. Kennedy?”
His eyes snap to the closing door to the sudden appearance in the doorway.
You.
Lively eyes glitter in amusement as you watch him shed his gear, presence lighting up the room almost immediately, melting away some of the tiredness that dared to try and consume him whole.
“Or should I say, Special Agent Kennedy?”
Lips pull into a displeased frown. That title again, even in that sugar sweet tone you always seemed to use with him it rubbed him the wrong way. He hated how it sounded in general, but coming from you seemed to make it sting.
“Just Leon’s fine.”
“I know.” Your eyes slip to the paperwork attached to the clipboard in your hands, and a small smile appears on your face. “You’ve told me that before.”
“Consider it a reminder.” His words are growing more playful than pointed now.
“Just being professional.”
The slight frown fades from his lips as he takes in the curve of your smile, the sparkle in your eyes as you tease him. Warm, familiar. It helped to put him at ease far too often in the bland white hellscape of the hospital he had found himself in far too many times over the past few years. After every too-intense training session or grueling mission, you were there with caring hands and a day-brightening smile that he couldn’t help but pretend belonged solely to him.
And suddenly he was reminded how that look was the last thing he pictured in that chamber as Ashley was forced against her will to turn his own gun on himself, and again when he nearly succumbed to the will of the parasite. Each and every single time he danced too close to death in the cold hell he had found himself in during his time in Spain, his thoughts flickered back to you and how much he wanted to make his way back home and into your care despite everything.
And now that he was here, everything didn’t seem quite so bad.
“You know the drill, ‘cmon.” Your words cut through the quiet, patting the paper-covered padding of the examination table. “Up on the table.”
“You’re the boss.”
Leon nods, stiff shoulders pulling into a shrug as he backs up to the table. He offers you a fleeting half-smile before hoisting himself up and settling on the cold, uncomfortable surface with a dramatic sigh. The padding did nothing but irritate the sore ache already plaguing the base of his spine and he hunches slightly.
“Gonna be honest, Leon.” You take a moment to note his condition, leaning against the counter with furrowed brows. He shifts slightly under your warm gaze, suddenly too conscious of the way you seemed to be looking over him.
“You look like shit.”
“Ouch.” He chuckled, head shaking ever so slightly as his body released the tension that had built up during the silence. “Is that a professional opinion?”
“Just a friendly observation.”
“I’d hate to be your enemy.”
Your brow arches, turning away to flop the clipboard down onto the counter with a clatter as you’re suddenly more interested in the aforementioned patient paperwork again.
A pitiful attempt to hide the amusement dancing behind your eyes. He takes notice, lips curling upwards as he shifts, elbows resting on his knees to lean forward as a small surge of pride swells in his chest at the way your head shakes as you try and hide your reaction.
His triumph is short-lived however, as you compose yourself and take one last glance at the provided information. As you turn towards him, Leon straightens back up and watches as your hands absentmindedly move to the stethoscope draped around your neck. Fingers curling around the tubing as you take a few steps closer, attempting to look as serious as possible.
“So, what exactly happened this time?” you question, pulling the stethoscope from around your neck.
“Caught a nasty bug while we were in Spain, everything went to shit from there.” Leon offers a small shrug and a half smile as he speaks, certain that your documentation had everything he could tell you about the plaga already.
This earns him an exasperated groan, and a playful thump on the shoulder. Nothing too serious, just a small jolt to his already throbbing deltoid, yet Leon clutches the spot with a dramatic whine. “Pretty sure there’s rules against abusing patients.”
You brush off his complaints with another shake of your head. “I know about the parasite, it’s everything else I’m curious about. You’ve never been this beat up before.”
“Hostile locals.” his words trailed off, unable to give you the whole story despite so desperately wanting to. “And others.”
“Right,” You nod, and he’s grateful that you don’t pry. “Keep your secrets, mystery man. Just let me do my job.”
“Not stopping you.” A hand raises in mock surrender as brows raise defensively.
“Good.” You clip the metal Y to your neck in one smooth motion, drawing his attention to the way it slopes into your shoulders for a moment before catching himself.
“It’s been five minutes and I haven’t even gotten vitals because you keep distracting me.”
The drum of the stethoscope slips into the front pocket of your dark blue scrubs as you close the distance between the two of you. A gentle hand closes around the wrist of his raised arm, guiding it down as you lean past him to reach for the blood pressure cuff attached to the wall behind him.
It wasn’t as if this was the first time you had been this close, he had gotten used to it over the years. Used to the fresh linen scent of your clothes, the warm vanilla scent of your skin and the warmth of your fingers; Leon had trained himself not to react to any of them and yet here he was, forgetting all of that as your scent filled his senses and your touch melts away any of the remaining aches.
His breath catches heavy in his throat, mind blanking completely as you work. Entranced by your practiced movements, he’s acutely aware of the way his heart hammers against his rib cage and his sudden silence.
“That’s odd.” you murmur after a few moments. “Everything is reading normal besides your heart rate. Has it been like that for long? Could be a side effect of the parasite.”
You’re mostly talking to yourself at this point, blissfully unaware of the effect you had on him.
The simple act of a gentle, caring touch after one of the most taxing missions of his career sending him spiraling back to that bumbling rookie from so many years ago. Unable to form a complete, coherent sentence he simply shrugged, met with a sharp bob of your head as you turn to walk back to the counter in order to jot down your findings in his records.
The moment your fingertips left his skin, Leon could feel the cold ache creeping slowly back in as your warmth fades from his form.
Impulse kicks in this time and he moves to snag your wrist in his hand, unwilling to part with the comfort your touch brought with it.
Wanting just a little more.
You let out a curious hum, as he pulls you back to his side, closer than you had been only moments ago. Heart thrumming in his throat, he hesitates for a moment before tugging you to meet him at eye level before leaning forward ever so slightly to close the distance between the two of you.
Lips meet; soft, sweet and warm. He doesn’t linger more than necessary despite so desperately wanting to, just long enough to convey all the thoughts he can’t seem to form into words.
Hoping that you understand the feelings behind the motion.
The first thing he notices when he pulls away is the pretty flush in your cheeks, the next being how tightly he’s gripping your wrist.
“Sorry.” It’s the first thing he’s able to vocalize in the aftermath of his impulsive behavior. Reluctantly, Leon releases the grip he has on you, averting his gaze ever so slightly.
“Don’t be.”
His eyes move to meet yours, flickering to the smirk curling on your lips as you take a small step backwards.
“Just let me finish my job, and we can talk about this later.”
taglist ( aka you interacted with this post like a month ago) :: @homicidal-slvt , @obsolescent , @daydreamrot , @navstuffs , @valsthea
please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed to this list!
#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x you#leon kennedy fluff#leon kennedy fic#leon kennedy#leon s kennedy#tea writes things#i wanna thank exo for getting me through those last 200 words
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if i am the wind, fleeting and transient, you are the steady and constant earth upon which i stand.
summary. kaedehara kazuha's older sibling is a geo-aligned mirror of himself.
trigger & content warnings. references to tomo's death and mentions of sensory overload.
tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. fluff, hurt/comfort. kazuha & older sibling!reader, slight beidou x reader. 0.7k words. they/them pronouns for reader. reader has a geo vision.
author's thoughts. this was an old draft that i decided to finish bc tbh? kazuha >>> lately i'm finishing and posting old drafts? i think it's because i'm realizing that they aren't even half as bad as i originally thought.
imagine being kazuha's geo bearing older sibling.
kaedehara kazuha is, for the most part, a gentle gale. fleeting, transient, evanescent.
kaedehara [name] is his polar opposite—they are the firm earth. lasting, enduring, permanent.
they were easily one of the raiden shogun's most vocal opposers during the vision hunt decree. how dare she treat her people with such lack of care? the people she should have loved? the people that she had once promised a dream to? where was all that love when she decided to cruelly rip her citizens' visions from them in spite of all the terrible effects such force had? where was all that love?
(even after the decree gets repealed, they would still be a little bitter. they're expected to forgive her, just like that? no. their forgiveness is a thing to be earned; hell, they may simply choose to never forgive her, and after all the pain she caused them and their brother? it would be justified. they do not care if she is an archon.)
"eternity is not complacency in a stasis-like state," they once told kazuha, "but rather, it is the endurance of a legacy for centuries to come. that is eternity."
they stayed back in inazuma, holding off the shogunate while kazuha ran away after tomo's death.
he cried when he had to part from them, but at their command, he ultimately did obey. as much as it hurt him to abandon them, not knowing if they'd somehow manage to escape on their own, he knew they would hate it if he refused to leave. so he did.
thankfully, the resistance took them in. they stayed with kokomi and gorou the majority of the time, helping them push back against the electro archon's tyranny.
kazuha definitely adores his older sibling!! he will literally never say a single bad thing about them to anyone. never. no slander will come from his lips.
when beidou first got to meet them, she was absolutely overjoyed; she can see where kazuha gets his attitude from! they also thanked her profusely for taking such good care of him when they could not. the two got on very well! kazuha was so happy to see some of his favorite people getting along <3
beidou loves them. genuinely.
she always encourages them to come on the alcor. there is always a place for them with her crew! sometimes they do take her up on her offer and they travel teyvat for a while. once their family affairs are settled, they'll start traveling full-time, occassionally returning to inazuma to visit their friends.
she also gets so excited when she knows they'll be on board—beidou likes exchanging stories with them and just... talking. she loves that.
someone had to teach kazuha how to play music on leaves, you know. it was definitely [name].
kazu and his sibling would compliment one another really well in battle. they'd be able to predict one another's next moves based on muscle twitches, changes in stance... it's like they can read each other's minds! they can't. they just know one another inside and out.
sometimes they'll cup their hands over his ears to protect him in situations where he cannot avoid a storm or similar thing that might hurt his ears. this gesture is greatly appreciated. kazuha does what he can to reciprocate that—if they're overwhelmed or overstimulated? his first priority is to get them somewhere calmer. they protect him in his moments of sensitivity, so it's only fair for him to do the same.
i like to think kazuha and his sibling sit and admire scenery together. maybe they point out shapes in the clouds. maybe they take note of interesting sounds they hear in the bushes. however the two spend their time admiring the world, it is always an enjoyable time.
i also think the two would play in the rain, as long as it isn't too heavy <3 dancing in the rain together, taking walks in the rain together... it'a comforting.
sometimes kazuha will lay his head on their lap as if he were some kind of cat, and he'll just fall asleep. a mid-afternoon nap on his older sibling.
on top of all of that, kazuha speaks his mind to his sibling, and he hopes they'll do the same. he wants them to always be honest about what they're thinking and how they're feeling.
he knows that, as the eldest, they may have had to carry heavy burdens all throughout his childhood, while he got the privilege of existing without a care in the world.
the heavy burdens will be no more.
he is old enough to help shoulder the weight, and help shoulder the weight he will.
please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!
#aphelion's headcanons 🌸#favoniuslibrary#astronetwrk#platonic genshin x reader#platonic genshin impact#platonic genshin impact x reader#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#kazuha x reader#platonic kazuha x reader#platonic genshin#platonic beidou x reader#beidou x reader#kaedehara kazuha x reader
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Red, White and Royal Blue fic rec part 2 (part 1)
*Note: I have a lot of unfinished fics in my subscriptions but since there are over 120+ fics there from other fandoms too I won’t be able to add those, when they are finished I’ll do another post in the future!
*Also couldn't find some of these writers here on tumblr, if you know tell me and I’ll add their @ beside it!
MULTI-CHAPTER
Things I Cannot Accept
18 chapters, 69.703 words
By @sprigsofviolets AU where Ellen lost the election in 2016 and Henry and Alex reconnect in 2019. Super cute and interesting story, with a lot of fluff and angst, amazingly written!
Captious (calculated to confuse, entrap or entangle in argument)
3 chapters, 14.256 words
Blind date AU... Well... Sort of... You'll know when you read it hehe but honestly so so sweet with a bit of angst but so much fluff!
My Only Wish (This Year)
7 chapters, 26.374 words
By @dracowillhearaboutthis AU where Henry marries a woman and has two daughters, set 10 years later and Alex and Henry reconnect, and maybe a romance blooms... Of course it does lol very cute kid fic (with a bit of angst too) but still lots of fluff!
Comfort Crowd
8 chapters, 12.098 words
To all the boys I've loved before AU, I don't like the film but since I'm such a sucker for these two of course I read it and got obsessed with it afajsgshsvsg
And they call it—
2 chapters, 10.148 words
By @clottedcreamfudge AU where Alex can talk to animals, so when Henry needs a dog sitter he goes to Alex, and he and David obviously talk about Henry. So funny and fluffy, guaranteed to make you smile!
(do i really have to tell you) how he brought me back to life?
7 chapters, 38.498 words
By @coffeecatsme High school AU where Henry gets kicked out by Mary and lives with Alex's family. A whole lot of angst and a whole lot of fluff, just a superb story!
I'm Taking A Ride With My Best Friend
23 chapters, 79.302 words
By @cultofsappho The Last of Us AU where Henry is immune and Alex helps him get to the fireflies in hopes to create a vaccine. If you've watched the tv show or played the game, you know how this goes lol could not recommend it enough, so much angsty but has fluffy moments too! And the writing is impeccable
i'd lie
6 chapters, 18.058 words
AU where Alex and June move to England with thier mum and have the Fox family as their neighbours, we see the super six throughout the years and how Henry lies might not work anymore... If you want angst, this is the fic for you
ONE SHOT
talk too much
3.307 words
By @lazybug16 Alex has his wisdom teeth removed and Henry takes care of him, just fluff fluff fluff, super adorable (yes self promo because I'm very proud of this fic, I love it)
I trace your constellations
13.498 words
Soulmates, coffee shops and demi Henry AU, just pure flirting and fluff, suuuuuuper cute read!
Never Truly Leave
2.443 words
By @clottedcreamfudge Catherine finds a letter that Arthur wrote... To Alex. We cry alongside Alex as he reads it; very emotional, it will make you cry, and fall in love with these characters all over again, could not recommend enough
you knew the entire time (you knew that i'm a mastermind)
8.239 words
By @coffeecatsme Uni and autistic Henry AU, we see Alex and Henry fall in love. Fluffy but also a bit of angst, you just want to protect Henry and tell him everything is going to be okay
starry eyes sparking up my darkest nights
16.367 words
By @coffeecatsme Hugh school AU where Arthur is also alive and becomes like a second father to Alex. Very very sweet with a bit if angst as well, you'll love it and might have a few happy tears towards the end
learning to love (without it having to hurt)
4.861 words
AU where they aren't famous and they are roommates. We see Henry figure out his asexuality and Alex be there for him, and them getting together of course :) very very sweet read!
The last letter
2.173 words
By @floatingaway4 They are in the afterlife, at peace. This weiter managed to combine angst and fluff at the exact same time and I don't know how they did it, it will make you ugly happy cry!
Fourty-Four Days
8.675 words
They are living in the Brownstone when Henry needs to go to europe for the shelters and Alex to California for a campaign, and they end up not seeing each other for 44 days, and it's too much. Angsty but then fluffy, it just hurts seeing them miss each other so so much
take me out, and take me home
11.837 words
Roommates AU and we see Alex get some feelings, only friendly feelings of course... Really cute story and ending!
i’d take the bomb in your head and disarm it
22.392 words
By @evanbuvkley roommates AU and friends to angsty friends to lovers afahsgsjshdj so much angst that you might cry but a bit of fluff too (happy ending don't worry) such an engaging story, very well executed
and I wrote down our song
6.072 words
AU where Alex is a musician and Henry isn't a prince and they meet at a bar where Alex is performing. Super cute and we see how they fall in love and grow and it's just full of joy!
Group therapy
3.243 words
By @stutteringpeach AU where Ellen is Henrys therapist and he is dating Alex and talks to Ellen about their relationship, without knowing that it's actually his boyfriends mum... They "meet" at a family cook out and its honestly hilarious lmao you will not stop laughing
#I made this draft on this blog cause I started it before I made my rwrb blog lol#rwrb#red white and royal blue#rwrb fic#red white and royal blue fic#firstprince#mine#queue
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watcha reading?
here we go! I went a long stretch where I wasn't reading much fic at all but I've been catching up lately (the past week fjdkslj)
(I've been tagged in this a couple times I think but I can't recall by who I've just had this draft in progress for a while I'm SORRY :/ )
Anyway, It's About Old Friends by @fragilecapric0rnn - endlessly complex and such a feast of character dynamics and the way they shift and change and grow over time, I cannot recommend this one enough, it's the post-UD When Harry Met Sally AU that you NEED in your life
god has never loved a woman the way I do by @judasofsuburbia - the second part in a wild west au series that is so full and real and unbelievably tender that I simply don't know what to do with myself about it. For both parts (Steddie pt. 1 and Ronance pt. 2) there is so much beautiful rumination on the nature of choice for these people and the simultaneous risk and worthiness of choosing each other like. help me???
and they were roommates by @yournowheregirl - I've only read the first part in this series but I can't wait to dive further into it. Ronance finding that no matter how nervous they were to actually go after each other there is actually so much natural simplicity to touching and feeling and kissing and!!!! joyful PWP for the girls it's what they deserve
never made it to graceland by @cheatghost - beautifully, gorgeously, perpetually ominous first chapter with such perfect Eddie-isms and Munson Family Moments and prose, just the first chapter alone has me feeling deeply fulfilled while still so ready for more. I am a lover of "the world ended but we're still here" and this is already giving me that in DROVES please join me in scratching at the walls about it
I Look to You to See the Truth by @sharpbutsoft the Erica Sinclair coming of age in her freshman year of college-slash- lesbian self discovery story of my DREAMS featuring your favorite idiot4idiot steddie and dearest robin and overall what a delight from start to finish
P.S. if you read and enjoy any of these, spread the love by letting the authors know! the community of fandom thrives when we talk to each other 💜
open tag for anyone who wants to join in on this! say I tagged you and share your newest faves with us, I wanna see 'em!
#this was far from everything on my catch up list but I'm making progress!#(if i started with some of the stuff by my pals on said list don't @ me it's not my fault they're talented)#plus I wanted to post this on the 31st bc I think I wanna make it a monthly rec thing#i have so many things i want to read and share and this feels like a good way to do that now that I'm getting back into the swing of it!#dot post#fic recs#dot recs#steddie#ronance
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Seven (+) Sentence Sunday
Tagged by @disasterbuckdiaz, @forthewolves, @wikiangela, @jesuisici33, @hippolotamus, @giddyupbuck, Thank you! You are all so amazing and I cannot wait for your works!
I feel like I've shared almost half this fic by now (I have not, there is still plenty to be consumed for when I actually finish). Anyway...what else would it but NFL Buck!
“I know we’ve been pushing a little too hard with all the snooping and questions. And I am so sorry for not respecting the boundaries you clearly set. But Eddie,” She reaches over and grips his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze, “We just wanted to get to know you, be your friend and it really sounds like you need one. Christopher too.”
He nods, letting out a wet chuckle, “My um…boyfriend basically told me the same thing. Said I needed friends here, especially for moments like this, and that I should let you all get to know me.”
“He sounds like a very smart man, and you must have your reasons for keeping him a secret.”
Eddie blows out a breath, “Yea, yea I do. We both do. Christopher and I are his secret too.” He looks directly at Hen, “And maybe one day I can tell you the why’s and how’s of it all, but for now, the matter of Buck is off limits, unless I intentionally bring him up.”
The paramedic nods in agreement, “Okay. I can respect that and will make sure the other do as well.”
“You mean threatening Chimney?” Eddie smirks.
“With a chainsaw if need, be. I’m sure Ravi would happily help, considering Chim scared him into hiding in Bobby’s office with one.” Hen retorts and they both snicker at the image of Ravi being chased with a chain saw wielding Chimney.
Eventually they settle and Eddie takes a deep breath, Evan’s voice ringing in the back of his mind, Be less of a mystery, get to know them. Make friends. “Are you-uh- a native to L.A.?” he asked a little awkwardly.
Hen snorts, “Trying to get to know me Diaz?”
“Trying to make a friend.” Eddie replies.
She softens, “Two-way street newbie. Have to ask a few questions of my own as well.”
Eddie mockingly contemplates her offer, earning a pinch to his knee, “Hey!” he squawks with a chortle, “Deal, okay? Just ease off the physical harm.”
Hen rolls her eyes, “You gay men are so sensitive.”
“And you lesbians are just a little too mean.” Eddie fires back, sending them once again into a titter.
Hen is so wise and loving, but she is so devious and fun. The perfect friend to all. Especially Eddie. Hope you all enjoyed!
If you want to see more posts about NFL Buck just search under the nfl tag on my page.
Tagging (no pressure): @thekristen999 @thewolvesof1998 @monsterrae1 @spotsandsocks @shortsighted-owl @spaceprincessem @starlingbite @devirnis @housewifebuck @alyxmastershipper @transbuck @loserdiaz @princessfbi @cowboydiazes @cowboy-buddie @cowboy-buck @honestlydarkprincess @911onabc @911-on-abc @bigfootsmom @glorious-spoon @exhuastedpigeon @brokenribsdiaz @lizzybizzyzzz @try-set-me-on-fire @bekkachaos @sibylsleaves @homerforsure, @watchyourbuck @eddiediaztho @rogerzsteven And anyone else I missed or who just wants to share!
#seven sentence sunday#tag game#my wip#911 fox#911 abc#911 show#911 fic#buddie#buddie fic#evan buckley#eddie díaz#hen wilson#nfl#quarterback buck#firefighter eddie#secret relationship#eddie and hen friendship#gay eddie diaz#lesbian hen wilson#eddie is making friends#hen is the absolute best
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{Take it off} König x (GN) reader~
Hey guys! It’s honestly been way too long. Firstly, I want to apologize for taking such a long hiatus. Many things in my life have changed to be honest.
My age, my interests, my personal life, my job, my health and so my writing style unsurprisingly has also gone through a transformation of itself. Looking back on my old works I honestly cannot say I have read more than about three sentences before I can’t stand to look any more. It’s just so BAD. Not saying that my new shit is much better, but it’s a slow and steady uphill battle. But for some of my more consistent followers you might have also noticed the change of theme on my page. I will no longer just be catering to the community of five nights at Freddy’s. And I apologize to the folks who only stay on my page for that type of content but honestly, if I only made that type of content, I wouldn’t post here anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I still love five nights at Freddy’s and will be writing more content of that eventually (I’m sure if it lol.) but it’s just not my main focus at the moment I’m sure so for now I really want to branch out to some more games/characters that I’m enjoying in the moment so you guys get more variety and so can get some more people on my page who can enjoy my work.
For this first newer post I decided to take it easy since I haven’t really written anything for a while. And I feel like the longer fics that I write are the last motivation I have to finish. So another change will be that my fix will probably be shorter one shots/ two or three parts instead of a whole series. I may also end up doing a lot of headcannons or imagines to help with writer's block.
Cod MW/MW2 has been my current infatuation, so expect a few more posts of that. Buckle up children cause we are going for a ride!
This post is a short little sweet fic about seeing konigs face for the first time. It’s simple and it’s SFW so I hope you guys enjoy it.
Tags: sfw, fluff, complements, just good ol brain rot.
Fic below the cut.
——————————
It’s hard not to notice how hot it is.
The air conditioner on base wasn’t very good anyways, but you never noticed how significant it was until you no longer had any.
As you walked down the hall you could hear some of the newer recruits here at KorTac complaining. And to be honest, you couldn’t blame them. It was difficult to bite your tongue, but as a higher rank you had to pretend everything was alright despite the sweat parading down your neck and body. It was so sweltering even your eyes were dripping.
You brushed away as much as you could with your one free while you made your way towards your colonel’s office. Your captain had asked you to deliver a few documents as per usual, so you weren’t too bothered making the trip.
The colonel himself was an interesting character. And although you weren’t able to see the pleasure of him working out in the field, he was a usual participant in helping to train the troops. And oh boy, what a sight to behold.
Firstly the man is an absolute unit. He’s over a foot taller than you, (ignore that if ur a tall person xD)
He’s built like a tank, and works out with a giant black t-shirt on his head. He was always a sight to behold out on the training course, and most of all was a very kind and experienced leader. you definitely could understand how he earned his title. as quiet as he might pose himself to be, he was a skilled and brutal fighter.
And that’s why you're so intrigued as you strut to room 106. His room. You wonder how he’s faring with the heat, especially with that unusual getup of his. You even wondered if he would have it off. It’s unlikely, but the curiosity of what the colonel might look like under the mask had you that much more excited when you knocked on his door.
You heard a grunt of displeasure from behind the door, followed by a faint “come inside.”
You twisted the knob and pulled the door open revealing a pretty uneventful spectacle.
Colonel König sat behind his desk fiddling with some papers. The soft hum of a nearby fan could be heard in the background, and you noticed he was wearing the full getup- helmet and all.
He looked up to meet your eyes before ushering you further inside with a slight motion of his finger.
you find yourself trying hard not to stare as you hand him the paperwork.
“Captain said to give these to you. More files from the new recruits. He mentioned he would be out for the weekend so He said to let you know to give him a call to his personal cell if you needed anything in particular from him.” You relayed your message from the captain and was officially finished with your service.
A sigh fell from Königs lips before he spoke “Ah yes, I remember him intending to do such. Thank you Liefermädchen, have a hopefully cooler afternoon.” He noted before he looked back down to finish his work and you spun to exit the room.
You took a few steps but before you left you couldn’t contain your burning question… literally
“I’m sorry sir, but I just have to ask…” you squeak out as you flip back around to face him.
Konig looks up again from his work and this time you can tell he is intrigued just by his eyes. He brings his built arms up to his head and gives them a good stretch before crossing it behind his neck and placing one leg over the other.
“Alright, don’t leave me waiting. Shoot.” He’s now staring intensely at you, and you feel yourself begin to feel hyper aware of the sweat now dripping down your face from your hair and even your eyebrows. You’re sure glad you happened to choose to exclude makeup from your morning routine today. No doubt it would have melted off just standing here.
“Aren’t you hot under all of… well, that ?” You question as you wave your hand all over his makeshift sniper getup. “It is almost 40 degrees outside sir. And with no air conditioning to help alleviate things… well I can’t imagine you're quite comfortable.”
“I am aware of the situation we are under,” he remarks. Now uncomfortably shifting around in his seat, “ but I’m doing alright.” He fibs.
Your going to regret saying this later, but before you can stop it, it’s already squeezed itself between your lips,
“Bullshit.”
You try to pretend you didn’t just say that to your Colonel, but the shock is clearly present on your face.
This causes the man to burst out into deep bounds of laughter, causing him to let his legs fall back into place and to unfold his arms to clutch his stomach with joy.
“You are a hilarious and very brave Herzblatt” he bellows as his laughter dies out. “ You have caught me in my fib.” He takes a moment to stand up and shrug his large shoulders under the shirt. “I am quite warm…”
“Then why not take it off? You pose to him.
“People come to my office often. To take it off, means to risk someone seeing my face.” He motions to himself as he speaks and you struggle to understand what he means.
“So? Why would that matter?” You retort.
“I’m not sure I feel quite comfortable with people knowing what I look like. Kindness has not been in my favor when people had the pleasure of looking at me without my mask.” He says, making you finally understand.
“Are you afraid people will target your looks?” You tilt your head as you move slightly closer to where the Colonel stands. How saddening that is to hear. You wonder what Konig has had to endure in the past, and your heart yearns to help him overcome his insecurity.
He looks to the floor, obviously ignoring your question,
You take this as your opportunity to breach the distance between the two of you. And the conversation suddenly feels like a mother confronting her mistreated child.
“You are the colonel of this base.” Without regard to overstepping you place your hand on Königs left shoulder. “ it wouldn’t matter if your face was so hideous it turned people into stone sir. People will respect you regardless, you are a leader here, and a leader doesn’t need to have a pretty face to still be respected. And anyways, your face probably is perfectly handsome anyways. I’ve never met an insecure ugly person.” The last two bits were a little overboard but you made your point regardless.
He smiles under his mask with your words to him. He couldn’t believe you were giving him a chance to feel a little better about himself, plus the idea of finally being able to strip himself of his personal sauna would make his job a little bit easier.
“I don’t suppose you would take it off just for a little while? I’m sure it would help cool you down.” (That was a lie) nothing would cool either of you down without air conditioning in this sweltering heat.
König pauses for a moment, and he contemplates what unveiling himself to you would mean to him. suddenly, it feels much worse that you would be the first to see him. He knows you probably wouldn’t judge, but something about it being you that just made him feel…Flustered.
He wanted to say no, but before he could protest you pushed at him again, this time trailing your hand to the bottom of his mask and tugging on it gently.
“Please. Just in front of me? I promise I’ll play nice.”
That last sentence made his head spin. Were you flirting with him?
No.. you can’t be? Can you?
His heart began to speed up to a pace so quick, he worried you might be able to hear it pounding in his chest.
“Okay.” He affirmed, unclamping his helmet and pulling the hood off to reveal his balaclava.
You felt the anticipation begin to boil inside of you as he brought his hand to his hood and firmly pulled it off of his head, not giving himself any time to process that he was revealing his face to you.
When he finished pulling his head out and tossed his balaclava to the side with the rest of his gear, you can’t help but feel your jaw drop.
He was stunning.
His hair was brown and curly, and falling to his shoulders. His face was chiseled, and covered with rough stubble. He adorned battle scars like medals and his lips looked so supple and soft.
You couldn’t imagine why he felt the need to coward himself away under a mask for so long. He was beautiful.
Your silence must have begun to worry him, as you noticed he had broken eye contact and was looking towards his balaclava.
You quickly realized that and gained his attention with a tap to his shoulder. You both had forgotten you were still sitting your hand there.
“So how do I look?” He questioned nervously. And your words couldn’t have been more perfect to him.
“I think the temperature of the room just shot up a million more degrees.”
——————————————————————————
An:
For all my visual learners here is my favorite depiction of what I believe Konig looks like under his mask. Of course all credits to the artist! (NOT MY ART) Please go to their post and like it. Also I’m not posting the actual picture to my post to respect the artist’s wishes of no reposts. Just go to the link stinkies and I will see what I mean okay-byeIloveyou!
https://www.tumblr.com/gildedskully/703578007597678592/face-reveal-i-just-think-hes-neat-rbs
(Please read)
Should I do a part 2 where things get a little… spicy?
I very well might. The temptation is greatly building in me.
Anyways for now that is all. I hope you're enjoying my newer writing style and are not disappointed in my branch out to other fandoms. As always I very much appreciate any support I get. It makes my day when I see people comment or like my posts. It’s unfathomable to me that people actually read my shit writing- 💀
Oh and, Btw if you have requested any fics from me I will get into writing those hopefully soon. I know my hiatus looked quite gloomy and long, but I’m back for now. Me taking long breaks is honestly just how I am as a person. I always come back though. Life gets busy, and I’m an adult so other adults understand the struggles of juggling jobs, life and hobbies. Even if I am gone my fics are still here for you to enjoy. Rather If that’s ten days from now or ten years, I hope you’ll enjoy them just the same.
Thank you.
-Elizabeth
#cod mw2#cod mwii#könig mw2#konig cod#konig x you#konig call of duty#konig x reader#konig mw2#könig fanfiction#könig call of duty#könig x reader#könig x you#gender nuetral reader#call of duty#cod fanfic#cod modern warfare#cod mw x reader#cod mwf2
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Attention Hazbin Hotel Fanfiction Enjoyers!!
I have a snack for y’all!!
I’m in the process of writing the first chapter of my new Hazbin fic and I wanted to give you, my Lovelies, a sneak peek of the dialogue. (Although, it looks more like a script at the moment). Eh, whatevs.
——————
It’s going to be mostly centred around Lucifer, Michael, Sera, and Emily (although, other Hazbin characters, both canon and non-canon, will be in it as well).
For example, I will be including God in this fic. And I will say right now that my characterization and representation of God is NOT meant to be taken as religiously accurate or anything like that. You don’t have to like it, but I do ask that you please remain respectful in voicing your opinions.
Anyway…
Once I have most of it (or at least a few chapters) finished, I will be posting it on Archive Of Our Own (Ao3). I may also post it here for those who don’t use Ao3.
But without further ado, you can find my sneak peak under the cut. It’s a bit long but I hope you guys like it.
Enjoy, Lovelies!
START OF PEEK
Sera: Come now, Michael, pick up the pace. We mustn’t be late.
Michael: *Groans and yawns* Sera, where are we going again? Why are we going anywhere so EARLY? Heaven’s not even awake yet.
Sera: *Sighs quietly* I told you five minutes ago, Michael. This is the third time you’ve asked me now. *slighty raises an eyebrow with a frown*
Michael: Oh… right. *Looks down at the ground, looking a bit crestfallen*
*Sera turns back away from Michael as they continue walking, seemingly oblivious to his saddened state.*
Sera: Michael, this behaviour cannot continue. You must improve your listening. As Father’s Angel of Justice, one of His most important angels, someday you will be part of the Heavenly Council, the ones who are responsible for keeping Heaven safe and balanced. So, you need to take your role seriously. You should know that by now.
Michael: *frowns and stops walking, feeling embarrassed* I was listening. I just… kept forgetting. I’m sorry. *tears form in his eyes as he fiddles with his sleeves* I-I do take my role seriously, Sera. I r-really do.
*Sera’s eyes widen as she realizes what she said to him. She had forgotten how sensitive he could be when it came to criticism and how much he often took things to heart. How could she be so blunt? Yes, he would need to learn to take criticism, but was still just a young child.*
*But most of all, how could she forget? She knows what Michael is like. Other than God, she’s been the one mostly raising him.*
*A couple tears begin to trail down Michael’s cheeks as he looks to the ground in shame. A frown washes over Sera’s face as she kneels down in front of Michael.*
*She sure feels guilty now. She made him cry. How dare she.*
Sera: Oh, Michael. Please don’t cry.
*She cups his face in her hands and wipes away his tears with her thumbs.*
Sera: Shh, it’s okay, honey. It’s okay. I’m sorry for getting upset at you. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I just want you to be prepared to help govern Heaven in the future.
Michael: *sniffles* I know…
Sera: *Sighs* But even so, that is no excuse for accusing you of not listening and being careless on purpose.
Michael: *sighs and sniffles as he looks at the ground* I try act mature like you and the other angels. I try to listen when you all tell me things. I want to listen, but… I’m just too stupid.
Sera: *Gasps quietly* Oh… no, Michael… Michael look at me. Please. *He looks at her* Don’t say or even think anything like that ever again. That train of thought stops this instant. You are not stupid. You are smart, determined, and caring.
*Sera sighs slightly shamefully and closes her eyes*
Sera: You are also quite mature for your age, and I sometimes forget how young you are. That as much as you’ve grown, you are still a young fledgling.
Michael: *eyes widened* You forget things, too?
*Sera opens her eyes again and looks at Michael with a small, reassuring smile.*
Sera: Of course. Angels are some of Father’s greatest creations… but even we are not flawless. As much as we may try to avoid it, we will make mistakes. That’s just how it is. However, what’s important is being able to admit to our mistakes and to do our best to fix them. That is true divinity.
*Sera takes Michael’s hands in hers.*
Sera: So, again, I’m sorry for what I said and for getting upset. It was not your fault and it was not kind or fair of me to be hard on you and make you feel less than. You’re a child. You deserve to be treated with patience and dignity and shouldn’t be expected to behave as if you were an adult.
*A smile quickly spreads across Michael’s face as he finishes drying his face with his sleeve.*
Michael: That’s okay, Sera. I forgive you. *Jumps into Sera’s arms for a hug*
Sera: *smiles* Thank you, Michael.
*Sera hugs him back.*
Michael: Thanks, too. I’ll do my best to make Heaven proud.
Sera: You’re welcome, my little angel. I know you will bring honour to us all.
*More hug I guess lmao*
Michael: I love you, Sera.
Sera: I love you too, Michael. *breaks the hug with a smile and strokes his cheek lovingly before standing up* Now, come along. Father is waiting for us.
*Sera holds out her hand, offering it for Michael to take, which he quickly does. Realization then dawns on his face as his wings flap excitedly a couple times.*
Michael: Oh, yeah, that’s where we’re going. Father wants to show us something, right?
*Sera looks down at Michael with an endearing smile and nods.*
Sera: That’s right.
END OF PEEK
#hazbin#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel 2024#hazbin hotel michael#hazbin hotel sera#hazbin hotel lucifer#hazbin hotel emily#lucifer hazbin hotel#lucifer morningstar#hazbin lucifer#hazbin michael#hazbin sera#hazbin emily#hazbin hotel angst#hazbin hotel fluff#hazbin hotel fanfiction#hazbin hotel fandom#fanfiction#fanfic#my fanfiction#my fanfic writing#my fanfic ideas#my fanfic stuff#dont steal#stay hydrated#my lovelies
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so this fic came about as a result of @llondonfog's absolutely heart-wrenching post about overblot!silver, along with @olivebranch311's addition about his phantom. originally i wasn't going to write this, but... olive managed to sway me :')
(there is a slight reference to @admiraltdevanto's latest fic as well, mainly about the nursery and what lilia nearly did. it was just such a good concept, i hope you don't mind me plucking that for this!)
Time passes strangely when it does not actually pass at all.
The skies outside his window are blotted dark with shadows, thick tendrils of thorns enclosing over the sky from afar. The sight never changes; it is an eternal darkness here in Diasomnia, here on Sage’s Island, and it shall remain that way for as long as Malleus, overblotted and deranged, wills it.
All Lilia does is lie on his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his canopy bed, limbs frail, powerless to do a single thing.
He had awoken from his dreams some time ago — the specifics of why, he does not know. All Lilia had done was jolt awake in a sudden frantic panic, chest heaving as he sat upright upon his bed, gloved hand clutching his chest as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. Memories of the dreams he’d gone through — lost in the throes of a younger time, when he had been running wild as the feared general of Briar Valley, weapon in hand and soldiers by his side — had flashed through his mind, reminding him with startling clarity of every wicked word he’d ever said to his son, Silver.
And it had been in that striking moment, bile rising in his throat as Lilia recalled the flashes of hurt and misery on Silver’s face, that Lilia noticed him.
Silver, standing in front of his door, head lowered, a blade resting in his hand.
Silver, who dripped with armoured ink, the Phantom of a dress curling over him, its sleeves wrapped around his steadfast shoulders, a puddle of blot forming around his heeled boots.
In an instant, Lilia was on his feet, boots slamming against the stone floor as he sprinted over to— to his son. Who was overblotting — a sight that made bile rise in his throat, fear striking through him like a thunderbolt. Lilia had wrapped his hands around his arms, trembling as his eyes flicked over Silver’s body — the smears of blot staining his cheeks, the ink that dripped from his gloved hands, sliding down the hilt of his sword. Elegant carvings were etched into his armour — dark as night, a stark contrast to the pearlescent sheen of his sweeping hair. “Silver,” Lilia whispered, voice cracking as his hands moved up, thumbing over his cold, cold cheeks. “Silver, you—”
But before he could finish, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, beginning to push him back with such a delicate gentleness that it made his words die in his throat. Silver slowly pressed him backwards, one step at a time, flowing Phantom dancing behind him, its splotchy dress turning fully pink, until finally, the back of Lilia’s knees hit his bed, and he tumbled back onto the soft mattress.
Before Lilia could push himself back up, he felt a hand brush against his hair. “I cannot allow you to leave, Father,” Silver murmured, an echoing tinge to his words. It had been accompanied by the sound of fabric swishing, and a gurgling shriek. “The castle is not safe.”
“Let me help you,” Lilia begged, hands reaching up to curl around Silver’s wrist. Blot dribbled from his son’s touch, mixing with strands of Lilia’s hair, and Lilia knew that his own clothes must be stained with ink, but he didn't care. What possible effect could an overexposure of blot have on him anyways, with his magic dwindling?
But Silver had only shaken his head, the barest ghost of a smile gracing his ink-stained lips. “No,” he says firmly, though not unkindly. Rather, there is a reverence in his words, a lurking fire that makes Lilia’s breathing hitch from the force of it — an unfettered devotion. “You will stay here,” Silver states, no room for argument in his words — not even saying that Lilia must remain where he is, but that he will. “And if he appears, then…”
Silver pulled back, his grip on his sword resolute. Behind him, the Phantom thrashed violently, flickering between shades of bright pink and azure blue, twin blades of its own emerging from its sleeves. “If he dares to appear,” Silver hissed, “then I shall stop him. I will keep you safe.”
And sprawled out against the bed, staring up at the horrific scene before him with wide eyes, what was Lilia to do?
The Phantom lingers with Lilia at all times.
He has never heard of them doing such a thing. From all he has learnt in the past, Phantoms typically trail after their overblotter, the two of them intrinsically connected at the core. But Silver is different — as he always is, in a way. His Phantom is not the snapping, snarling, garishly violent creatures that other people’s have been. His is a tender, twirling dress, who hovers over his bed, fabric tinting pink whenever Lilia glances at it. Its sleeves flutter over him, stroking him gently. And, strangest of all, it stays with him during the few times when Silver must leave.
Here, in Malleus’ thorn-enclosed dome of magic, time does not pass. Here, Lilia has neither hunger nor thirst, the lack of sensation jarring whenever he thinks too hard about it.
The only thing he can do is drift in and out of rest, his son’s Phantom always watching over him regardless of whether Silver is there with it. At times, when Lilia is drifting off to sleep, he stirs at the sound of a keening wail, eyes fluttering open the tiniest bit to see drifting sleeves covering a crest-shaped face as the Phantom sobs, so unlike the centuries’ worth of hostile Phantoms recorded in history books.
The sight of its face never fails to make Lilia’s heart skip a beat either, the symbol familiar to him. The royal crest of his former enemies from centuries ago — a lingering proof of a heritage Silver cannot deny.
The Phantom weeps and wails whenever it thinks Lilia isn’t listening, isn’t awake. The sound always tears at his heart; this creature is a part of Silver, stoic and resolute, locked into his role as a guard by the one-track mind nature of his overblot.
So what does it mean then, to listen to its harrowing cries?
With little else to do, Lilia thinks.
He thinks about the dreams he experienced, the ones Malleus so graciously gifted to him. His mood sours whenever he remembers them, lips pressing thin at the hazy memories of Malleus whisking everyone to sleep with an utterance of his unique magic, plunging them all under his spell. Lilia had done and said so many things that he now regrets, looking back in hindsight; he had not recognised Silver under the thick of the magic, treating him with a callous cruelty he laments to the very core of his soul.
The way he’d rejected the prospect of ever having a child, a family. The way he’d repeatedly told Silver to call him anything other than Father. The way he’d revealed the truth he never wanted Silver to ever know — that of his heritage, of the absolute hatred Lilia had felt towards him far, far in the past, loathing the child and all that it stood for.
He feels sick again.
The thing is. The thing is. Back then, when he’d broken into the nursery and held the screaming child by its neck, about to kill it, Lilia hadn’t known just what it would grow to mean to him someday. There is a distinct difference between the child of the Knight of Dawn, and Silver, his son, in his mind, even if they are ultimately one and the same.
He regrets it so badly, all of it, all of what he did in his dreams. Because even though his precise memories are foggy, Lilia is certain that his little show in the nursery had been the tipping point for Silver, the exact moment where Malleus came for him again and whisked him away, swallowing him into the darkness that trailed them all throughout their dreams.
If Lilia had not done what he did, real or not, Silver would not have overblotted.
But whenever he tries to breach the subject, tries to bring it up when Silver stands by his door, Phantom lurking at his side, he gets shut down. Lilia slings his legs over the side of his bed, and says, “Silver. About what happened in my dream—” before Silver’s head snaps up, and he immediately interrupts him.
“It is of no concern to me,” Silver always says. “It does not matter. It’s unimportant.” All the different variations of the same phrase: Silver does not care about what happened, dismissing it easily and leaving Lilia to stew in a steaming heap of his own miserable guilt.
And when Lilia tries to press even further, Silver leaves his post. He strides over, resolute and steadfast as always, as a prim and proper knight should be. And then, standing in front of Lilia, he rests his hand gently on his shoulder, shushing Lilia with the tiny gesture. “Please do not concern yourself with it, Father,” Silver always says, so kind, so gentle, even in his dire state. “It does not bother me anymore.”
It’s that last word that lingers with Lilia. Anymore. That there was a point of time where it meant something awful to Silver, except now, that feeling is buried, and the both of them are worse off for it.
Lilia still desires to speak with Silver about his dream, a thousand questions lingering on his tongue.
But Silver always dismisses him. He tells him it is insignificant. He coaxes him to rest. He promises to protect him from Malleus.
It only ever makes Lilia feel worse, in the end.
“I-I should be the one protecting you, Silver! You— You should not be doing this, you should not be overblotting for my sake!” Frenetic words that burst forth from his lips cut through the air. Lilia feels his grip on the side of his bed curl tighter, fingers trembling as he clutches the sheets hard. How long has it been? Time doesn’t move, never moves; there is no concrete answer, except that it feels like an eternity and beyond.
And Lilia is sick of it. He’s sick of seeing his son dressed as a knight, of the disgusting mounds of cloying blot forming the plates of his void-dark armour. He’s sick of waking again and again and again, and always glancing over to the door to see him still there, unmoving, always remaining in the same place, his Phantom swishing around his motionless body.
Silver tilts his head the slightest bit at that, glowing eyes peering over at Lilia, the barest glint sparking within those dull pupils. “No, Father,” he utters, voice calm — and Lilia hates it, hates the lack of emotion, the way his ability to read Silver has suddenly, abruptly, been cut off. “It is my duty to protect you from him—”
“NO, IT’S NOT!”
The scream erupts through the air, bouncing off the walls, circling around the room. Lilia shakes his head, over and over and over again. He stumbles off the bed, staggers his way over to Silver, the tornado of chaotic emotions tearing through him from the inside-out finally reaching its peak. Gloved hands clasp around Silver’s shoulders, causing the knight to still in his movements from where he was beginning to move, automatically heading to push Lilia back towards the bed.
“You shouldn’t have to do this for me,” Lilia whispers, and oh, he feels something wet sliding down his cheeks. His emotions have finally collapsed, it seems. He tilts his head forward, forehead coming to rest against the cool, blot-slick armour of Silver’s torso. “You… you’re my son. You shouldn’t have to guard me like this. I can take care of myself, Silver.”
Silence.
“Please,” Lilia breathes. “Please let me help you.” He cannot stand this anymore, cooped up in this room, awake from Malleus’ throes of unending dreams purely because of his son. Lilia is only spared from going back under because it is Silver who stands in Malleus’ way, barring him from returning and weaving the threads of dreams to cloak Lilia with once more.
And for a while, there is nothing. Nothing except for the soft sound of Silver’s breathing. Lilia can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, faint behind the thick metal of his ink-formed chestplate — he clings to it like a lifeline, proof that he is still alive, even with the way the blot has infested him, wrapping thin tendrils of darkness around his son’s mind.
Cool hands come to press against his chest, pushing him backwards the slightest bit. Lilia stumbles, only to be cushioned by light fabric. Twisting his head around, he spies the Phantom behind him, pink and flowing, its ghostly sleeves curling around Lilia’s shoulders, tangling around his neck in a knot.
“Silver,” Lilia whispers. “Silver, please.”
Silver only smiles. “You’ve taken such good care of me all my life, Father. You’ve protected me, even though you did not need to.” And oh, Lilia feels his heart fracture at that, splintering into tiny shards; it is the closest Silver, overblotted as he is, has ever gotten to acknowledging Lilia’s wretched dreams of his war-torn past, of the revelations in the nursery. Reaching for his hands, Silver guides him back to his prison of a bed with tiny hands, the Phantom pulling him along with its entangled sleeves trapping him in place.
“Just let me protect you now,” Silver murmurs, as the Phantom pulls away, still hovering over Lilia’s curled form, little keening cries spilling from the cracks in its crest-shaped head. “Just let me repay you for everything you’ve ever done.”
Lilia raises his head. His eyes flit to Silver, who leans down at his side, still so tranquil, as though he truly is at peace with the idea of serving Lilia like this — a shift in their dynamic that chills his blood. His eyes flit to the Phantom, at his other side, still burbling little noises, dress pink as a rose, basking in his presence.
His eyes flick to the opening before him, the gap between the two of them — the straight path ahead of him to the unguarded door.
And before he can even stop to think, Lilia is off.
In a flash, he’s sprinting over to the bedroom door. His gloved hand wrenches the doorknob, twisting it and flinging the door wide open with a loud SLAM! Lilia sucks in a breath, hand brushing against the jamb of the door before he rushes out into the dark hallway, thick, twisting throngs of thorns creeping all over the walls, eerie in the dim glow of green-lit scones.
“MALLEUS!” Lilia screams, lungs aching as he calls for the perpetrator of this entire bloody mess, and the one person Silver is guarding him from. His lips wrench into a snarl as he moves forward, steps hurried, trying to put a distance between him and his son; Lilia’s heart throbs in agony at the thought of abandoning him, of upsetting him, but he cannot stand to look upon Silver, loyal and devoted to the point of blindness, any longer.
He stumbles over thick vines, trips over slumbering bodies sprawled out all over the floor. Lilia grits his teeth, readying another screech for the blasted fae prince to appear, when strong arms seize him from behind. In an instant, Lilia is kicking, thrusting frantically, but it is to no avail. He hears the Phantom shrieking, can see droplets of blot fly through the air, can hear a frenzied swishing of fabric.
“Please,” he begs Silver as he feels himself getting dragged backwards, back to his room. “Please, Silver, you have to let me go. Let me talk to Malleus, let me handle this.”
But Silver does not budge, never budges, pulling him back through the open door and back to that forsaken bed. The Phantom shuts the door as Silver presses him against the mattress, face consumed by worry as his hands brush all over Lilia’s body, checking for any injuries with a featherlight touch. “You will stay,” Silver insists again, words that Lilia has heard so many times that he has long since lost count. “I can protect you here. I will protect you here, from him. So… please, Father. Please don’t go.”
Silver’s voice warbles with the plea, a vulnerability exposed in those shaking words. His hands grip Lilia tightly, as though terrified to let go.
And what can Lilia do but lie there, squeezing his eyes shut so he no longer has to see the absolute agony and betrayal swirling about in those auroral eyes, once beautiful but now so dull?
It’s awful. It’s loving. It’s a sickening caricature of devotion. Silver’s mind remains fully focused on one thing, and one thing only—
And Lilia hates it, all of it.
#my writing tag#tumblr drabbles tag#twst#twisted wonderland#twst spoilers#twisted wonderland spoilers#twst ch7#lilia vanrouge#twst silver#twst writing#twst fanfiction#i originally wanted to write more than just this but 1) fell sick 2) this got out of hand (became longer than i anticipated)#which is kinda par for the course w ell serenescribe#blows a kiss at the people i've tagged. i hope yall enjoy#personal writing
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☾༺Just a Bit Longer༻☽
~So I’ve been brainrotting over RW&RB for a solid month now. The goblins need a walk, and I cannot productivity until they get one. I love these two’s dynamic; they’re just so silly. Not my best work, but writer’s block be damned; I needed to post something this week. This is completely self-indulgent, but if it’s your thing, I hope you Enjoy!~
Lee: Alex
Ler: Henry
Summary: Alex is overworking himself, going late into the night and working hours without breaks. Sick of his lover’s dreadful work-life management, Henry takes it upon himself to get Alex to sleep.
Warnings: mild Red, White & Royal Blue spoilers! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!
Life for Alex Claremont-Diaz was the best it had ever been. Henry came over almost daily from his Brownstone, and he finally felt like he had a definite idea of where his life was headed. The only downside: he was still in school.
The NYU Law course was a bit more rigorous than he’d expected, but it was definitely what he wanted. Sure, that meant long, painful hours of reviewing for extremely difficult exams, discovering that tort is a real word, and trying to figure out a system for coursework that didn’t make his brain want to explode.
His sleep schedule was already shit, so he didn’t think any of it would be a problem. If he just pulled a few all-nighters and pumped out some late-night essays, he’d be fine. What he didn’t think about, however, was how Henry would take it.
Alex was working late on another essay, running off of coffee and pure determination. He hadn’t meant to put it off, but with the three exams he’d had that week, his mind was a scattered mess.
Henry had put up with it for most of the night, but as two AM rolled around, his understanding had run dry, replaced by concern.
Knocking the “shave and a haircut” pattern on his lover’s door, Henry entered the room. He was immediately greeted with the strong smell of coffee and desperation.
There sat his boyfriend, hunched over a computer with a half-eaten ham sandwich (he couldn’t handle turkey anymore) by his side. The blonde couldn’t help the sad sigh that escaped him.
Alex looked up, his glasses nearly all the way down on his nose. It was unfairly cute, though Henry shoved that feeling down for the moment.
“Uh…hey, Hen. Not done yet; gimme, like, another half-hour.” Alex’s gaze was back on his computer in seconds.
Henry rubbed his temples, already feeling a headache brew. For once, why couldn’t Alex just use common sense?
“Alex, darling. It’s two in the morning. You need to sleep.”
Alex scoffed, not stopping for even a second. “Says you. You stay up later than I do most of the time.” While that wasn’t untrue, Henry’s problems were because of insomnia. Alex was just a stubborn asshole.
“Look, I’m going to be brutally honest here. You look terrible, you seem exhausted, and the bags under your eyes could fit the entirety of the Royal Wardrobe. Go. To. Sleep.”
Henry laid things out bluntly, crossing his arms. It was meant to leave little room for negotiation, but defying Henry’s expectations was Alex’s special talent.
“This is due at eight AM…uh, today. I’ve only got six hours to finish this thing, but I’m almost done. I promise, just a bit longer.” This would have been more comforting if Alex hadn’t already said that three times.
“Alex, please. If you sleep now, I’ll wake you up at six, and we’ll work on it together. It hurts to see you like this, dear.” He used pet names, trying to sway Alex to listen. It was a last-ditch effort; if he still refused, Henry didn’t have much of a plan left. Sure enough, he did.
“It’s fine, Henry. I’m all good, just a little spacy. I promise, the moment I’m done, I’ll eat your face. Okay, baby?” Alex flipped the other man’s strategy back on him, hoping to fully bury the concern. He was fine: end of story.
For Henry, though, the tale was just beginning. He racked his brain, searching for anything to help him get Alex to cooperate. He could only remember one time anyone was successful.
Alex had invited him to the White House for June’s birthday party. As the night dragged on, everyone but Alex was drunk and exhausted. To tire him out, June had employed some rather…unconventional methods.
Methods that would be extremely useful to him at that moment.
Casually approaching his boyfriend, Henry put a hand on the laptop. Then, after making sure the work was saved, he closed it. He pointedly ignored Alex’s scoff and protests, grabbing his chin and pulling him in for a kiss. Alex still squirmed, though a smile was breaking out on his face.
That was all Henry needed to continue. He gripped Alex under his thighs, lifting the man up and plopping him down on his nearby bed.
A surprised sound left him, his cheeks gaining a nearly imperceptible red hue. He was expecting some push-back from Henry, but nothing this active.
“Just couldn’t wait for me, could you~?” Alex weteased, starting to sit up on the bed. Henry was quick to stop that, grabbing Alex’s arms and pinning them above his head.
Before his lover could make another joke, Henry tapped a few fingers on his side. That shut him up, if only for a second.
“Henry, I swear to fucking god, if you try anything-” He was cut off when Henry squeezed his side, resulting in an indignant squeak.
“Sorry, dear, but I’m afraid I already have~” With that, Henry clawed his fingers into Alex’s stomach, straddling him.
The tired man tried to bite his lip, but the coffee wasn’t quite enough to give him that energy. A few giggles slipped out, quickly followed by tiny curses.
“What’s the matter, Alex? Something bothering you?” Henry chuckled, leaning down further to try and hold him still.
Kicking and squirming, Alex tried anything to get away from the evil fingers. He was tired, though; his brain was moving at half-speed and felt like it was running through soup.
“Gehehet ohoff me, youhuhu prihick!” Henry has decided to move up to his ribs, scritching and scratching between each bone.
Even on a good day, it’d be hard for Alex to get out from under him. With no sleep, coffee fumes and pure spite, he had no chance.
“Why on Earth would I do that? I’m quite comfortable here. Besides, you seem to be enjoying yourself, if that blush is any indication,” Henry taunted, jutting his chin out. He didn’t really need to, but it was a sure-fire way to rile Alex.
“Fuhuhuck off! Hehenry, I swehehear- quihit!” Alex tried to bury his face in his shoulder, though he only drew attention to a new target. Henry leaned down, blowing a raspberry on his boyfriend’s neck. Alex would rather die than repeat the squeal that left him.
“Wow, Alex. Perhaps the Barbara Streisand accusation wasn't so far off,” he teased, his voice about as smug than Alex had ever heard it.
The typically witty man was in giggly shambles, trying his best not to sound like a child. He wasn’t very successful.
“SHUHUhut uhup, youhu douche!!” Laughing like a toddler, Alex was still pumping out insults. Henry was about to put a stop to that. Going for the kill, he hooked his thumbs into Alex's hip divots, kneading and squeezing the area.
That seemed to work quite well.
“GAH- HEHENRY! You- YAHAHA! FAHAHACK!” The law student lost his shit, practically cackling under his boyfriend.
Alex arched his back off the bed, only bucking into the ticklish feeling. There was no room in his mind for witt; the best he could do was “fuck fuck fuck it tickles oh my god-”
Hearts practically formed in Henry’s eyes at the adorably hysteric reaction. Still, as cute as it was, he had a mission.
“This all ends the moment you agree to rest. Or…would you like me to continue? I bet I could just tickle you senseless all night. You’d surely be exhausted then, wouldn’t you?”
Alex couldn’t even get a word out, shaking his head as he laughed. His curls went wild, getting in his eyes and puffing up. Henry wanted to brush it from his eyes, but he had to keep his priorities in order. There would be time for fawning over him later.
“HEHENRY! PLEHE- snrk” It took a solid minute, but Alex’s resolve was weakening. He was already tired beforehand, and laughing his ass off wasn’t helping. The squirming had died down almost completely, snorts slipping into the lax cackles.
While it wasn’t an agreement, the Prince could tell that his lover would be out in seconds. Henry stopped, switching to gentle traces down his sides. The first son tried to calm down, a steady stream of giggles pouring from his lips.
“H-hoholy shihihit… Thahat was evil.” He tried taking some deep breaths, rubbing his cheeks. Alex hadn’t laughed that hard in a while. He was close to just passing out right there, pure exhaustion hitting him like a freight train.
“Possibly. You deserved it, though.” Henry leaned down, gently kissing his curved lips. This sight was one of his new favorites: Alex, his toned skin flushed, practically a puddle of giggles beneath him.
Alex flipped him the bird before melting into the kiss. He weakly pulled his boyfriend down, snuggling against him. He’d all but forgotten about his essay, eyes closed the moment he laid still; the poor guy was wiped. It wasn’t terrible by any means, but all his energy was gone.
Carefully grabbing his phone, Henry set an alarm for six AM.
They’d finish that research paper; he was certain of that. With a bit of sleep, Alex would be a writing machine. True, the slightly rushed grammar would be atrocious, but that’s what Henry was there for. Pulling the sheets up over them both, Henry breathed a happy sigh.
“Good night, love.”
#rwrb tickle#lee!alex#ler!henry#ticklish!alex#sfw tickling community#tickle#tickle fic#red white and royal blue tickle#rw&rh tickle#rwrb alex#rwrb henry#alex claremont-diaz#henry fox mountchristen windsor#rwrb
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