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cinaja · 3 years

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Before the Wall part 60

Masterlist

----

Queen Andromache of Angolere is no stranger to anger. Like most humans, she has never been short of reasons to be angry, and the last seven years of war, for all that they have improved the general situation, have done little to ease that. The general unfairness of life, arrogant allies, hypocritical assholes, people who hate her for being mortal – she’s had to deal with it all.

In all those years, she has never been this angry, though. Never felt this close to combusting. It’s like she swallowed a lump of magma and it’s not lying in her stomach, burning her up from the inside. Even two days after the fact, her anger shows no sign of lessening. Instead, it only seems to grow worse, perhaps because she has not yet found an opportunity to let it out.

When the news arrived two days ago, she didn’t believe it. Outright refused to even consider it. More than five hundred thousand people dead in the blink of an eye – the numbers were too big to consider possible. The idea that Miryam, Drakon, and Mor, Mor especially, were all dead from one day to the next was too horrifying to consider. The notion of something as terrible as this happening after the war had already ended downright impossible. And there were no bodies, no way to be sure.

Andromache spent that entire day curled up in her rooms, first trying to convince herself that this had been some terrible mistake, then struggling to come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t. This was real.

The second set of news arrived that evening, chasing her out of her hiding place. The messages from four separate sources – three spies and the person in charge of Telique’s wards – arriving at roughly the same time, all brought the same news: What happened had been no terrible accident, no tragedy with no one to blame. It had been planned and brought about by their own allies. Shey. The Autumn Court. Others as well, many of them unnamed.

Again, Andromache refused to believe it. In general, it is her firm belief that one can never have too low an opinion of the Fae, but this… this still went too far. She could not wrap her mind around it, could not understand how anyone could do this.

Like most people in the Alliance, Andromache was well aware that Shey saw Miryam as a threat. But what she could not imagine no matter how hard she tried was what might have caused the level of hatred that would have been necessary to do something like this. Miryam had, as far as Andromache knew, never done anything that might have given her allies cause to hate her. Dislike, perhaps, but not hate. She certainly gave Shey and cause to hate so fiercely that her death wasn’t enough to satisfy him, that he had to have her killed in the cruellest way possible, killing most of the people she cared about, thousands of innocents, in the process and destroying what she spent most of her life working for.

“I don’t think it was hatred,” Nakia said when Andromache voiced her thoughts to her. “I think he just didn’t care. He wanted Miryam dead – everyone else was just collateral damage. Expendable.”

That was when the anger started.

Now, thirty-one hours later, Andromache feels ready to combust with the force of it. Still, her hands are surprisingly steady as she closes the straps of her armour. There will be an Alliance meeting in half an hour, the first one since Miryam and Drakon (and Mor, although no one but Andromache seems to care much about that crucial detail) died, and Andromache intends to use the opportunity to make the Fae regret it.

Her and the other humans met yesterday to agree on a plan. What they came up with isn’t ideal in Andromache’s mind – it doesn’t involve Shey dying painfully, which is truly a shame. It’s the best they could do in their situation, though, and Andromache sincerely hopes their demands will make the Fae regret their actions.

With one last look into the mirror, Andromache straightens and stalks out of the room. Her steps are firm as she walks through the palace’s halls towards the meeting chamber. A lucky side effect of the anger, she supposes. It doesn’t leave space for any other emotions. Otherwise, she would probably be dissolved in tears, unable to move or function. But even so, she can barely bear to think of Miryam and Drakon, and cannot think of Mor at all without feeling like someone punched her in the chest.

By the time she reaches the meeting chamber, it is already filled halfway. Usually, councilmembers would be chatting with each other before the meeting, the room buzzing with activity, but today, silence reins in the chamber. The tense atmosphere can almost be felt physically, like the air is thick as water and pressing anyone inside the room down with its weight.

Quietly, Andromache takes her seat. The silence is only broken by the ticking of the clock that has been places on the opposite wall. She watches the hand creep forward as more and more people arrive. The time when the meeting was set to begin is reached and passed without anyone stirring. Andromache realizes that everyone at the table is waiting for someone to open the meeting, but Miryam isn’t there and Andromache isn’t inclined to step in for her as she usually does.

Eventually, it is Shey who opens the meeting. When he starts spouting nonsense about what a “terrible tragedy” Miryam’s and Drakon’s death was (he doesn’t mention any of the other people who died) or how “devastated” he was by the news, Andromache immediately regrets not opening the meeting herself. When he starts talking about how much Miryam did for the Alliance and the war effort in general, Andromache briefly contemplates getting up and punching him in the face. It might help take the edge off her anger, but their plan is a different one and Andromache is forced to stick to it.

Finally, Shey seems to be done with his monologue of faked mourning and changes the subject. “Sad as we all are,” he says, “I think Miryam and Drakon, more than anyone else, would want us to focus on the future instead of dwelling on the past.”

Never mind. Andromache is actually going to punch him. “I think they mostly wouldn’t want to be dead along with thousands of their people, you fucking asshole,” she mutters, balling her hands into fists.

Shey’s eyes jump to her, narrowing slightly, but he seems to decide that she isn’t worthy of a reply. “I believe the treaty detailing what should happen now that the war is over is all but ready. All that’s left to do is to sign it.”

“If you think any of us are going to sign that contract after what happened, you’ve lost your mind,” Andromache snaps, louder this time. “Why would we want to work with any of you after this?”

Shey is far too well-trained to show any reaction, but Andromache hopes the bastard is shocked. He probably didn’t expect the stupid little mortals to figure out what he did.

“I don’t – “ he begins, but Andromache is already on her feet. The other human councilmembers rise with her.

“This Alliance is over,” she says, voice biting. “As far as I’m concerned, you can all go drown in an ocean.”

With that, she turns towards the door. As one, the human members of the Alliance walk out of the room. No one makes a move to stop them, no one even says a word. The Fae just remain sitting where they are, looking around the table like they are waiting for someone to find the words to fix the crack that is running through their alliance.

Had Miryam been here, she would have been the one to speak out now. She would have found the right words, maybe even managed to convince them all to keep working together. For the sake of the treaty she wanted so badly, she would probably have been willing to excuse even her own murder.

It’s really too bad for the Fae that they had Miryam killed. Because without her, there is no one there to stop the Alliance from shattering into a million pieces.

Without looking back, Andromache stalks out of the meeting chamber. When she returns to her rooms, she finds Mor sitting on her bed.

----

Mor never planned to simply vanish without a word to anyone, certainly not for an entire week. When first left the Black Land and winnowed straight to the Night Court, she only wanted to stay for a few hours, maybe spend the night in the cabin in the mountains to calm herself before returning to Telique.

But then, almost against her own will, she had found herself staying longer and longer. The cabin was so peaceful, and with each day she stayed, the thought of going back became more daunting. Going back would mean facing what Miryam had done, facing their argument. Probably facing Miryam herself. For all that she knew hiding would only make things worse in the long run, she simply hadn’t found it in herself to return.

So instead, she stayed. She visited Rhys a few times. Sat on the couch by the fire and read. Emptied bottle after bottle of wine and did her best not to think about water turning to blood, ice raining from the sky and the look on Miryam’s face before she left her standing alone in the sand. She didn’t want to return at all, but after a week, there was no way to put it off any further, not if she didn’t want to risk worrying her friends in Telique.

It might already have been too long, Mor thinks as she watches Andromache freeze in the doorway, staring at her like she is a ghost. Maybe she should have sent a letter. But surely Miryam told Andromache about what happened, and knowing that, it should have been clear to anyone that she was safe.

She opens her mouth to say something, but before she gets the chance, Andromache snaps out of her paralysis. Letting out a sound that sounds a bit like that of a wounded animal, she rushes towards Mor and sweeps her up in a hug. Her body is shaking, and Mor can feel her damp cheek against her neck. Awkwardly, she begins patting Andromache’s back.

“I’m alright,” she whispers, not entirely understanding why Andromache is this distraught. She wasn’t in any danger, Andromache must have known that. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Andromache lets go of her and holds her at arm’s length so that she can study her. She is still clinging on to Mor’s arms, though, like she is scared to let go.

“How did you get out?” She asks.

Mor frowns. She doesn’t entirely understand the question. “I winnowed,” she says, then quickly adds, “I’m sorry for not writing. I just… I just needed space.”

Now, it is Andromache who seems confused. “What do you mean?” She asks.

Mor can’t help the sinking feeling that they are not entirely on the same page. Could it be that Miryam didn’t tell her about the argument? She wouldn’t have had any reason to keep that information back, though.

“We argued,” she says hesitantly. “I just…” She shrugs. “With what Miryam did… I couldn’t stand it, and she wouldn’t stop. We got into a fight over it. And then I left.”

Andromache stands and stares at her, completely unblinking. Then, slowly, she lets her arms drop to her sides. “What Miryam did?” She repeats, voice dangerously soft. “What Miryam did?”

“Yes, what Miryam did!” Mor replies forcefully. She can’t believe that Andromache seems to be taking Miryam’s side on this. “She burned down an entire country, Andromache! Thousands of people died. She – “

“You’re acting like she did it for fun!” Andromache cuts her off. “There were reasons.”

“What reasons are good enough to murder thousands?” Mor asks, throwing her hands up into the air in desperation. “You weren’t there, Andromache. You don’t know what it was like. This was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen, and Miryam happily allowed it to happen.”

“Well, then you’ll be relieved to know that Miryam is dead,” Andromache snaps.

The words hit Mor like a punch to the stomach. She actually stumbles back a step, gasping. “What?” She whispers.

“Yes,” Andromache says, her voice cutting as a blade. “Her, Drakon and everyone else.”

No. No. It isn’t possible. None of them were in danger when she left. Miryam was just in the process of single-handedly taking down the entire country, with an army of thousands with her to protect her. She was days away from winning – and actually did win, from the last news Mor heard from an enraged Rhys who complained endlessly about the war ending before he had a chance to kill Amarantha.

They couldn’t have died. They couldn’t have.

Oh Cauldron. Her last conversation with Miryam and Drakon was an argument that ended with Mor storming off. She doesn’t remember what she said to them, only that she was furious and desperate, and that they were both yelling at each other and then Mor left. She left them alone and then they died and she…

Mor presses a hand to her stomach, trying to reign in a sob. “I…” She whispers, but doesn’t manage to finish the sentence. She promised to protect Miryam. And then she left. And Miryam died.

“Get out,” Andromache says, voice still deadly soft.

Mor starts shaking her head. “No, I…”

“What Miryam did?” Andromache throws her words back at her with enough anger that Mor actually flinches. “You’re no better than the others.” With that, she pulls open the door. “And now get out.”

Words are escaping Mor. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Tears are burning in her eyes, blurring her vision. Andromache is still staring at her, gaze hard, and so Mor ducks her head and rushes out of the room.

----

Andromache is shaking with fury. Pain and sorrow will come later, she knows, once she has calmed down enough for the reality of what just happened to sink through, but for the moment, she is just angry. Angry with the entire fucking world, but mostly with Mor, because from her, Andromache expected better.

How could she be so stupidly narrow-minded? What Miryam did. She sounded just like all these other Fae who called Miryam’s actions horrifying and then turned around and had her and five hundred thousand innocents murdered. What Miryam did. What about what the Fae did, now and for centuries prior?

She needs some way to let the anger out, or she might actually explode. With swift steps, she stalks through the room and to the cupboard that holds cups and plates. She is still aware enough of herself to avoid the expensive, gilded ones meant for formal occasions and sticks to the simpler pottery for private dinners.

One by one, she pulls them out of the cupboard and hurls them against a nearby wall, watching them shatter into a million pieces with grim satisfaction, hating the fact that this pointless act of rage is all she can do.

How she wishes she had Miryam’s abilities. If only she was able to turn blood into water, make the sky rein ice and fire and command the sun to stay away as she sees fit. Oh, how she would make them all pay for what they did. She’d show them horrifying.

A knock sounds at the door, interrupting Andromache’s fantasies of setting Shey’s palace on fire. She spins around, dropping the plate she had just pulled out of the shelf, and stalks over to the door. This better not be Mor…

It isn’t. When Andromache pulls open the door so hard it bangs against the wall, she instead comes face to face with Nakia.

“Oh,” she says, awkwardly running a hand through her hair. “Nakia.”

“Were you expecting someone else?” Nakia asks drily. She glances over her shoulder into the room and raises her eyes at the mess. “Someone to help you clean up, perhaps?”

Andromache can feel her cheeks heating. “I will clean that myself,” she says. She won’t make any of the maids clean up a mess she created on purpose.

“Do that. It will have to wait, though. For the moment, you are needed for a meeting. The Fae asked for a meeting; their representative is already there.”

Andromache groans.

Andromache would have liked nothing better than to refuse the meeting outright and tell the Fae exactly where they can shove their offers, but unfortunately, that is not an option. There are matters to be discussed, and there is no getting around that necessity.

It was agreed well in advance that Andromache would represent the humans for the meeting, as Angolere is the country whose leader is usually in charge of foreign politics. Andromache only finds out who the Fae sent when she steps into the meeting chamber, though: It is Zeku.

Some part of Andromache realizes that this is likely meant as a peace offering. Ever since the founding of the Alliance, Zeku was one of the Fae who worked together with the humans most closely. He was Miryam’s most prominent Fae ally, her, him and Andromache spent more hours than she can count sitting together over proposals and strategies. The Fae likely assumed his presence would appease Andromache, and under different circumstances, it might have. As it is, though, his presence is just another slap to the face.

“Your Majesty,” Zeku greets her, bowing deeply.

“Zeku.”

Greeting him by name instead of title is a capital insult, but Andromache stopped caring about the Faes’ rules for politeness the moment these rules didn’t stop them from murdering more than five hundred thousand people. All these rules ever did was bar anyone who didn’t have a Fae noble’s education from being taken seriously in their political meetings. Andromache played by their rules for far too long.

Zeku ignores the insult and takes the seat opposite her. He opens his mouth to speak, but Andromache cuts in before he gets the chance. Every moment she has to spend in the presence of someone like him is one too much.

“To make this clear right at the beginning,” she says, “I’m not here to play games. There are some issues that need to be settled, and I have no interest in spending more time than absolutely necessary in your presence, so I’d appreciate if we could deal with this as quickly as possible.”

Zeku sighs. “Alright, then,” he says, “But before we begin, just allow me to say how terribly sorry I am about what happened.”

Yeah, sure. She believes that right away. Once that conversation is over, though, he might actually be sorry.

“Well, I believe it ought to be clear to anyone that the continuation of the Alliance is no longer possible. The treaty we worked on is a thing of the past, as are any agreements we came to. We can no longer trust you, and so working together is no longer an option.”

Zeku, at the very least, does her the favour of not pretending he doesn’t know what she is talking about. “I know what happened was unforgivable,” he says, “but Miryam wouldn’t want – “

“Don’t,” Andromache cuts him off, voice sharp as a whip. “Don’t you dare talk to me about what Miryam would have wanted.”

Zeku lifts his hands as if warding off a physical attack. “Alright,” he says. “Forgive me. But the point remains that we need to work together. The situation is far from ideal, but together, you and I could still turn it around.”

Andromache lets out a sharp laugh. “You and I? Together?” She shakes her head, laughing again. “No, thank you. With what happened to the last human who worked together with you, I have little interest. Maybe if you wanted this alliance, you should have made sure she stayed alive.”

“I had no involvement – “ Zeku begins, but Andromache cuts him off.

“Oh, spare me,” she snaps. “Miryam might been willing to listen to your explanation. She might have played along with your game, pretended she believed and trusted you and maybe even agreed to work together with you again in spite of everything. For peace. She really wanted that, you know? A world where humans and Fae could live together in peace and equality. For that, she might even have been willing to look past what your friends did. But I am not Miryam.”

“I am aware,” Zeku says quietly.

“Maybe, but you don’t seem to understand what it means.” None of the Fae ever understood, and they never bothered to try, either. “You and your Fae friends always thought that Miryam was the only one of us worthy of being taken seriously, didn’t you? That the rest of us were meek and harmless and unimportant, and that without Miryam, we would be lost. Because she was the only one who could play by these stupid rules for politics you had designed to keep anyone who isn’t Fae nobility from being taken seriously in politics. She could smile and talk and behave just right, and she had magic, and so you took her seriously and dismissed the rest of us.”

“I never dismissed you,” Zeku says. “And you were always quite willing to take a backseat while Miryam dealt with everything, so you have little grounds to complain about any conclusions people draw from that.”

Andromache presses her lips together. How dare he bring this up, act like what happened was somehow their fault for making Miryam get involved? As if the human leadership at the beginning of the war willingly decided that an eighteen-year-old was the perfect fit for emissary. The entire reason they had to give Miryam that position was that there had been no one else. Learning Fae politics was a matter of years, and the humans lacked diplomats skilled in the rules the Fae so valued. That they found someone who was able to fill the position at all was a minor miracle in itself.

She doesn’t say that they only let Miryam take the lead because she was the only one able to navigate the Fae political landscape that had been so skilfully designed to keep anyone but them out, though, because that would only be one part of the truth. The unimportant part, for this specific conversation.

“None of us ever wanted to work with the Fae, did you know that?” She gives him a sharp smile. “We didn’t trust you. It was Miryam who convinced us to give it a try. She said we needed allies, and that there would be Fae territories that would be willing to help us.”

“And she was right,” Shey says. “We helped you win this war.”

“Yes,” Andromache says softly. “Miryam was right – she managed to secure us the alliance she had promised, she managed to make things work, and so we went along with her plans. We ignored the countless offences your side committed against us because Miryam had her strategy and it was working. And then, when she insisted that the only way to get peace to work after the war was to find a way to work together, to build bridges between our people, we went along with that as well. Because we trusted her, because you seemed to respect her.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Do you understand now?” She asks. “We weren’t scared and meek without Miryam. She was the one who convinced us to work with you in the first place. But then, you killed her and you made it entirely clear that our lives are worthless to you, that no matter how much we try to work with you, you will never see us as equal.”

Zeku nods slowly. His face is grave. Now, he finally seems to understand. “So what now?” He asks.

Andromache leans back in her chair. “Miryam wanted to build bridges,” she says. “We were willing to go along with that, willing to give it a try, but then you killed her. So now what you are getting is a wall.”

----

Shey is waiting in one of the private meeting chambers. He is lounging on one of the chairs, idly flipping through the pages of a book that he snaps shut when Zeku enters.

“Your Highness,” he says with a slight smile, sitting up straighter. “How did the meeting with Their Majesties go?”

In answer, Zeku takes a slip of paper out of the pocket of his coat and throws it onto the table in front of Shey. “A list of discrete assassins and ways to contact them, since you don’t seem to know about the possibility of discrete assassinations yet,” he says. “You might want to look into it to save us any further scandals.”

Shey very deliberately places his book on the table. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he says.

“Kindly do me the favour and explain that to Andromache and the other human queens. That might be amusing.” He shakes his head. “They know. And they are none too pleased, if you will allow the understatement.”

Shey, at the very least, does him the favour of not denying his actions a second time. After the meeting he just had, he doesn’t think he would be able to stand Shey’s games. He just shrugs. “Forgive me if I’m not shaking with fear at the prospect.”

The longer this conversation lasts, the more does Zeku understand Andromache’s feelings towards Fae nobility and their politics. To think that there was a time when he enjoyed these games… Now, all he can feel is disgust.

“You went too far,” he says, shaking his head. “This time, you really went too far, Shey.”

Shey waves him off. “It was a neat solution,” he says. “Everyone who had any cause for interest in Miryam died with her.”

“There are literally millions of humans who have a cause for interest in Miryam.”

Shey snorts. “Oh, not these mortals and their exaggerated sense of solidarity or whatever they call it, acting like any harm done to one of them is somehow a direct attack on all of them. If you ask me, they are just using it as an excuse to make themselves into the victims and give themselves the moral high ground in any given situation. Or do you see any Fae complaining about Drakon and his soldiers getting killed?”

That he thinks this is a negative reflection on the humans, not the Fae, probably says everything that needs to be said about what kind of person he is. Zeku doesn’t want to imagine what it will do to the Alliance – the entire Continent – if he gets put in charge. Had Miryam only been a little bit smarter, a bit more willing to play to win… She had everything necessary to leave her in charge of the Continent after the war ended. But she didn’t have the nerve to go through with it, and how did it end? Her dead, everything she was working for in shambles and the Continent in Shey’s hands.

Zeku could scream at how stupidly unnecessary all of it is.

Instead, he merely offers the barest shrug at Shey’s comment. “Regardless of their motives, our human allies seem out for your head over this.”

“So what if they do?” Shey asks. “Miryam is dead. Without her, there is little they can do.”

“They seem to disagree,” Zeku says. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he can’t help but feel a little smug. “Andromache says they have proof. And that she will happily make it public should you not meet their demands.” He smiles slightly. “Not only will you and your friends be revealed as honourless in front of the entire Continent for betraying your own allies, I also imagine that some people will be rather cross with you for murdering hundreds of thousands of innocent humans after we justified that entire war with wanting to save the humans.”

Shey doesn’t reply. Maybe he just considers for the first time that justifying a war with wanting the protect the humans and then turning around to casually murder five hundred thousand of them was not a particularly smart move. Not to mention that over the past years, Miryam became the face of the entire war effort, which not only brought her a whole lot of popularity, but also made her into a symbol. And turning against the symbol for the war they just won is political suicide.

For a brief moment, Shey’s calm demeanour cracks as he seems to realize that he just made a catastrophic mistake. Then, he catches himself, summoning a calm expression again.

“What is their price?” He asks, voice entirely business-like.

Zeku wonders what he is hoping for. What price would, in his mind, be able to make up for a betrayal like this, the loss of thousands of lives? Knowing Shey, he probably doesn’t imagine it will be too much. A bit of money, maybe, or land. Trading rights and favourable treaties. A small price, as is appropriate for lives that were entirely worthless to him.

“Half of our world,” Zeku counters calmly. And yes, he does enjoy the look on Shey’s face at the reply. “They are withdrawing their consent to the treaty I worked out with Andromache, Miryam and Drakon.” Well, mostly Drakon. “They no longer trust us to live side by side with them, so they have come up with their own solution: They want to divide the Continent in two. One half to the them, the other to us, and a wall in the middle. They’ll take the south.”

For a few heartbeats, Shey says nothing at all. Then, he asks very slowly, “Have these mortal fools completely lost their minds?”

Zeku shrugs again. “They don’t trust us anymore, not after what happened, and I honestly cannot blame them.”

“And they truly think they will get away with that?” Shey lets out a laugh and jumps to his feet. “I’ll have them assassinated before I meet these ridiculous demands.”

“I am sure they have plans for that scenario,” Zeku says. “And should this be made public, I imagine they would have quite a few supporters. Miryam was very popular, as you know, and you might find many Fae care more than you anticipated. Especially since there were also so many Fae amongst those you had killed.”

Shey wrinkles his nose in disdain. “Lesser faeries,” he says.

And what am I? Zeku thinks, fighting the sudden surge of anger. Anger at Shey. At himself. After all, he always knew what kind of person Shey was, and still, he chose the way he did. Withdrew support for Miryam and hoped… yes, what did he hope for? That Shey’s disregard for human and faerie lives wouldn’t carry on into his style of ruling? That he would follow through with the promises Miryam had made after replacing her?

Maybe he should have risked sticking up for Miryam. Should have made it clearer to her what was at stake, helped her work out a way to come out of this on top. Instead, he took the safe route and withdrew support, marked his wager in working with her down as failed and cut his losses.

A mistake. All of it was a mistake.

You’re a coward, Miryam’s voice says in his head. He can still see her so clearly, standing in that hallway with tears in her eyes and fury on her face. I hope this haunts you.

A bitter smile twists Zeku’s mouth. It will, he thinks. Don’t you worry, Miryam. It will.

“You would do better to do as they say,” Zeku says. “Because if you don’t – or if you get the brilliant idea to make them disappear the way you did with Miryam – I can assure you that you will have a problem. Should it come to war, I will be the first one to side with them against you, but I will not be the last.”

Shey stares at him in disbelief. He opens his mouth as if to reply, then closes it again. Of course. He isn’t used to getting push-back.

“You went too far,” Zeku repeats. “And it will always be my greatest shame that I didn’t stop you sooner. But if you think I will let you take this any further, you are dead-wrong.”

If him and Andromache were still allies, he might have begged her to allow him and his people to join them on their side of the wall that is soon to be built. But he lost that alliance the moment he decided to cut ties with Miryam and he knows perfectly well that there is no getting it back.

He played. And he lost. And now, he will have to pay.

----

Without corpses, there is no real need to hold a funeral. Unless, of course, you are Fae and want to make a grand gesture about how terribly sorry you are about the death of the people you had killed, and so the Fae seem to have made it their mission to hold the most dramatic funeral possible for Miryam, Drakon and the others, perhaps in a vain attempt to cover up their guilt.

Had the idea come from anyone else, Andromache might even have been willing to admit that she thinks holding some kind of ceremony is the right thing to do. As things are, though, it only feels like a cheap publicity stunt. Hundreds of thousands of pyres erected, one for every single person who died during that battle, all of them lit at the same time – this isn’t a show of respect, it’s a political spectacle and Andromache hates everything about it.

The worst part is that she wasn’t even able to argue against the idea, not without making it seem like she doesn’t want to honour Miryam and the other dead. So instead, she has decided to use the entire situation to her advantage. Shey wants to use this funeral to improve his image? Fine, then Andromache will ruin that plan as thoroughly as she can.

The good thing about ceremonies like that is that everything, down to the choice of clothes, sends a message. Shey has apparently decided to show to the entire world how much he mourns Miryam’s death and respected her. He is wearing black with blue details, showing his mourning and pretending to the entire world that he respected Miryam, looked up to her.

Andromache and the other human councilmembers appear entirely in red.

Their choice of clothes draws stares as they arrive at the ceremony together. Miryam wore red details on her dress for Jurian’s funeral, but that was a different matter – then, at least everyone knew who she wanted to get revenge at. Now, with the war over and Ravenia, who is officially responsible for every death that occurred, dead, no one understands why the entire human fraction of the Alliance is publicly declaring that they want revenge.

Shey steps in Andromache’s way before she reaches her place at the front of the assembled crowd. His face is almost as red as Andromache’s dress. “What do you think you are doing?” He snaps.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Andromache asks, then glances down at her dress like she is only now realizing what his problem might be. “Oh, that. Well, I thought the choice of colour in a dress should reflect our feelings regarding the death.” She frowns at Shey. “Although you don’t seem to have taken that all too seriously yourself. What colour says ‘I had the deceased assassinated’ again?”

“Will you be quiet?” Shey hisses, looking around frantically to see if anyone heard. “I agreed to your demands, and in return, you were meant to keep your silence. If you aren’t able to do that, our agreement is over.”

“You are the one who made this funeral into a farce!” Andromache snaps back. “This isn’t an opportunity for you to improve your image and if you had any sense of decency whatsoever, you would never have tried.”

With that, she shoulders past him and goes to take her place with the other humans.

“Remarkable show of restraint,” Nakia says by way of greeting. “I thought you’d break his nose.”

Andromache shrugs. “Might still, depending on his bad his speech is.”

The first speech isn’t Shey’s, though. It is hers.

Andromache struggled against the suggestion that she should hold the opening speech. To her, it felt like she would be assuming a position she never held. She was a close friend with both Miryam and Drakon, yes, but she was never closest to either of them, and she didn’t know most of the others who died at all. It was only when she realized that anyone who was closer to them than her had died in that battle that she agreed to hold the speech.

Slowly, she steps forward, red dress shifting around her feet. She will not have to light any of the pyres as would be human tradition; they will be magically lit at the end of her speech with her only needing to give a signal. It feels wrong, somehow. Pyres are meant to be lit by hand, the person who was closest to them doing them that final service and bidding them goodbye in doing so. Magic takes away all of the intimacy of the moment.

Everything about this funeral-that-isn’t-one feels wrong. It is unworthy. Miryam and Drakon and all these countless others would have deserved better.

They would also have deserved a better speech than the one Andromache ends up giving. She did her best to find the proper words, she truly did. What point is there in talking about all the things that were wonderful about them, as if putting into words all that she lost will somehow make it better. Why would she tell the world about all the things Miryam and Drakon and the others would have wanted and deserved from the future, as if the one thing they would have wanted and deserved wasn’t to be alive. How can she call this a tragedy when she knows that in truth, it was a crime?

The only words Andromache wants to say are ones made from anger, condemning the ones responsible for these deaths, but those, she cannot speak, and there are no other words that might mean anything in the face of such a terrible, senseless crime. She still tries, and she fails, and she knows she does even as she holds her speech.

She is relieved when she is finally done and gets to return to her place. The pyres are lit by magic and Andromache tries to comfort herself with the fact that there are no bodies, anyways, that Miryam and Drakon and all the others are dead and will never know about the farce that is their funeral. It is no comfort at all, though.

The rest of the ceremony passes far too slowly. Andromache stands in her place, stares at the flickering flames and ignores the speeches the others hold. She only notices it is finally over when people start moving around her. She leaves her place as well, wandering around aimlessly for a bit. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want to eat, or drink. She cannot stand this.

Andromache turns away from the ceremony and stalks off into the darkness. Away from the crowds and the noise and the fire. Away from the empty pyres and the Fae pretending they care about the deaths that occurred.

For the first few steps, her posture remains stiff, her steps fast and firm with anger. But as she walks through the night, her anger seems to dissolve like smoke in the wind. It leaves her feeling cold and alone. Empty. Soon, her vision is blurry with tears and she is stumbling more than walking.

How could everything have gone wrong so quickly? Mere days ago, she was giddy with happiness, drinking to victory and a bright future with the others, but now… Now, Miryam and Drakon and so many others are dead, and she cannot imagine ever speaking to Mor again, much less spending the future together as they planned. Everything she had wanted for her future, blown apart in one terrible day.

She lets herself drop to the ground, not caring if the damp grass stains her dress, rests her head on her knees and cries.

There is a soft rustling in front of her. Andromache is on her feet within moments, hand going for the dagger she has hidden under her dress. She is suddenly acutely aware that she is all alone out here, no guards in sight, and almost unarmed.

“Who’s there?” She calls, slowly drawing her dagger.

No one answers, but there is another rustle. This time, Andromache can place where the noise is coming from. She looks down and finds a falcon sitting on a small rock a few feet away from her, staring at her from amber eyes. Andromache stares back.

Birds usually avoid people. They do not land mere feet away from them, or remain sitting this still. Andromache points her dagger at the bird, trying to shoo it away, but it merely cocks its head to the side and hops a step closer to her. There is something fastened around its neck.

Rationally, Andromache knows that there are several people who could be responsible for this. Miryam wasn’t the only witch in the world, and even discounting people who are able to control animals, there’s always the chance of some Fae or another being able to shapeshift into one to use its form to trick her. Rationally, Andromache knows perfectly well that it is a terrible idea to approach a weird animal with some item fastened around its neck. Unfortunately, that knowledge is overridden completely by the fact that the only person she ever met who had a particular affinity for animals was Miryam, and Miryam favoured falcons. And they didn’t find a body.

Slowly, Andromache steps towards the falcon. It doesn’t make a move to flee, merely looks up at her. Andromache crouches down and reaches for it. If I get ambushed now, that will be entirely on me, she things as she carefully unties the thin bit of rope fastened around its neck.

A small amulet falls into her waiting palm. It appears to be bronze, with a blue stone in the middle. Andromache frowns down at it, then at the falcon who is still watching her.

“And what am I supposed to do now?” She asks.

The bird clicks its beak and hops from one foot to the other. If there is any message hidden in that reaction, Andromache fails to understand it. She turns her attention back on the amulet, turns it around in her fingers. Nothing happens, but she notices that the stone seems slightly loose.

“What are the odds of me getting cursed from this?” She asks softly.

The bird offers no reply, and so Andromache reaches for the stone and turns it around once. There is a flash of light. When it recedes, Andromache is no longer standing on the soft forest floor, but on hard earth. She stumbles forward and might have fallen had there not been a hand ready to steady her.

Slowly, she looks up. Miryam and Drakon are standing in front of her, both very much alive.

----

An hour after the official part of the ceremony has ended, Mor is already drunk. She has foregone the food entirely and instead gone to the drinks directly after the last speech ended, and then proceeded to methodically empty one wine bottle after another.

By now, she is three-quarters through the third bottle and a merciful numbness in beginning to set in. Everything still sucks, but it no longer feels like someone is twisting a knife in her chest. She even manages to look over at Andromache, who looks particularly beautiful and just as furious in her red dress and ignores Mor entirely, without feeling like she is dying. Maybe with a few more bottles, it will stop hurting altogether.

She drains the rest of her bottle and makes for the table with the wine again, slightly unsteady on her feet. Once, she stumbles over her own feet and crashes into one of the other guests. With a mumbled “sorry” she continues on, finally reaching the safe haven of the table. She clings on to it with one hand as she carefully places the empty bottle on the table and reaches for a new one. Bounty in hand, she retreats back into the crowd.

The fires are still burning, and the light stings her eyes. So many fires… So many dead people… Miryam’s face flashes in her mind, the coldness in her eyes as they last spoke. Drakon telling her she went too far. Andromache, who isn’t dead but seems to wish Mor was, telling her she is no better than the rest.

She opens the bottle and goes back to drinking. Halfway through that bottle, the pain dulls to a soft throb and she begins to feel better about herself. Yes, everything is all horrible, but she sort of feels like she is floating, and the fires are very pretty. Like little glittering jewels.

Maybe she should talk to Andromache now. The prospect no longer feels as daunting as it did an hour ago. She will talk to her and tell her… well, she will think of something to tell her.

Mor drains the last of her bottle, letting it drop to the ground, and tries to stand up on her toes to scan the crowd for Andromache. Her sense of balance isn’t entirely up to the task anymore, though, because she begins to sway dangerously and stumbles. She would have fallen had there not been a pair of hands taking her by the shoulders and pushing her upright again.

“Oops,” Mor mutters.

The hands let go of her shoulders but remain nearby, as if waiting to catch her should she fall again. Mor looks around for the owner of the hands, finding a dark-skinned Fae standing in front of her. It takes her a few moments to work through the haze in her mind and place his face, then she smiles slowly.

“Helion. Want some wine?” She wants to offer him her bottle, but then realizes it’s not in her hands anymore. She looks around for it until she remembers that she dropped it earlier. “I’ll get us a new one.” Cauldron, forming words is difficult. Her tongue isn’t cooperating the way it should and the ground seems to have started swaying under her feet. She stumbles and Helion grips her by the shoulder again.

“No, thank you,” he says. “And you should probably switch to water for the rest of the evening, too.”

Mor shakes her head. “Spoilsport,” she mutters but doesn’t resist as Helion starts leading her towards the food.

“’m looking for An…” She stumbles over the name. Frowning with concentration, she tries again. “Andromache.” It comes out almost correctly. “She was very mean to me,” she adds. “Not nice at all. Not fair. Wasn’ my fault.”

Helion raises one eyebrow. “I think she left already,” he says, handing her a plate.

Mor looks down at the steaming food – and bursts out crying. It’s all so terribly sad. The entire world is sad and bad and hopeless, and Andromache hates her, and Miryam and Drakon are dead and it’s all because of her.

“’s my fault,” she mutters, words coming out even more unclearly now. “I was supposed to… to keep them safe and…”

Helion wraps an arm around her shoulders. His arm is very warm and very nice, and it makes more cry even harder.

“It isn’t your fault,” he says. “You couldn’t have known what would happen when you left – no one could have anticipated this.”

Mor buries her face in his jacked, sniffing. “But I said…” she begins. She would have continued the sentence, would have told him about all the horrible things she said as well as she remembers, but her mouth stops cooperating.

“Alright,” Helion says, and Mor feels herself lifted off her feet and picked up. “I’m bringing you to your rooms now, and tomorrow…” Helion hesitates. “Well, I’m sure things will look better tomorrow.”

There is a hint of bitterness in his voice, like he doesn’t believe what he is saying himself, but in her state, Mor doesn’t notice. She only vaguely registers that she is being carried up some stares and gently tucked into bed before she slips off into merciful oblivion.

----

For a few heartbeats, Andromache merely stands frozen in place and stares. A part of her wants to scream at them, shout her fury because how dare they scare her like that? Another part just wants to hug them, somehow convince herself that they are real.

“Andromache,” Miryam whispers and takes a step forward.

That breaks the spell. Andromache darts forward as well and wraps her arm around her neck. Hot tears sting on her cheeks.

“It’s alright,” Miryam whispers. “We’re alright.”

Andromache lets go of her and turns to hug Drakon. The first minutes after that are so hectic that Andromache only barely manages to keep track, the initial happiness giving way to fresh worry quickly. All three of them seem to be talking at once, questions and answers and more questions buzzing through the air. It would have gone far more quickly had they talked it through calmly, but they are all far from calm. Andromache can barely believe what she is hearing – the ocean parted, a battle on the ocean floor. It is a miracle that they all survived.

“Maybe we should go away from the camp for a bit,” Drakon suggests, nodding to the onlookers that have gathered.

“Good idea,” Andromache says, and Miryam, who has been unusually quiet after the initial excitement died down, nods as well.

They find a quiet place a bit away from the camp where the forest meets the ocean, only just within the bounds of the wards. Miryam leans against a tree, staring out at the ocean. Drakon sits down on the trunk of an upturned tree. Andromache remains standing.

“If you want, we can declare war that very day,” she says.

It’s an idea that has been passed back and forth between Nakia and Andromache ever since the news about what Shey did arrived. So far, they’ve always had to decide against it. They lack the military force to be able to successfully fight the Fae, and with so many of theirs newly freed from slavery, they cannot spare the resources. But with Miryam, who has shown herself capable of taking down entire countries by herself and who might be able to gather them support amongst the Fae… They would actually stand a chance.

Miryam doesn’t react at all, though. From the way she keeps staring at the ocean, unmoving, unblinking, Andromache almost thinks she didn’t hear her at all.

Drakon reacts, though. He spins around to her like she slapped him. “What?” He asks, managing to put all the disbelief in the world into the word.

“Declare war,” Andromache repeats. “That is the common reaction to a betrayal like this, isn’t it? Any Fae country on the Continent would do the same thing, so why shouldn’t we?”

“Because the only thing it would accomplish is get thousands of people killed and potentially undo years of work!” Drakon answers with more force than is usual for him. “What could you hope to accomplish?”

“What else could I do?” Andromache shoots back. “We need to react in some way, we can’t just allow them to walk all over us like that. They were willing to kill thousands of us. I wouldn’t expect you to understand – “

“Stop,” Miryam cuts her off, turning in a quick, precise motion away from the ocean. “They were willing to kill Drakon and his soldiers right alongside us – most of the people who actually did die were faeries.”

Andromache deflates slightly. She sighs and turns to Drakon. “Sorry,” she says. “I just…” She shrugs.

“You’re currently in the mood to strangle any Fae you come across?” Drakon suggests. “Understandable. No offence taken.”

Still, Miryam has a point. Maybe Andromache was wrong to draw the lines in this conflict simply as humans against Fae. In reality, the High Fae don’t have much more respect for faeries than for humans. There’s a total of two faerie rulers on the entire Continent, and for all that Shey just proved he didn’t care about killing thousands of humans to get what he wanted, he did the same to the faeries who were involved. Drakon’s status and the protection it should have offered stopped him as little as Miryam’s.

It’s an interesting thought. Isolated, it might be difficult for the humans to fight back, but if they were to work together with the faeries, if they realized that the differences between humans and faeries are far smaller than the ones between faeries and High Fae… An interesting thought indeed.

Unfortunately, Drakon’s thoughts don’t seem to go into that direction.

“War won’t make anything better, though,” he says. “This isn’t like this war where we had a clear, manageable goal: Ending slavery. That was simple. But how do you plan to win a war against the fact that they don’t see humans as equal?” He shakes his head. “Short of killing every one of them, what way is there to resolve this issue through war?”

He looks at Andromache like he expects her to say something. She remains silent. She hadn’t thought this far yet. Of course she doesn’t want to kill all Fae, not in the slightest. She doesn’t even hate them all, she just… How can Shey and the others get away with what they did?

“All a war would accomplish is kill millions of innocents,” Drakon says. “And we’ve already…” He shakes his head and starts over. “This war has already taken things so far. What lines are left that haven’t been crossed yet? And if we take this any further, if we now start a war with our former allies… it will tear this entire continent apart. And it will hardly even matter who wins, because either way, millions of innocent people will die and reconciliation or peace will be made impossible for generations to come.”

Andromache wrinkles her nose, but she is still unable to argue. That was also one of the reasons why Nakia especially argued against the idea of a military solution: To start a war now would mean to risk everything they have won.

“Drakon is right,” Miryam says. “War is not the solution. Too many innocents have already been dragged into this – I won’t allow for any more people to be made into collateral damage by jumping onto Shey’s game of trying to murder each other in the most catastrophic way possible.”

Andromache refrains from saying that this goes far beyond a political powerplay. She doesn’t want to argue with Miryam over something like that.

“The treaty is the best chance for peace we have,” Miryam says. “I won’t let Shey’s actions ruin that. I know circumstances are far from ideal, but we can still make it work.”

Andromache stares at her, not quite believing what she is hearing. After all that happened, how can Miryam still talk of her treaty? How does she not realize that this treaty died the second Shey betrayed them. Andromache wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she starts seeing sense. She has to forcefully remind herself that Miryam is likely still in shock from what happened and is desperately clinging to a solution that is no longer possible as a way to cope.

“That’s not happening,” she says as calmly as she can manage. “That treaty relied on mutual trust, and after what happened, I cannot see that coming about anytime soon.”

Miryam and Drakon both look like she slapped them. It actually makes Andromache feel bad for them. Her own stakes in that treaty were always low, she really mostly went along with it because Miryam and Drakon were so very convinced that it was the only way, but for them… She doesn’t want to imagine what it must feel like to watch a thing you believed in and spent years working for fall apart before your eyes.

“And what will you do instead?” Drakon asks.

“We have decided to split up the world. One half to the Fae, the other to the humans and a wall in the middle to keep us safe.”

Drakon frowns. “What kind of wall would that be?” He asks, but Miryam is staring at Andromache, wide-eyed.

“No,” she whispers. “No, Andromache. You cannot do that. Please. It isn’t necessary, there is still another way.”

The desperation on her face stings. Andromache wants nothing more than to give in, if only to wipe that look off her face, but she cannot. Not on this.

“I’m sorry,” she says, more softly this time. “But this is the way it is going to happen. You don’t want war, so I will not start one in your name. But after what happened, there cannot be peace either.”

Miryam shakes her head. Straightens. “Just give me one more chance,” she says. It’s the same tone she always has when she tries to convince people that she can handle a situation she cannot handle. “Let me talk to the Fae. I can still fix this.”

Andromache slowly shakes her head. “Are you out of your mind?” She asks. It is a struggle to keep her voice controlled. “They tried to kill you, Miryam. All of you. What do you think will happen if you go back?”

“This treaty needs to go through!” Miryam retorts. “This is important. It’s more important than… If we are to ever have peace, we need to find a way to live together. You – “

“Miryam stop,” Andromache snaps. Now, she actually does take her by the shoulders and shakes her slightly. “Do you truly want to die over this? Because this is what’s going to happen if you go back. They are going to kill you.”

“They already did,” Miryam mutters.

That throws Andromache off, but only for a moment. Chances are Miryam is just being dramatic, and if she wasn’t… well, then she will have to deal with that later.

“If you go back, you will die, and your death will be completely pointlessly,” she says, “You will not reach your goals, only get yourself killed. Is that truly what you want your life to be? Sixteen years as a slave, two years on the run and seven years of war. Killed at twenty-five in some pointless political struggle.”

Miryam starts to cry. Drakon makes to rise, but Andromache is faster, wrapping her arms around her.

“It doesn’t need to end like this,” she whispers. “You can still live, Miryam. You have won. Don’t just throw your life away like that.”

Miryam steps away from Andromache, already wiping her tears away again. She still looks completely miserable, though, as she lets herself drop onto the trunk next to Drakon.

“But what options do we have?” Drakon asks. He looks no less miserable than Miryam. “If we cannot go back, if we will never be safe after what happened, then what about the people in our camp? They are witnesses as much as we are. Some of these people have homes. Families. We have a home. We can’t just leave that, even if we had a way to vanish hundreds of thousands of people.”

Andromache bites her lip. She didn’t think of that yet. For the humans, she supposes she might be able to hide them amongst the other newly-freed slaves, since Fae never pay much attention to humans, but even then, there would be the problem of word of what Shey did getting around. And there is no hiding the Seraphim at all, not amongst the humans and not anywhere else. Miryam and Drakon alone might hope to hide somewhere, but what would the point be if their people were still left in danger?

She briefly contemplates saying that if they were to go to war, none of that would be a problem. But that would be a very cruel way to push Miryam and Drakon to take her side. Give up your home or agree to a war you know to be wrong is not a particularly fair choice, and certainly not one she should ask of her friends.

“We can’t just vanish,” Drakon continues. “And Andromache, you can’t just split the Continent in two and build a wall in the middle. How would that even work? Do you expect millions of people to get up and leave their countries to march to the other end of the Continent and settle down there? That’s a terrible idea, not to mention that the kind of wall you seem to be thinking of won’t be easy to get.”

Miryam seems distinctly uncomfortable in her skin. Apparently, she never told Drakon about the wall spell. Understandable, Andromache supposes. Until now, none of them ever thought that spell would become relevant.

“Let’s just assume that the wall is happening,” Andromache says. Let Miryam talk that one through with Drakon on her own. “The issue is what we do with you two.”

“No, that’s not the issue!” Miryam replies. “The issue is that this wall is a downright terrible idea and – “

“And not your choice to be made,” Andromache finishes. “The decision was unanimous, Miryam. I’m sorry, but even you cannot change that.”

Neither Miryam nor Drakon argue any further after this. Miryam merely reaches for Drakon’s hand, and then, they are sitting side by side in complete silence.

Andromache feels terrible about herself. The last thing she ever wanted was to hurt them with the solution she came up with, but there seems to be no way around it. She firmly believes that the wall is the only was to guarantee the humans’ safety in the long run, and for that to work out, Miryam, Drakon and their people need to disappear. It means that they will not get the future they wanted, and that Drakon and his people will have to give up their homes, and it is far from fair but Andromache doesn’t see a way around it so she simply stands around and stares down at her feet in shame.

Finally, it is Miryam who breaks the silence. “I think I know somewhere we could go,” she says softly. “Somewhere they would never find us. Where we would be safe.”

----

Tags: @femtopulsed @croissantcitysucks @aileywrites

#second-to-last chapter!!!#the fae are getting exactly what they deserve #i hope you'll like how i'm wrapping everything up #i feel kind of bad abt the way i have things end between mor and andromache (although this chapter isn't the end yet)#but well. canon dictates that their relationship ends and i like it better to have them break up than for them to be tragically seperated -#by the wall #before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon

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sitp-recs · 4 years

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hi to my favourite tumblr! could you please recommend me the most romantic drarry fics you’ve ever read 🥰 tysm 🙈

Hi darling 💗 oof this was quite a challenge because most of what I read includes some level of angst. So I went for a few titles among my usual soft & comfort reads. I’m aware that “romantic” means different things to different people, so I hope these work for you!

A world just for us by nerakrose (2019, General, 2k)

Harry and Draco go flying and then…continue to go flying.

He Whose Hand and Eye Are Gentle by khalulu (2017, General, 5k)

Draco reads poems and sometimes writes them. Harry receives poems and sometimes reads them. Rutherford delivers poems via the scenic route. Wombat snores. Eventually, all comes together, with help from the foxes in red bibs and the sumo referee.

Ice Snakes, Glow-worms and Wolverine Stew by khalulu (2015, Mature, 8.4k)

Harry Potter apparently wants to talk to Draco about something, but odd events keep getting in the way of that conversation – and bringing them closer together. Featuring serpentine travels, misbehaving birds, dubious roofing projects, a gay beach, and an unexpected matchmaker.

Life goes not backward by @shealwaysreads (2020, Teen and Up, 9k) - est relationship magic

Harry still isn’t used to gifts, but this one is different. A story of coming home, finding safe ground, and the wild courage of putting down roots. Leaving one life behind isn’t always a sacrifice, and sometimes the greatest good comes from embracing the people you love.

Along Came Potter by @huldrejenta (2016, Teen and Up, 9k)

Potter shows up at Draco’s flat. Then he shows up again, and again, and again.

Little Talks by @femmequixotic and noeon (2012, Explicit, 11k) - est relationship domesticity

Draco's been shagging the Head Auror for months now, and he's sure it's just a fling. Until Harry asks him to a Quidditch match, that is, and things go horribly wrong.

Nobody by @dorthyanndrarry (2019, Teen and Up, 12k) - a bit angsty but soft!

Junior Auror Potter runs errands, takes witness interviews, does paperwork, and gets the coffee. Rarely, very rarely, he's sent out on the most routine calls, such as when Draco Malfoy misses a meeting with his parole officer. (Inspired by the song Nobody by Mitski)

Kill, Fuck, Marry by @lettersbyelise (2018, Explicit, 12k)

Malfoy leans toward him with a baleful look. “I do believe Pansy Parkinson, my best friend, paid you to spend the evening with me. It’s my birthday, Potter. So you’re going to get off your Gryffindor arse, and you’re going to dance with me. I want to dance. I want to win. I want that bloody trophy on my shelf before the end of the night.”

Harry and Draco unexpectedly meet again on Draco’s birthday, years after their last encounter.

Shining, Like a Present by @bixgirl1 (2017, Explicit, 13k) - a kinky romance 😏

The discovery of a small silver box at the site of a case opens up new possibilities.

It's Friday (I'm in Love) by @punk-rock-yuppie (2018, Explicit, 16k)

At first, Draco only hangs out with them on Fridays after work; then he starts shagging Potter after pub nights. Then all the rest of the gang tries to befriend Draco and even worse, Potter tries to date him. It’s an absolute disaster, if you ask Draco. Or, Draco and Harry fall in love over the course of several Fridays and some other days of the week.

The Courting by the Pureblood Who Only Has Five Milligrams of Romantic Intelligence and Thinks He’s Real Smooth by @cibeewastaken (2020, Teen and Up, 19k)

Draco could grab Potter and shove him into a stall before proceeding to suck his soul out of his dick, but secretly, deep down, in the part of Draco that he will never admit to anyone, he is (everyone pauses to shudder) a romantic. Potter is not someone Draco wants a one-off with. Potter is — Draco’s beloved! So Draco decides to boldly go where no one has gone before: to put himself through scrutiny; their friends’ teasing and pranks; unsound romantic advice from a house-elf; wearing pretty clothes; all to try and win Potter’s heart through courtship.

(An unnamed ginger bastard can be heard yelling from afar: “This is actually a detailed guide on how not to court someone!”). But who cares about the opinions of redheads? Literally no one.

amid this warm and steady sweetness by warmfoothills (2019, Explicit, 21k) - period drama wooing! The best

Harry is not living in a period drama, no matter what his friends or his new house or Malfoy’s sudden affinity for horse-riding might suggest, and if one more person uses the word courting, he’s going to start hexing people.

With Great Yawns and Stretchings by sugar_screw (2016, Teen and Up, 22k) - coffee shop AU goodness

The coffee is very good. Really. And the cats are so cute. That's why Harry goes so often.

(You’re a) Revolution by @rockmarina (2019, Mature, 23k) - a bit angsty but soft!

Eight years after the end of the war, Draco Malfoy stumbles into Harry’s shop in the middle of a storm—no wand, no backstory; no signs of having lived in the country since the Battle of Hogwarts. During their first encounter, Harry promises Malfoy—and the words sound like an old mantra—that he'll figure out Draco's secrets eventually. And then he does. He does, except…it doesn't quite feel like a victory.

Against All Odds by momatu (2015, Explicit, 53k) - wooing by sightseeing!

Beauxbatons is hosting the first ever Quidditch Summer School for children from all over Europe, and Harry has promised to enroll Teddy as his birthday present. Meanwhile, Draco is stuck in his office, putting together the first ever Quidditch Summer School for children from all over Europe during, when he should be enjoying summer holidays.

Stately Homes of Wiltshire by waspabi (2016, Explicit, 57k) - magical houses romance

Malfoy Manor has mould, dry rot and an infestation of unusually historical poltergeists. Harry Potter is on the case.

Headlights in the Snow by Saras_Girl (2016, Mature, 70k) - odd jobs romance

What’s big and purple and smells like tea? Harry is about to find out.

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them (or Draco Malfoy's Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead) by dustmouth and nerakrose (2018, Teen and Up, 96k)

Malfoy is way too interested in coroner reports for somebody who's definitely not looking for ways to die, Harry wants to be friends with him, and Ginny wants to break up with Harry. Features: Little League Quidditch, an abundance of bath bombs, happy endings, and gay robots in space.

Soup-pocalypse and The Great Curry Cataclysm by SquadOfCats (2018, Explicit, 104k) - wooing by cooking!

Eleven years after the war, Draco Malfoy leads a quiet, boring, and perfectly respectable life, thanks very much. Or, at least he does, until a sudden and very unexpected veela awakening causes him to throw soup all over Harry Potter in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria.

#asks #anon #drarry reclist #romantic fics #fluff #comfort reads

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little-wicked10 · 4 years

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You Ain’t Easy to Love

JDM as Samuel “Rooster” Corbin (OC) x Unnamed OFC

Warnings: SMUT, bad language, slight mention of abusive relationship, super angsty at the end...I think that’s it?

Big thank you too @irrelevantwriter for helping me out with this one!

You gotta know what you’re walking into when falling in love with someone like Samuel “Rooster” Corbin. He looks like a cold son of a bitch, but there’s a heart left in that old chest of his. He pushes people away because he doesn’t want to depend on them. He doesn’t want the burden. That was the main reason cowboys like him tended to roam. It was like an itch that didn’t go away until he was on the road again. It called to him, and there wasn’t anyone or anything that could keep him from answering it. I hated that I loved him because I knew any minute he’d want to leave, not being able to tolerate standing still for too long. He’d be gone with the wind and all that would be left behind is a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the smell of leather, and an empty bed full of memories.

—

I heard him before I saw him. The sound of spurs clicking and boots echoing on the wood floor. I stayed still in bed, waiting for him to come into the bedroom that we shared when he was in town. The door creaked open and heavy boots entered. The smell of leather and dirt filled the room as he set down his heavy saddle. He always liked to leave his saddle in the bedroom on days it needed to be oiled. That’s the only reason he ever brought it in here. Rooster didn’t stop to see if I was awake, he walked straight to the bathroom and turned the light on before I heard the shower kick on. I knew that mood. He’d had a bad day.

On a good day, he’d come home and kiss me on the cheek before heading to shower. Something small that would make me smile and know that he was ok. His boots thumped as he threw them off, and the buckle on his belt clattered on the bathroom tile. I waited for the sound of the shower door closing before I decided to get up and check on him. The bathroom lighting made my eyes squint as I opened the door. When my eyes adjusted, I saw him leaning against the shower wall as the water beat down on his bruised and scratched up back. My hands unbuttoned his denim button up I wore to sleep every night. I was quiet as I opened the shower door and slipped in behind him.

The war zone on his back use to scare me. Not anymore. I placed my hands on his back and traced up the tense muscles until I decided to wrap my arms around him. “You should be asleep, darlin’,” his deep voice rumbled. I ignored the comment because he said that every time I waited up on him. He hated it when I did that. Rooster never liked for people to wait around for him or do things for him. He felt an obligation to stay when that happened, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. My arms released him as he turned around to face me, a sullen look on his face. Judging by the bruise forming on his cheekbone and the cut lip, he’d been in a fight tonight with more than some steer.

“Rooster,” I sigh, reaching up to exam his face closer. His calloused hand grasped my wrist, a warning to leave the matter alone. He never talked about things like this, and I knew better than to push him for answers or details. He’d tell me in his own time, but for now, the subject was closed. The scruff around his lips tickled my skin as he kissed my palm reassuringly. My heart fluttered with love at this grizzly man being tender with me, like a baby bird that just fell out of the nest. There were times when we were rough though.

Arguments where I threw things, and we both screamed at one another until our throats hurt. Times when he came home with a crazy look in his eye, and he had to have me right then and there, taking me anyway he could get me. Whether that be on the wooden floor in front of the door or the couch, unable to make it to the bedroom.

Moments like that were usually followed by gentle kisses where bruises were left and whispered apologies. Sometimes an argument would break out and end up in hate fucking until we both felt better. Rooster wasn’t good with words, so he resorted to sex until he was ready to talk. It wasn’t always the most efficient way to communicate, but it seemed to work for us.

Please don’t ask me why I stay with him. I’ve asked myself the same question many times. Why stay with a man who can’t stay in one place? We don’t always choose who we fall in love with.

When I first met Rooster, he was at a bar after a rodeo. I had been dating a young bull rider at the time who wasn’t the kindest to me. He’d beat me and cheat on me without a care in the world because all of his buddies encouraged him and told him it made him more of a man. I stayed out of fear for what would happen if I dared defy him. That night at the bar though, Rooster beat the shit out of the son of a bitch when he went to strike me, and from that day on, Rooster and I were inseparable.

He had taught me my self-worth, that I didn’t deserve to be treated like that, and I didn’t need a man in order to make a life for myself. Our relationship started out as friends until one day it just changed. He tried to tell me he was too old for me, but we didn’t care about that for long. A thunderstorm soaked us to the bone and forced us out of our clothes, and the whiskey we had been drinking earlier, made it very easy for us to throw any regrets or hesitations out the window.

Our story isn’t ideal, but it was ours. That’s what mattered.

Rooster’s lips suddenly pressed against mine, forcing me to wrap my arms around his neck. My fingers wove into the dark hairs at the nape of his neck as his hands wondered down my body slowly. His callouses scratched my back as his hands wondered up until one hand threaded into my hair, pulling my head back so he could kiss my neck. I felt him bring my left leg up to wrap around his waist and his hips press into mine.

A feeling that had me willing to fall to my knees that very second took hold of me. He chuckled into my neck feeling my knees go weak, “Not tonight, darlin’.” Rooster’s hand released me to wrap around my thighs, lift me off my feet, and press me against the shower wall. I took a moment to admire his features. His salt and pepper beard, that I loved to feel scratch my skin, smelled slightly of alcohol and smoke. His black, wet hair was slicked back, adding to his devilishly handsome look, and most likely matched the smell of his facial hair.

My admiring was brought to a halt when I felt his calloused fingers circling my clit. I moaned and laid my head back against the shower wall. My hips rutted up against his hand as much as they could with my trapped state. His teeth grazed my neck before biting into the skin. I opened my neck more, whining as he began to leave a hickey. “Baby,” I moaned, “You wanna…take this to the bedroom?” Rooster didn’t seem to hear me because he continued on his journey of leaving hickies and rubbing my clit. His finger suddenly slipped inside of me making me whimper. “You sure, darlin’? You not want me to finish this first?” I could feel his smirk against my skin.

I tugged on his hair to look at me, “More room. More comfortable. Please, Rooster.” He stared into my eyes before quickly reaching over and shutting off the water. Rooster pulled me off the wall and made a B-line to the bedroom. Dripping wet, we collapsed onto the bed. There was something beautiful about the situation. It felt like something out of a movie or cheesy romance novel where the lovers give no heed to messing anything up in the wake of their passion.

Rooster was quick to throw me on the bed before running his fingers through his wet hair to slick it back out of his face. I bit my bottom lip watching him. The bastard had the audacity to smirk and lick his bottom lip. He knew I was crazy about his long hair and made sure to take advantage of that piece of information.

“Been thinking about cutting it,” he teased.

“You cut it, you’re never getting me in the sheets again,” I threatened.

Rooster quickly hovered over me, “I doubt you could stay away for too long, darlin’.”

I laugh, throwing my head back. The witty retort I had for him caught in my throat as he took advantage of my exposed neck and sucked on the spot right under my ear. I moaned and clutched onto his hair. It amazed me how a-tuned to each others’ bodies we had become. It was like we had been created for one another; created to know the other’s body like our own.

“I gotta have you, darlin’,” Rooster growled.

I felt him take his manhood in hand and rub it against my entrance. The action made me buck my hips towards him and whine with need. That seemed to do him in because before I knew it, he was inside me. He didn’t waste anytime to set a slow and powerful pace that has my eyes rolling back into my head and my nails clawing into his back. Rooster took my chin in between his fingers, “Look at me, baby.” I pried my eyes open to look into his. Those eyes were filled with such heated passion it made me gasp and hold him closer, the need to feel his skin against mine suddenly urgent.

“Rooster...hmm...I...need you,” I whined, nearly letting slip what I really wanted to say.

Rooster replied by kissing and biting my bottom lip, “Only Ol’ Rooster can make you feel this good, baby. Right?”

I nodded my head, but he wasn’t happy with that. He halted his movements making me protest and move my hips. “Ah ah. Who makes you feel this good, darlin’?”

“You do, Sam!” I watched him smirk. I only used his real name when I was pissed with him, and I was pissed at the control he had.

He suddenly leaned down and left gentle kisses along my neck to my ear as he resumed his pace. I loved the nights Rooster made love to me like this. We savored the feel of each other skin, the sounds we made, the whispered sweet nothings, every aspect of us. These were the kind of moments I would dream about on the lonely nights he was away. I always awoke in a fevered state until I felt the empty side of the bed, and that feeling was quickly replaced with a deep sadness.

I held tightly to his long hair and kept my legs firmly locked around his waist. The callouses on his hands smoothed over the outside of my thighs until grabbing a hold of my knees to keep me wrapped around him. “I want ya to cum with me, darlin’,” Rooster grunted. His thrust picked up pace slightly as he sat up and placed one of my legs over his shoulder. The following thrusts were so deep that I nearly screamed in ecstasy.

“C’mon, baby,” he moaned.

We locked eyes. This man meant so much to me. I only wish I could tell him that. You don’t tell a cowboy those words, not unless you want him to never come back. I felt my mouth begin to form the words, but I quickly bit my lip. ‘Don’t say it! Don’t say it!’ my mind cried. My heart chanted differently. Everything came to a screeching halt when Rooster’s thumb pushed against my clit and stars exploded in my eyes. Rooster suddenly fell forwards as I felt the warmth of his release inside me. He moaned my name.

I love you….

—

The early rays of light coming through the window woke me. As I stretched, I felt my muscles cry out in pain. Lord knew I had the bruises to match how sore I felt. I stirred a bit in bed, but something felt off. Something wasn’t right…wasn’t normal. I turned over to the other side of the bed and was met with cool sheets. My heart picked up its pace a little bit. “Baby?” I called quietly. No reply.

I listened for sounds of life. There wasn’t a sound.

No rustling in the bathroom.

No pots and pans rattling in the kitchen.

No TV blaring the morning news or NFR reruns.

My stomach twisted in knots, and my heart was pounding in my ears. I quickly got up and threw on one of Rooster’s t-shirts from the dresser. I suddenly noticed Rooster’s saddle was gone. Maybe he took it out to the truck? I ventured further into the house and…nothing. Everything was where it had been left the night before, but things were missing. Rooster’s things.

“Oh my god,” my heart stopped.

I raced to the front door and threw it open in a panic. I ran to the side of the house to the drive way. As I rounded the corner, I choked on my tears at what I saw.

No truck.

No trailer.

No Rooster.

He’d left without a trace, without a goodbye, and I knew exactly what drove him away. Those three little words.

#JDM #jdm smut #jdm fanfiction #jdm imagine #Jeffrey Dean Morgan #jeffrey dean morgan smut #Jeffrey dean morgan fanfiction #cowboy #original character #OC #jdm x ofc #jdm x oc #Smut #angst #fanfiction #fanfic #one shot

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fedoranonymous · 3 years

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me: huh I guess this Percy Jackson stuff is kinda cool. Oh, and the Witcher is supposed great. Oh and I can never stop talking about Batman.

my brain, punching me in the face: witchy sheith aus

#1 Kiki's delivery service type au. Magic is known but rare. Semi modern aesthetic. Maybe 50s ish?

Shiro's car breaks down and he has to walk the rest of the way to town, probably like 10 miles. Far. Keith comes down on his broomstick and they walk and talk for a while. The car is Shiro's baby, he's devastated at the thought of it breaking down and that someone will tow it to God knows where before he can come back for it. After a couple minutes of him not asking, Keith points out that there is room on his broomstick for two. Barely.

Shiro loves flying, of course.

They get into town, arrange for someone to pick up Shiro's car, who asks Keith, hey aren't witches usually girls? And trans!Keith's just, well this one isn't.

They go to a diner. (Maybe the 50s aesthetic was just the diner, Keith's jacket, and the classic car, actually. I'd be more comfortable with a 90s aesthetic anyway. It's at least post civil rights movement.) Shiro asks why Keith was flying out there, aren't witches usually assigned to their city and that's that? First off, that's in-training witches, how very dare you. I am a grown ass man. Second off, big sigh, yeah. My dad died. I'm bringing him to my mom's place because, well, I don't really know what to do with him. He's totally carrying an urn just, in his bag, it's a little funny in a morbid way.

Keith's gonna hit the road again right after eating, Shiro's gonna wait on his car, but they're both heading to roughly the same part of the country, maybe they'll meet up?

Definitely pre cellphones. It's very hopeful, very meet cute. Could go anywhere from here.

In retrospect I totally just made up the broken down car subplot in my waking mind to explain Shiro's movements but like. It works.

#2 sudden switch to Victorian aesthetic. Magic is Unknown and it is a big deal that Keith told Shiro anything.

So they arrive at the house together, and it's just Allura and a couple of unnamed extras there. Allura is completely ooc, sorry about that. Also the extras might be Pidge and Romelle, but if they are, I do NOT recognize them in those outfits lmao.

Anyway, Allura is in a tizzy over the state of them, they crashed through some trees or something at some point and are just. Slathered with dirt. They're both drawn to separate baths immediately. Keith is taken by the two girls, who lock themselves in with him, and Shiro remarks that he didn't think this was that kind of house, Allura says maybe she's just that type of woman. Keith, meanwhile, is Not Enjoying His Bath. Flailing limbs everywhere, even more so when they try to dress him.

Solo scene with him and Allura, There's been a Mistake. Keith does Not know how to stand in a dress. The shoes were right out, Keith has Giant feet. (Possibly actually? Like the Galra are Giants in this? Idk) Allura explains that the house (which has a name, but I've been watching Locke and Key and so the name my brain suggested was just Key House which means nothing to Keith) must be inherited by a Woman of the Blood or the protection on it and the people who live here and the family would have to be entirely redrawn, which would leave them vulnerable for months. Keith doesn't want to hurt his family, per se, but this is. Actually unbearable.

He leaves to stare at a portrait of his family when he and his sister? Inheriting cousin? Were babies. The brain suggested Lotor but uh. Why Keith in a dress? Maybe Axca? Whoever it is is either dead or unbearable.

Shiro narration. He thinks the purple skin is the result of the painter not knowing how to paint black skin, is surprised the family hung it anyway. No, they're just fucking purple. I wasn't imagining purple Keith, but a bit where Shiro thinks they did a terrible job bathing Keith and then it turns out that no, he is purple, he told you that you had the Sight would be cute.

Keith notices Shiro's presence, asks if Shiro's mad that he didn't tell him the whole truth. Flashback here, I think they shared a hotel room halfway here? And things got heated? And Shiro goes, yeah, if I'd known I'd been traveling with a member of the Peerage, I would have (I wanna say made Keith pay for everything instead of going dutch but dreaming Eli did not care).

He asks if it's okay to hug Keith, which he does from behind so Keith can keep staring at his mother's painted eyes. He tells Shiro he's lived as a man for over half his life, that his dad, at least, has never been anything but supportive, that he's a bastard anyway, (brain went through a rabbit hole of trying to decide who's in the painting then, but I'm not sure it matters? Only that Shiro thinks the babies are too young to determine the gender) that there's all kinds of ways for this to fuck up that aren't even his fault and he'll have gone through all of this for nothing.

Shiro says that he'll stand by Keith's side no matter what. A first kiss maybe?

This feels more like a friends to lovers situation than a meet cute, that could be fun. Like the flashbacks go farther than this trip, Keith's been "lying" to Shiro for longer, Shiro's like, this man can't lie to save his life, it is Known, so clearly he honestly doesn't care about a title or whatever. I'm feeling very Sherlockian about this now, it could be quite cute.

Oh throw in that bit from when I went on a Witcher binge and had the idea of Keith being Shiro's Wife for even purposes but then traveling as a man both for safety and because it feels truer? And Shiro does all the Peerage stuff for him because Keith doesn't wanna and because obviously even if it's Keith's inheritance We Are Stuffy Sexist Olds and Obviously We Only Want To Speak To The Man. Could be good here, idk I abide these vibes.

#voltron #sheith #keith kogane #takashi shirogane #eli's writing tag #these are just summaries but yall i had a dream that i fucken remembered alert the media

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funky-boat-zone · 3 years

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y’know what? i’m calling this “salty’s lighthouse abridged” anyway, since it’s based more on my intentional misinterpretations from the lighthouse chronicles rather than being an attempt at a rewrite/reconstruction.

here’s some stuff on the verse and some of the characters, enjoy (or don’t).

first of all: this is largely going to ignore what happens in the lighthouse itself. no offense to anyone who likes the animated segments, but it doesn’t affect the plot of the tugs segments whatsoever (barring a few lines of dialogue that can easily be ignored).

there’s not much that i can say about ten cents. he’s a relatively upbeat kid who can be kind of an ass sometimes because snugboat harbor is a horribly unsafe place to work and anyone working there inevitably ends up a little messed up.

warrior is pretends to be a dumbass until it’s inconvenient for him, at which point he’ll drop the facade. no one, not even big stack, suspects a thing. thankfully, warrior isn’t doing this for nefarious purposes.

for reasons only he understands, top hat is (very unconvincingly) pretending to be british. the entire star fleet (except hercules) believe him without question.

hercules is the least dysfunctional member of the star fleet, probably because he’s usually out at sea. he yearns to leave one day, but unfortunately the liners need him.

captain zero is a shady, high-strung, overly paranoid bastard who’s almost certainly running his company through shady/outright illegal means. he always gets super freaked out if he thinks there’s even a slight chance that he’s going to be found out.

zorran’s the equally high-strung leader of the zero fleet (i’ll give you two guesses as to why he’s like that), but he’s usually much more reasonable than zero.. up until things stop going his way, at which point he panics. he’s the sort of tug who immediately freaks out if he thinks an authority figure is mad at him.

captain star did not know what she was getting into when she started running a company of sapient tugboats, especially sapient tugboats. she starts out sweet and enthusiastic before gradually becoming more jaded/tired as the series goes on.

zug is an unfortunate gremlin of a tug who almost always gets blamed whenever the zero fleet screw something up. he’s deeply afraid of fireworks/explosives in general.

grampus is a sad, strange little man who yearns to have a new purpose in life after he was deemed too old to stay in the navy. unfortunately, there’s not much work available for a submarine.

tramper, rusty, and the unnamed tramper that only speaks in horn noises are all nantucket, who’s just as much of a criminal as he was in tugs, putting on voices and pretending to be different boats so he can get into port. the captains keep telling zorran and sunshine to quit talking to him, but unfortunately those two fall for it every single time.

#saltys lighthouse #sl abridged #shitpost

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passable-talent · 3 years

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Power Hungry [2]

“I’m writing a vampire short story but in the most homoerotic way possible “ -🦌 Roe 2k20

warnings: lots n lots of blood, a little bit of self destructive behavior in the beginning, death of an unnamed character, angst out the ass, please and thx

| part 1 | part 2 | part 3 |

“Hey, are you okay?” echoed a voice, and Lucas looked around for its source. The mansion’s front door was open, and out of it leaned a man.

“I’m fine,” Lucas called back, never trusting strangers, just like Tony always said.

“Dude, I think you just got attacked,” the man said, leaving the doorway to come a bit closer to Lucas. Lucas was surprised by the casual tone, and the stranger’s body language was calm, nonchalant. Lucas wasn’t yet relaxed- but he wasn’t necessarily afraid.

“I’m fine,” Lucas said again, holding his hand to his chest, so that the stranger wouldn’t see it, maybe wouldn’t smell the blood. But the man wore a dark blue shirt that had a wide collar, and Lucas slid his gaze to a chiseled neck and saw no bite marks. That meant that this man was human, and Lucas was just a bit more safe.

“It’s alright,” the man said, “My name’s Tobias. It looks like you’re bleeding- that’s a dangerous thing to be doing, out here. Come inside, I’ll clean you up.” Lucas wanted to say no, still not trusting Tobias, even though he was human. But the forest was getting darker as the sun approached the horizon, and the last thing he wanted to do was walk back into those black trees.

“Okay,” Lucas said, and Tobias took him inside, his body language calm and comfortable.

“You took care of that bastard quite nicely,” Tobias said, passing through the entryway. Lucas was caught off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, sorry,” Tobias said, “That’s what me and my sisters call a vampire that’s not in one of those clans. Bastard, like, fatherless. Family-less.” Lucas nodded, but his attention was taken up to the room as it widened in front of him.

The mansion wasn’t quite what Lucas expected. It wasn’t gaudy or rich, but it was exceptionally empty. The high ceilings begged for pattern, for voices and activity, but all that echoed through their halls was footsteps. It didn’t seem like a single other soul lived there, other than Tobias, and two very intimidating young women.

“Is this your family’s place or something?” Lucas asked, closing his fist so that his blood wouldn’t drip down onto the tile. He didn’t want to make a mess that Tobias would be responsible for.

“Nope,” Tobias said, a lightness to his tone, “It’s all mine. Me and my little sisters, Ella and Anna.” That would explain the two young women- they watched Lucas like hawks, and although Tobias had suggested that they were his younger sisters, it felt as though they were the ones protective of him. Lucas could see why; Tobias was lovely, and apparently, far too trusting. Lucas wasn’t a threat, but he could’ve been.

It wasn’t long until Tobias pulled Lucas from the halls and into a little study, where he motioned to a couch. Lucas sat, his palm in his lap, waiting patiently, watching as Tobias rustled around in drawers until he found a box of band-aids.

“Do you always help anyone that turns up injured at your door?” Lucas asked as Tobias sat in front of him, taking Lucas’s hand into his own. He couldn’t help but have the niggling desire to be in some way special- he hadn’t felt that he’d been special in a long time.

“Well, no one really comes this far into the woods,” Tobias said, gently wiping his hand clean, “But I wouldn’t usually, danger and all.” Lucas nodded, watching Tobias spread bandages over his four cuts, one for each finger. Lucas’ hands were freezing, between the blood loss and the cold and their grip on the metal; Tobias’ fingers running over his own made his heartbeat jump.

“Then why’d you save me?” Lucas asked, and he met Tobias’ gaze, which he found had been focused on him. Lucas only barely kept himself from looking away.

“I liked you,” Tobias answered honestly, immediately.

Lucas looked away, ashamed, embarrassed. What was there to like, especially today? He’d almost gotten himself killed, because of how immature he was being. He’d yelled at Tony, and left- if he’d died, he would’ve done so with those being his last words to Tony. He’d have died without last words at all, to Ben.

“You shouldn’t,” Lucas said, pulling his hand away, now that his wound was dressed.

“Good thing you don’t know me well enough to tell me what to do,” Tobias said, his words playful but tone jarringly flat. It made Lucas laugh.

“Well, you don’t know me well enough, either,” Lucas challenged with a half smirk, “How do you know I’m likeable?” Tobias fixed him with a look, curious and sharp.

“I just think you are,” Tobias said, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Tobias had the darkest blue eyes that Lucas had ever seen, and his face was kind, his jawline sharp. He really was attractive- Lucas hadn’t really noticed, when they’d first met. He had black hair at his scalp, but the rest was bleached to white, slightly unkempt, but still soft looking.

“And if I’m not?” Lucas said, as though testing the waters, pushing Tobias further, hoping he’d reveal more. Why was he being so kind to Lucas?

“I’d rather like someone, and be proven wrong, then not give someone likeable a chance.” Lucas felt it as Tobias’ gaze flicked over his face, like he was considering him, considering his appearance, his intentions. For half a moment, it felt like Tobias could see straight through him- straight through to the scared, angry boy, who still hadn’t let go of his former life. Nothing in Tobias’ expression made Lucas think he didn’t like what he saw.

“I should go home,” Lucas said, breaking their gaze, feeling a faint burn at his cheeks, “my friends are probably really worried.”

“I’ll drive you,” Tobias said immediately, and Lucas’ face burned more, because it sounded like Tobias didn’t want him to leave yet. It took him a second to come up with a response, but one detail caught in his mind. No one had a car, anymore, and certainly not one that worked.

“You have a car?” He asked, and Tobias’ eyes lit up.

“Yeah! I haven’t needed it much, but it’s still there!” Tobias grabbed Lucas’ hand, tugging him to his feet, then out of the room. He took Lucas to a garage, and when he flipped the light on-

Lucas had never been a car guy, but he knew a nice one when he saw it. Sharp edges, matte black paint job, silver accents...

“Right?” Tobias said, recognizing Lucas’ awe, excitement in his tone. “It’s a 1974 mustang.”

“And you’re going to take this car out there?” Lucas asked, honestly fearing for the safety of what seemed to be Tobias’ pride and joy. But Tobias gave him a small smile, and took his hand.

“To make sure you get home safe? Absolutely.” Lucas let a smile come onto his face, touched by the statement. He looked down at their hands, fingers entwined together, and a shiver ran through Lucas. He hadn’t been- because he’d never had the guts to be forward with Ben, he hadn’t been touched like this, fondly, in far too long. Though quickly he broke the moment, letting go of Tobias’ hand and starting toward the car.

The inside was just as nice, silver seats now lined with dark blue stitching. Tobias turned up the heat to take him home, and Lucas directed him through the town to Tony’s house. Tobias walked him to the door, to make sure he was safe, but Lucas paused before he knocked.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said softly, “I haven’t felt hopeful in a while.”

“Anytime,” Tobias said, their gaze catching. It was freezing, and Lucas knew that Tony and Ben were probably worried sick, but Lucas couldn’t help it. He was fixed to the spot, keeping his eyes on Tobias.

Tobias, who had treated him with kindness, who looked at him like that, who had a jawline like that. He didn’t want it to end.

And before he knew it, he leaned forward- he pulled Tobias’ lips against his own.

Tobias’ lips were soft, as was his hair- both just as soft as Lucas thought they’d be. Tobias brought his hands around Lucas, gripping onto the grey sweatshirt that hung off of Lucas’s shoulders. They built, sharing warmth, each daring the other to pull away, until Tobias opened his mouth and Lucas slipped his tongue inside-

And he felt fangs.

He froze, and Tobias sensed it, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against Lucas’. Lucas could feel disappointment radiating from him, and Tobias reached out to knock on the door before pulling away, looking vaguely like a kicked puppy. A kicked vampire puppy. He was a vampire- Lucas’ mind reeled.

The door opened instants later, Tony behind it, whose face instantly brightened.

“Lucas!” he shouted, pulling Lucas into a bone-crushing hug.

“Lucas?” echoed Ben’s voice from across the room, and soon Lucas had Ben’s arms around him, too. He couldn’t react to anything, thoughts too preoccupied- Tobias had been smelling his blood, hell, had been handling it, and he didn’t do anything?

“Who’s this?” Tony asked, and Lucas gave a look to Tobias, who was still standing there, a half smile tugging on his lips.

“This is Tobias,” Lucas answered, “He fixed me up and made sure I got home.” Which he didn’t have to do? He could’ve kidnapped Lucas and fed from him. He didn’t have to save Lucas like he did.

“Thank you,” Ben said, his chin resting on Lucas’ shoulder. Tobias nodded, wordlessly walking back to his car. Once he was inside it, Ben tugged Lucas into the home, and Tony shut the door.

“We were so worried!” Ben said, shoving Lucas down onto the couch, who didn’t even try to resist. “It’s been hours, what happened?”

“Are you okay?” Tony added, and Lucas rubbed his hand down the back of his neck.

“I’m okay,” he said, voice soft, “I was chased by a Lone, but I fended her off. That’s how Tobias found me- I fought with her, like, in his lawn. He lives in a massive freaking mansion in the woods near pine street.”

“I didn’t know there was anything in those woods,” Tony said.

“Well, either way!” Ben said, his smile bright, as it always was, and so beautiful. “A guy with a mansion, that’s a pretty useful friend to have, right?”

“Yeah, about that,” Lucas said, taking his lower lip between his teeth, “He had fangs.”

“What?” Anthony roared, “And you didn’t kill him?”

“I didn’t know!” Lucas said, standing up from the couch to keep him on even ground with Anthony. “Not until right before he knocked!”

“How could you not have known?” Anthony said, arms held out. “You didn’t see his neck?!”

“I did!” Lucas shouted, now feeling like he was defending himself. “He didn’t have a bite!”

“He didn’t have a bite?” Ben asked, arms crossed, “Then how do you know he’s a vampire?”

“I told you,” Lucas said, voice softer when he spoke to Ben, “He had fangs.”

“That’s impossible,” Anthony murmured, “Can’t be a vampire without a bite. You must’ve just missed them.”

“Regardless,” Ben said, waving an arm, helping to calm the atmosphere. “Lucas, he dressed your wound. So he smelled your blood.” Both Ben and Tony looked at him for a moment with sickening fear at the thought that they’d both come to.

“Did you get bit?”

“No!” Lucas said, more panic than anger in his shout. He grabbed his collar and pulled it over both his collarbones, exposing his neck and most of the shoulders near it. “See? I’m fine. Tobias-” Lucas let his hands fall slowly. “He didn’t bite me.”

“Why didn’t he bite you?” Ben wondered aloud. Lucas had no response, for a moment. He didn’t get it either- but then the thought crossed his mind, about the things that he and Tobias had talked about.

“Maybe he liked me?” Lucas suggested, which he immediately realized that Anthony didn’t take well to.

“No, he probably just wasn’t hungry,” Anthony said, as though Lucas was obviously wrong. It pissed Lucas off.

“He said he liked me,” Lucas said stubbornly. He didn’t miss it as Ben’s gaze snapped to him, and a flash of hurt crossed his face. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Lucas, whether he likes you or not, he’s dangerous,” Tony said, wanting to bring down the aura of the room. He hated butting heads with Lucas, just as much as Lucas hated butting heads with him. Lucas, without wanting to fight, disagreed.

“He was handling my blood,” Lucas said, biting the inside of his lip for a moment before he continued, “He cleaned up a fresh wound, without doing anything that made me even suspect him. Clearly he’s under control- it could be really good to have him as an ally, just like Ben said!” With a small laugh, Lucas brought his hand to his forehead, really thinking it through.

“Guys, he could go into stores safely! Get us stuff we haven’t had since May!” He turned toward Tony with a smile, that hopeful feeling invading him again, once again thanks to Tobias. “Tony- Tony, Tony-” He brought his hands to Tony’s face, grabbing him by the jawline. “Tony- think of it. Nutella.” He saw the way Tony melted at the thought, and Lucas laughed a little bit, pulling back.

“Popcorn! Pasta! Microwave pizza!” Lucas didn’t realize how much he missed grocery stores. His happiness seemed to infect the other two boys, who hadn’t seen Lucas be anything but angry or empty in months.

“No, no!” Ben said, grabbing Lucas’ hands from the air and pinning them to his sides. All it accomplished was Lucas dragging Ben across the room, the other boy not at all inhibiting Lucas’ celebration, no matter how Ben complained. “We just escaped the college student diet, I’m not going back!”

“Seriously, Lucas,” Tony said, trying and failing to cut through the fun, “You really shouldn’t see him again.”

“Oh, come on,” Lucas said, shoving Ben backwards and lading on top of him on the couch, “You can’t let me dream?”

Lucas was tired of dreaming. Now, he was going to do.

He waited a day, until Tony was less nervous. He waited until Ben and Tony were asleep. He waited until the moon was high enough that he’d be able to see any threats.

And then he stopped waiting.

-🦌 Roe

| part 1 | part 2 | part 3 |

#vampire #vampire bf #gay vampires #angst #original plotline #original characters #roe #post apocalypse #ben #tobias #lucas #anthony #fics

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claymorecut · 4 years

Text

Patrol

A/N: It's been ages since I Iast wrote a GinTsu fanfic. So, yeah. Here I am. Back with another gintsu fic I’ve been working on. I still am not very confident about my writing so...yeah. I'm sorry if the characters look too OOC. Hope you guys enjoy my somewhat average(?) writing ^_^!

*************

Tsukuyo’s patrols were nothing new to Gintoki.

Whether it was before the war or after, looking after Yoshiwara and Hinowa’s safety was her first priority. Everytime he visited, for one reason or another, he would see her, talk to her, have his usual silly argument and by nighttime hear her say “I’m out for patrol” to Hinowa before leaving the teahouse.

Yeah, it was her routine. Work. Some peace of mind. And then again, work. Really, was that woman going to work herself to death!?

It was gonna be the same this evening as well when Gintoki decided to visit Yoshiwara, simply because he was getting bored in his house all alone when the kids were away and he had nothing to do, literally. Arriving, he found Seita and Hinowa alone in the teahouse doing their work.

No signs of the drunk terminator.

It had happened before, many times, when he would visit and she wouldn’t be present, running across the district to chase away criminals. After all, unlike him, she was a pretty busy woman. And yet, he couldn’t held onto his curiosity a little longer.

“So, where is she?” Gintoki asked, sipping tea from his cup.

“Who knows."Hinowa replied. "She went out during noon, telling me she had some business to attend. But hasn’t returned yet.”

Gintoki continued to eat his dango while staring at the crowded street. Even Hinowa didn’t know where she was, and even if she did he wasn’t going to dig any further. It wasn’t his place to pry, after all.

“I think she visited his grave today.”

Hinowa’s words caught his attention as he stared back at her with his usual dead eyes. “It’s been four years today you know.”

***************

It was night by the time Gintoki finally decided to leave the tea house. Really, Hinowa perfectly knew how to bribe him with her oh-so-sweet smile and four strawberry parfaits. Smiles aside, he could never say no to parfaits! And so, he got stuck with Seita, helping him with his studies.

And the whole time, still no sign of Tsukuyo.

It was late already and Gintoki wasn’t really planning to stay the night there just for her sake. When Hinowa told him about her visit outside, he knew pretty well. No matter what happened that day, she still considered him her master. And forgave him for his sins as well. After all, he knew that feeling pretty well too.

Walking down the streets, he kept his gaze forward, glancing at the rooftops once in a while just to check whether she was there yet or not. Finally, he found someone standing on the rooftop of one of the high-top buildings, her figure glistening with moonlight as she took another puff from her kiseru. Without giving a second thought, he turned around that building to meet the infamous leader of Hyakka.

The least he could do was say hello.

***************

A gust of cold breeze relieved the night sky as the chitter-chatter continued on the streets of the former City of Nights. Amongst the voices and laughs was the sound of a certain someone wheezing in pain as he climbed the final step of the building.

Even the great Shiroyasha was no match against one hundred and fifty stairs. Seriously, where are the elevators in this building!?

Finally reaching the rooftop while cursing and panting, Gintoki stood there with one of his hand on his right knee and other on the rooftop door as he tried to calm his racing heart. He really didn’t want to admit it but he was growing old after all. Catching up his breath, he looked at the woman standing in front of him. Her back facing him as she continued to stare at the starry night sky, with the crescent-shaped moon shining above, partially lightening their surrounding.

“Out for patrol?"Gintoki asked, after finally composing himself.

Tsukuyo turned around in surprise to find the silver-haired samurai looking at her way. "Watcha doin’ here”?

"I guess I was the first one to ask."he replied, walking towards her.

Tsukuyo glared back as he now stood beside her. "Just had some business ta take care of.” She replied anyway.

Gintoki hmmed at her response. “What ‘bout ya? What brought ya here tonight?” She asked.

Grinning, he turned around to look at her with his response prepared. “Oh, nothing. Just thought you ladies must be missing your Gin-san so here I am. Paying you ladies a visit.”

Tsukuyo just smirked at his cocky response. “Ya were alone and gettin’ bored, weren’t ya?”

Gintoki couldn’t help those red fumes warming up on his face with embarrassment as she completely saw through his childish lie. “Yeah, yeah. I was getting bored and so just came here to look for some company.” He pouted, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Got a problem with that?”

Tsukuyo could just smiled at his child-like behaviour. “Not at all.”

Gintoki glanced at the smiling woman as a peaceful silence soon surrounded them.

“So, how are you doin’?” He finally decided to speak.

“Same as ever.” Tsukuyo replied. “Got a lotta work ta do."

"You’re gonna work yourself to death, woman.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Gintoki rolled his eyes at her response. “Yeah. After you end up in some hospital bed.”

Tsukuyo lightly chuckled at his concerned behaviour. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

"Fine." He exhaled in defeat. Silence soon felp over between them as both continued to gaze at the former City of Night.

It was always like this; she was always like this. Strong-willed and determined, always trying to hold up on her own while a wall surrounded her. No matter how much someone tried, she would always keep that stoic face of hers, not letting anybody to see her vulnerable side. Not even to that man who’d seen her at her most broken state. Four years and still hasn’t changed.

“Hinowa was worried, ya know.” This caught Tsukuyo’s attention. “You skipped work today and haven’t been home since morning. It’s not like you.”

Tsukuyo heard the concern in his voice as guilt rushed over her. “Yeah…I just had somethin’ to do.” She replied, looking the other way.

Gintoki could easily detect the reluctance in her voice. Of course, she would do that. Feel guilty about it. The last thing she wanted to do was make anybody worry. Especially when she was being the center of their worry. He finally turned around to look at the woman standing beside him. “You’re killing yourself, you know that?”

It was Tsukuyo’s turn to look at him. And their eyes finally met.

“You can talk about things if you want.”

She always failed, always, when she found herself looking at those ruby irises as Tsukuyo could feel all her worry escape her mind, her walls slowly crumble, as she laid exposed in front of him again. But before it got too late, she caught up again, breaking herself free from that unnamed trance. Crossing her arms, she spoke in her usual monotonous voice. "Says the man who does exactly the same.”

Really. Now she was just getting on his nerves. “You’re being way too stubborn.”

“And you’re bein’ overly concerned.”

“Well, shouldn’t I be?”

For a second, Gintoki saw her flat, cold eyes dilate, a sense of guilt and..grief clouding her vision. But soon she turned away, no more facing him. Same. Always the same.

She really didn’t want to face him now of all people. “What do ya want, Gintoki?”.

“Nothin’.” Gintoki shrugged. “Just checking on a friend, that’s all. Unless…..you wanna go on a different route.”

“Just shut up.” Tsukuyo rolled her eyes at his very suggestive joke but the little smile that curled up on her lips was hard to resist. Afterall, he was always like this; would appear out of nowhere, crack lame jokes and make her smile at times where all she could think of was running away. Four years of being in love with this lazy-ass samurai, and she always ended up thinking this must be the craziest thing she had ever done in her entire life.

“So, where were you the whole day?” Gintoki asked, facing her yet again.

Just like always, straight to the point. “I visited Shishou’s grave today.”

“Oh.”

“It’s been four years today.” Although her voice reminded cold, her eyes spoke something else.

She still blamed herself for everything. Like always.

He remembered everything. Her bruised face, the fight with Jiraiya and the promise that he once made to her.

She killed her master to protect him. Back when Jiraiya stood behind him with his kunai ready in that abandoned temple, ready to stab him anytime. He knew he was a coward, just like that man. Running away from his cursed fate, running away from that pain. Running away from that one beautiful thing that he always wanted to protect. He remembered hearing a kunai stabbing, piercing the skin while the scent of fresh blood covered the entire room. Gintoki knew it was not him bleeding; and it was not Jiraiya who threw that kunai.

He remembered that look on her face. He remembered looking at her, as if he was looking at himself. Broken. And empty.

“That wasn’t your fault.” Gintoki didn’t know what he was saying but he just wanted to say something. He knew how heavy the burden was and now that she was here, he just didn’t want her to carry that all alone. "Please don't blame yourself, Tsukuyo."

It's not like Gintoki never called her by her name but it was still so rare. Their usual banters always made him call her a "hag" or "bitch" (and she'd stick to "perm head" or "bastard") and even when they're having a miraculous normal conversation like this, he preferred calling her "Tsukki", the beloved pet name that Kagura gave her, only to rile her up even more.

He preferred calling her Tsukuyo only when he was actually being serious.

"Thanks, Gintoki." Tsukuyo replied, a sorrowful smile forming on her lips.

From the corner of his eyes, Gintoki saw the stoic woman, her gaze still fixated on the city but a glint of regret and sorrow filling her eyes. She was a lady of few words; he knew she was never going to open up in front of anyone, let alone him. She might show the world that she was holding herself together but he knew too well how much she was hurting right now.

And right now, more than anything, he wanted to see her smile. Why, he had no idea, but his mind itched to look at her smiling face. It was rare but everytime she did smile in front of him, he couldn't help but just pray to whatever Gods that existed to let her smile like this more often. He didn't know what kind of magic her smile held but for some reason, he always found himself looking forward to that one smile. And deep down, before he even knew it, he found himself wanting to make her smile.

"I envied you."

Those words slipped his lips before he could even register it properly in his brain.

At his unusual confession, Tsukuyo found herself turning towards that man.

Gintoki couldn't understand why he decided to say this now out of all times. "Back then," he continued "I envied you. For how you strong really are."

Tsukuyo couldn't help the confounded look on her face as she heared him say those words.

"If it's the teacher's duty to carry the burden of their student then what's the student's duty? To grow strong enough to help carry the teacher's burden." Gintoki quoted her words; remembering her figure as she carried her master on her shoulder for the last time. "I always pushed people away, just like that man. I didn't want to bear that burden of losing anyone anymore. There was a time when I lost everything while protecting everything. And so I blamed myself. And the world. And even at times, the people I once cherished the most. Even when I met the kids and everyone else, I still felt like running away. I was still scared. And not strong enough to carry that burden. But that night," he took a deep breath, composing himself "you taught me something. Something which I was never able to understand. Or should I say, I didn't want to understand."

He glanced towards the woman standing beside him, her eyes bewildered and questioning as a small smile curled up on his lips. "I envied you because I realised I could never become like you. And that how kind and strong you really are and how much you've taught me. Those words, they were something that I guess I always wanted to hear. And this time, I was able to understand. So, thank you. For teaching me that."

Tsukuyo didn't know what to say.

She continued to look at the man with wide eyes as her heart soon was swelled with a number of overwhelming emotions. The amount of gratitude and respect that he expressed for her and how his kind words left her speachless; she wanted to thank him too. She wanted to thank him for all that he had done for them. For her. She wanted to scream, cry, smile and even jump in his arms because she knew how much it pained him to talk about his past. But still he remained there, trying to cheer her up. He always did. And she loved him for that.

"...I see." She replied, her eyes now looking down because she wasn't able to look at that man. "It's good ta hear that."

Gintoki's words must have boosted her spirits up but it wasn't always when he'd just come out of nowhere and start showing his gratitude towards her. And she still wasn't used to getting compliments from anyone, let alone him. And now, if she did look at him now, she knew she'd turn red or maybe even start crying because suddenly, her heart and mind was a mess. She was completely exposed, completely vulnerable under his gaze. However, it was her pride which helped her gain a little composure.

"So, ya were able ta carry the burden, huh?" She asked, calming herself a little.

"Yeah." He smiled, thinking of all the events that happened. He remembered his father, his friends, the kids, all the other people who stayed by him. And then there was her, standing right beside him. "Yeah, I was."

"Good ta hear that." She smiled, taking a puff from her kiseru and exhaling lightly as she tried to regain her composure. But before she could even let the heat escape her cheeks, she found herself pulled towards a warm chest as strong, wide arms held her close.

"Ginto-" she stammered, but was cut soon after.

"Shut it."

Tsukuyo heard the man whisper softly in her ears as her hand dangled awkwardly on her sides. His strong arms were wrapped around her torso as he pulled her closer. She was too surprised to give any kind of reaction at this point.

He didn't know what came to his mind. Maybe it was the stoic face which hid hundreds of wounds behind it. Or maybe it was her ice-cold eyes which had a look of surprise when he thanked her for all she had taught him. Or maybe the fact that how she'd take another smoke from her pipe just to relax herself a little. The little changes that he found himself looking at every single time he met her; how even after all those years, she never let herself see anyone. Even when they were burying Jiraiya's body next to his sister's at the cliff, her face and eyes remained unchanged. Even when she was betrayed, even when she suffered so much, she always remained strong and kind; she carried so much weight on her shoulders all alone and yet she never let herself fall apart. Neither did she decide to run away from her responsibilities. She was a role model, the Courtesan of Death everyone respected and feared. And she never let anyone look through the wall.

However, for some reason, he found himself wanting to break those walls.

It wasn't always when Sakata Gintoki just casually goes out sprinkling compliments on everyone, let alone pull someone right for a hug. But here he was, doing something completely out of charcacter. Physical affection wasn't really her thing but here she was, wrapped around the arms of the man she had fallen for. Of course she knew that he was worried about her and was trying to cheer her up but this...was highly unexpected.

"Stop carrying the burden all alone." He whispered in her ears.

And she flinched at his honest words."I told ya, ya have no right ta say that. Stop messin' with me."

It was once again when he saw right through her. When his arms pulled her closer, she felt so vulnerable, so naked, she wanted to go and hide somewhere. Yet, her mind and heart didn't tell her to stop. As if this place was a sanctuary and she had nothing else to fear. Before she could think any further, Tsukuyo found her arms wrapping around his neck as she buried her face in his chest. "Idiot. Why're ya always here."

It was more of a statement than a question. "Told you the reason already."

She chuckled at his usual, nonchalant voice. "Yeah, getting bored at home. I know."

He didn't know when he got this comfortable with her in his arms but to his suprise as well, he found himself burying his face in her neck as his nose lightly brushed her skin. "Yup. Something like that."

At that moment, they couldn't exactly pinpoint what were they feeling. But somehow, the sense of want and intimacy through this little gesture never felt so familiar.

"Thanks. Fer everythin'." Her voice was low as she clutched his kimono tightly. "Fer always bein' there and fer always coming back."

He smiled, now gently putting his chin on her head. "Thanks for waiting." He could feel her smile through his fabric.

Tsukuyo didn't know why she was crying; whether the tears now escaping her eyes were of joy or sorrow. But even so, crying in his arms did not feel forgein for some reason. As if she had cried a thousand times in his arms.

"Now don't rub your snot on my kimono. I washed it yesterday." He teased gently as he now felt small droplets of tear drench his kimono a little.

A chuckle escaped her lips as she gently nudged him on the arm, her ears listening to his almost steady heartbeat. "But weren't ya the one who told me that I could cry with a runny nose."

Ah. She remembered. "Well, aren't you a whiny one. Fine. But only for tonight. Don't get too comfy, you drunk terminator. "

"Oh I won't, ya asshole."

"Too bad you're hugging an asshole right now, Tsu-ki."

"Oh? Well, who was it who pulled me first, I wonder?"

"Just shut it, you hag."

"Back at ya, perm."

They didn't know whether it was the night, the breeze or just their warmth that kept them holding onto each other for so long. Maybe it was the mutual feelings shared between those two. Or was it really was night and the stars that made them share their secrets, they didn't know. It might be too cliche to say that time stopped for those two but even in that little moment, they were able to found years of serendipity in each other's arms. As if that was only thing that reminded buried deep within until then.

This moment couldn't be anymore poetic.

Maybe, joining her on her patrols wasn't half-bad. After all, even fierce individuals like them sometimes need a shoulder to lean on.

-------×××--------

#gintsu #sakata gintoki #tsukuyo #gintoki x tsukuyo #gintsuki #fanfic

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blankdblank · 4 years

Text

Next Caller

…

“Where the hell is he?”

“Tuesdays aren’t even that popular.”

“He should be happy for the slot after how he blew up on Jimmy last year.”

The comments rippled around the radio station and of course no one was paying any mind to the clock ticking down to the next segment needing to start and with the usual concoction for the arrogant star of the show threatening to just ditch his job for weeks now in hand just watching the clock. Finally having taken up on his threats and in the floundering network rumored to be up for sale soon by the owner you had worked as a glorified maid and assistant to the stuck up few stars on the long time running segments still holding strong.

Over the airways the sign off messages rang and between the exit of the former show’s cast you slipped straight to the empty seat. And mentally gave a ‘fuck it’ to the rules while the other headliners were off to their chosen lunches not willing to take up a second show deciding to let the old star just burn with the blank airtime. Out of everyone you were the oldest one here from the early days of this owner having taken hold of it and even with countless ideas used on air you still hadn’t been given the shot you were promised by said owner for a show of your own.

To the shock of the redhead behind the glass manning the helm of the show now grinning as you eased the headphones in your ears and lowered the mic to a better height and started to speak at her finger wave that you were on proven by the lit up bulb outside your soundproof door. “Hey hey hey, welcome to another blustery day out here in the Misty Mountains and it’s just you and me your dear friend Bunny, devoted with my ear to the ground here to give you all the latest on those lovable Durin boys of ours.” With a tick of the redhead’s brow at the name of the first Dwarf to be woken’s line still thriving today with a great number of sons to carry it on with a heaping amount of funds to boast about if they so wished with their various empires. “And of course all of this coming from the dearest and loveliest of Countesses, Beatrice of the nightshade persuasion on line one now ready to pick up where we left off yesterday.”

The redhead shook her head and you did the same in return lifting a finger tapping a couple buttons on the laptop on the desk now turned to a game of spider solitaire you started a new game on. “Hello Sweetheart, how are you?”

All at once your voice dropped to a deeper tone with a thick Khuzdul accent, “Fine as marble, Darling. Fine as marble. Now,” the redhead smirked as you stole a glance at your open notebook and leaned back in your seat to start playing your game, “Darling, as I left off yesterday, on the eve of the noontide solstice that bastard, I can say bastard, Darling?”

Your voice switched back, “Of course you can.”

A husky exhale sounding of a puff of smoke from a pipe came as the Countess spoke again, “When that bastard Wolsey left me at the alter. Now I was just a young thing but it did so scuff my little whiskered heart when we were seven. Though I suppose it was quite telling of future events to come if you believe in omens and such finicky things. Barely to twenty five years later and I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the little flake of a boy then out of nowhere I’m halfway to my social economics course in secondary courses and out of nowhere this husk of a menace trying to sneak into some upper classroom on a winding oak branch just plummeted straight in front of my path.” Another husky exhale laced with a deep wry chuckle came after a flitting giggle from you and she continued as the redhead leaned back in her chair folding her fingers in front of her lips to hide her creeping grin.

“Had the nerve to bloody the path in front of my new kitten pumps then gets up, broken nose and all and splatters out cockily, ‘Fancy that, my falling at the feet of an angel.’”

“I think it’s sweet,” You replied in your own giggling voice.

To which she replied, “If you enjoy blood stains on your stocking Darling his sort of fella is the kind for you. No doubt every proclamation of love ended with his blood splattered over me.”

“Mum always said no ounce of love without an ounce of blood.”

“Darling,” Again she chuckled I a husky plume of smoke, “Then I had love by the gallon. Oh it was dreadful at first. Strangers, with one pining away hopelessly without thought of a chance. And then suddenly a year had passed and we were looking down the cannon of romance.”

From a first date all the way to an obscure flirtation that ended in a near brawl you faked a bathroom break for the Countess granting you the hourly adds you had to run through before she could pick up her story again after you had rushed to relieve yourself and race back again. Two hours in and you could see the assistant of the owner dropping by to stare on with a curious smirk of his own at the supposed mastermind behind the voice tripling listeners by the bustling social media outlets blowing up about the supposed Durin lover telling all. Then by the end of the fourth hour the seeming world listening in had mouths watering and groans echoing as you signed off bidding dear Beatrice farewell for the day she gladly returned before you named the station and final sponsor and left your seat to the next set.

Out in the hall with your helmsman Mal, the crimson haired green eyed Dwobbit who chuckled and blushed her way through the whole show asking, “Where the hell did that come from?”

Shaking your head you smoothed your fingers through your waist length forest green curls with your white blonde roots showing marking a need for a touch up soon, brushing them back behind your pointed ears only for them to fall back into your face, “I just, nobody was going to jump on and it would have been dead air.”

Mal chortled flashing you her phone showing you the still growing feed with questions about Bunny and Beatrice. After a dig in your pocket you brought up on your own phone sending off a comment into the feed from a dummy email linking to the social page you had for your Bunny persona that had snippets of conversations with Beatrice and other so far unnamed characters in the story yet to come. More and more notices racked up and at least if nothing else came of this you might have some interest in the book series this story was based on you were off home to keep writing after Mal’s guiding walk down to your cars in the parking garage where you exited the door on foot from a safer exit than the front entrance. ‘Imaginary friend’, that was the job title Bunny held and between the shifts at the five star motel you worked in as a maid you had gotten well into your seventh book of what seemed to be the series never to be published.

Two hours, that was all you had. And passing the coffee shop you normally used packed to the hilt as all the stars of the radio shows on the block seemed to flood there between shows you passed it scouring for any signs of take out cups close to something able to help you through your long shift lasting past midnight.

Cups, check. Five people left the tiny corner shop that you trotted into trying not to feel out of place in a near sheer tank top and worn ink stained jeans with a flannel shirt around your hips in deep green matching your hair, nails and converse. A set of bills from your coffee fund jar folded in your fingers and tilted in your stance the blue eyed serious Dwarves behind the counter seemed to stare at you in the discerning gaze scanning over the large menu. Three people were in front of you and by the time you reached the register you weren’t sure what language it was even in, legibly scrawled out in Khuzdul runes with Hobbitish translations under it and it all still flew over your head.

The fact was painfully obvious for the trio of chiseled men behind the counter, the one with the messy bun in front of you especially as his furrowed gaze landed on you as he rumbled at you, “What can I get you?”

“Um, Surprise me. Just no lavender.” That made his eyes narrow even more for a moment then he turned his gaze to the register and accepted the bills you passed him.

“Name?”

“Pear,” that had his head tilt slightly and you accepted your change stating, “Like the fruit. Cheers.” You said turning to glance over the seats and sigh walking to the far too tall table with a stool seat you practically had to hop up onto as it was clear to half a foot over your hip.

Crossing your ankles your heels rested on the foot pegs and you set down your notebook and opened it. Pulling your unnoticed pen from behind your wall of colored curls you flipped over to one side granting the trio a glimpse of the Elf ears on the Hobbit sized woman clearly granting Thorin his guinea pig for his new tea drink he had made. This quaint little shop, half herb shop run by Balin, with Dwalin teaming up with brother and cousin in both herb and tea shop ends now down a server due to a babysitter fumble bringing Thorin here to fill in himself.

The more he got into the mixture his grin eased out in anticipation wondering just what your life was to fill in the history of his new favored person. One large green mug later his eyes were on you again. Eagerly taking up the delivery of said drink granting him a chance to steal a glimpse at the notebook now coated in a doodle of his cousin Balin grinning as he spoke to his tiny herb sprouts lining them up on their shelves with tiny hearts all around him in your loss for what to write. “That’s good, draw for a living?”

Shaking your head you replied, “Nope. Don’t really make a living.”

His brow inched up and he named his mixture you slid closer to you and snapped a picture of the floating design on the top of it, setting your phone down you lifted the mug stirring a curious twitch of the corner of is lips, “How does that work exactly?” His eyes focusing on your expression as you took a testing sip.

Lowering the cup you said, “I can work up to 16 hours a day, every day, I can afford two meals and a coffee, well, today tea. No car, barely enough for rent in the only town I wasn’t black listed from renting in relatively close to affordable.”

“Black listed?” He muttered in confusion.

“My father has, a reputation, and a lot of enemies, though thankfully a lot of Dwarves don’t give a damn as long as you’re willing to break your knuckles to earn your footing.”

Without pause he asked, “Do you need a job?”

At that you chortled and said lowering your mug from another sip, “Sorry, I have two. I doubt I could work here, it is best I don’t work around heat sources when I’m tired, which I would be. Not that I wouldn’t jump at the chance to find out the spectacular truth behind all those coffee and tea shop fantasies everyone writes about. If I do get fired though, which could be a possibility after the stunt I pulled today, I will definitely take you up on that.”

In a sharp exhale he eyed the mug then pulled a card from his pocket and the pen from his apron pocket he wrote something down on the back of the card he then slid closer to you. “I’ll cut you a deal, every day you post a review on my drink choices I’ll pay you 20 bucks.”

Playfully you quipped, “I can barely feed myself what am I going to do with deer at my place?” Deepening his smirk in the extension of his hand, “You got yourself a deal there my personal Mug Dealer.”

“Mug dealer?” He rumbled back. “People hear that and they might assume something.”

“Ooh, like what? You might be the Mafioso of mugs? King pin of peppermint owns this block, beware.”

He rolled his eyes, “I have to get back, just pass on your username when we take your mug, Nickname Queen.”

Again you mumbled, “Closer to the other end of the Cinderella Spectrum there Mug Dealer.”

In a glance back he purred, “Thorin.”

You nodded lifting your phone finding their page saying as Dwalin passed bringing another their choice, “Got my early morning fix at the Arkenstone. Only thing tighter than the perfect zing of the X special was server Thorin’s shirt.” A snorting laugh came from Dwalin on his way back while Thorin turned to you with prickling cheeks and you mumbled, “Draft number one, I’ll get it right. Catchy and alluring for others comin’ up.”

The cousins muttered to one another and you lingered around finishing your mug and taking notes in your notebook until your notice of the time had you approached the counter and with a playful glint in his eyes Thorin offered a bill asking, “What’d you come up with?”

“MugMafioso, my new account for this. Don’t worry, kept my thoughts on your clothes to myself.” He insisted on handing you the bill as Dwalin chuckled seeing your self drawn icon of a rabbit in a pinstripe suit behind a desk holding a smoking tea pot. “Have fun, off to work. Thanks again.”

His eyes followed you in your trot out the door then looked down at the review under the picture stirring up a few notifications at first steadily growing in the next half hour until the first person came in flashing the message asking about the special adding more reviews of their own.

Black with deep green lacy accents the uniform dress waited for you in your locker and easily you changed into the dress and left your tolerated green converse on then wound your hair up with a pair of wing decorated hair pins joined by strands of beads. Room to room you cleaned your way through the top floors carefully detailing each of the suites and invisible woman-ing your way through the celebrities. A trait you had been picked up on at an encounter with a naked soap opera star lost and drunk in the elevator you helped back into his room and managed to avert the press who had been called by his now ex who had locked him out and left the hotel promoting you to the ranks of the trusted in the elite floors. Still a part time assistant when around the most demanding celebs who never left their room you managed through at a higher wage that had freed you from your third job.

Findis, the simple name stating which clan owned the internationally known hotel chain you were employed by. Only flashes of the woman married to the man set to take over within the next decade was your glimpse of anyone not bearing the Findis golden hair. A raven haired heavily side burned Dam with piercing blue eyes who seemed to pass by you like you were nothing more than air. Not intentionally or worse than others, just too busy to bother with anyone else most days in holding her own role until her latest surprise pregnancy would take her out of work for a time.

Nothing out of the ordinary really happened yet when you had punched out you turned your phone back on mid hour long subway ride and saw the notice from the radio show that your show slot was being picked up on a trial basis and you were needed in the office in a few hours to sign the paperwork.

In a plop you had finally collapsed onto your bed in your so called apartment of a closet loft to rummage up as much sleep as possible until you were forced to wake up again. A handshake or a pat on the head would have been less of a brush off than you had gotten. No compliments, merely a sighing exchange from the aid in charge of securing the documents who gave you the schedule for the three day a week job coming with a stunning five grand raise a week over your barely two grand a month job. The new check such a scoff worthy amount to the former star barely a fifth of his former check you could live months off of just one of them. It was a big change but you weren’t going to change, your finances wouldn’t change and every single cent over your usual amount would be set aside in your lint trap of a savings account for some sort of umbrella or parachute in the future.

Noon however again had you back in the same tea shop finding the dame mohawked man stepped forward asking, “Up for another experiment?”

You nodded, “Just no lavender.” Passing him the bill on your way to your same table you settled at and noticed Thorin coming out of the back room at Dwalin’s call drawing his eye right to you. It didn’t take long and signing into your MugMafioso account now with a handful of followers for your singular posting soon to be two as Thorin brought over a second testing mug he set down asking, “Any news on that need for a job application?”

“Um, I actually got a new project at work. They don’t really have much faith in how I’ll pull it off though. So I’ll keep you posted there my trusty Mug Dealer.”

Again he smirked rolling his eyes stepping back, “Enjoy your tea.”

“Yes, sir,” you replied to his back making him shake his head again on his walk back to the counter as you snapped a picture of the drink you sipped on while Dwalin tried to nudge Thorin back to talk to you some more. The pattern was starting to build and with your mug returned another trading of smirks came on your way back to the hotel trying to mentally prep the outline for your next day on air.

* Mal x Fili/Kili *

There was no secret that Thorin had blushed, a stolen picture of it by Balin had cemented the fact and his aid to a Damsel on the verge of Distress was shared as well. The elder Durins rarely dipped their toes in romance and while Frerin was off chasing his racing dreams Dwalin was the closest after Dis to have found a possible life partner.

Two years the tattoo parlor across the street had drawn his eye, more for the tree sleeve coated Hobbit heading The Acorn dubbed shop. A first timid drop in to get a ladybug on the side of one of his fingers to excuse his out of nowhere stop into the shop was the start of a line of them eventually across his wrist forming the rune of his niece’s name. From there an ‘accidentally’ left discount card on a promotion had the curious Hobbit dropping by himself hooking him as well into a well excused path to see more of the burly guy sharing the same magnetic pull he felt.

Three months they had been living together now and with that came the try to mingle family lines. A troublesome task as Bilbo now had custody of his Nephew Frodo just barely three years old expanding their own mini family. The daughter of his cousin however upon their buying a home together had taken up his old flat above the shop and helped to pay the rent by working part time in the shop on the paperwork and temporary image printing to ease the work of the tattoo crew between shifts at a radio station. Among her tasks was to change the artwork on the sign out front and while the shop was closed down allowing Bilbo and Dwalin a brunch with family she wobbled her way onto the rickety ladder to lower the locking hook for the sign.

“Damn, rickety-, why do we-,” A sharp gasp came and on a stop to pick up a special drink for his mother Fili trolled in front of Kili now on his phone double checking the schedule to get back onto the racing schedule with Frerin later this evening as part of his pit crew.

Quicker then he’d thought possible he’d caught the Dwobbit now with cheeks redder than her hair and green eyes, even in their frightened gaze over the pair they were stunning and once down a fumble for her name had the pair grinning and flashing their dimples at her only worsening the struggle. A shout from Dwalin had them glancing down the street and Kili offering her his phone, “We have to go, and sadly won’t be back in town till Friday, but can we have your number?”

‘Su-, sure,” she stammered out and punched in her number passing it back, “Oh, I don’t know your names.”

That had the pair smirking at the hopefully honestly clueless woman, “Fili and Kili, at your service. We’ll text you later, My Lady.” Trotting off as she nodded again and sighed turning inside to bring out the new poster for the sign she opened to pull the old one out then up again she wobbled and managed to secure the sign up again then head inside to give the shop a good clean readying for the afternoon shift coming in later.

Sighing heavily Fili plopped into the chair beside Kili making Dwalin day, “We all got plans for after this boys. Shouldn’t take long.”

Fili sighed out again, “Not like we can do anything anyways we’re off for a race and won’t be able to see her a whole week..”

Frerin’s head cocked with interest at the latest swooning Durins, “Her who?” Slightly uncertain how the pining would effect the pit crew if they were to lose their focus at the race.

In a dreamy sigh Kili propped his chin in his palms laying all his weight on the table in front of him with Fili leaning against the arm of his chair closer to his brother, “Mal.”

Dwalin nodded, “Uh huh, and what does this Mal do?”

The pair shrugged and the younger brother blew a string of his chocolate curls from his face that had swung free of his small bun, “She was hanging a sign at the tattoo shop across from the tea shop.”

Dwalin’s lips pursed, “Hmm,” fighting not to blush in saying as plainly as he could, “Must be Bilbo’s cousin’s girl. Took up the flat over the shop from us.”

That perked the boys up and Fili said, “Yes!”

Kili, “You could talk us up while we’re gone!”

Dwalin hummed out, “Doesn’t work all the time though. Just a part time gig by what I could tell. I missed that convo while Frodo was loose in the garden.”

Frerin smirked glancing at Thorin who sat down and gruffly said to his clean shaven brother as his short beard seemed to bristle in his wordless show he was ready to defend himself, “Don’t.”

Frerin smirked, “I didn’t say a thing!”

Thorin reaches out grabbing one of the bottles of juice on the table, “Don’t.”

Dwalin, “That’s right Rin, Thorin isn’t swooning.”

Thorin muttered lifting his bottle to his lips, “Exactly.”

Vili smirked saying, “Absolutely not, all business with the MugMafioso.”

Trying not to chuckle as Dis entered and took her seat, asking herself in a smoothing of her hand over her blouse after undoing her coat jacket while sitting, “How did you manage to gain this new following again, Thorin?”

Thorin lowered his bottle and sent a half hearted glare at Balin who smirked in saying, “He’s become a mug dealer.”

Thorin grumbled as Dwalin chuckled saying, “Pretty successful one too to have caught a partnership with the Mug Mafia.” The table chuckled and Dwalin patted his cousin’s shoulder, “Oh come on, fine, fine. Cute Lass walks in saying ‘surprise me’ to Thorin when they got stumped on the menu. Bit of flirting,” Dwalin lifted a finger silencing Thorin in his mouth opening to talk, “On her part, and he finds out she’s had a bad day at work. Said she might get fired so he offers her a job if she does get fired, then says he’ll pay her a 20 for every review she posts to the social page. She made a new account and it kicks off.”

Thorin, “She has two jobs no car and needed a hand, nothing romantic.”

Balin coughed out, “Lies.” Then shook his head in a glance at Thorin who glared at him again, “Allergies.” Taking a bottle himself then coughed again, “Smitten.” And took a big swing of the bottle he opened smirking as he did while the others chuckled and Thorin smoothed a hand over his face and settled back in his chair while their parents and grandparents came in.

Beside them Bofur and Bifur both sat down to the left of Thror across from their matriarch Niro, the latter who looked at her husband in his saying, “It goes without saying we’ve heard about the radio show yesterday.” At the boys’ brows inching up he added, “At least most of us. Now it doesn’t seem to be factual, though a great deal of the details are stunningly accurate. Bofur, have you found anything?”

He nodded and said, “Aye, well this ‘Bunny’ who was talking with the ‘Countess Beatrice’ didn’t seem to work at the station or any other before yesterday. The slot was for that Belby guy, but he didn’t show up so it seems it was a last minute fill in, even if it made it seem like it was continuing a former interview.”

Niro, “That’s it?”

Bifur raised a finger, “Ma’am if I may, from what I was able to find, I did locate a similar draft for a novel someone by the pen name Bunny tried to have picked up a few years ago that has been gathering dust after being circulated around. It has a few rough details of the same story.”

Diaa, “So it’s a story then?”

Bofur said, “It seems the Belby guy left without notice, just didn’t show up. Must have been a last minute add to test how it would go. Certainly had plenty of time to tweak the story and dig for history on our clan.”

Bifur, “With the draft there was a notice there was approval from Gorgo years before on the idea to use the Durin name for the copyright issues. We dug up the notes on what plot points were listed to be included and it does seem like a mellow-drama with a seedy crime edge bubbling up later on in the series. Which it was meant to be a series.”

Dis’ brows furrowed, “Why wasn’t it picked up then?”

Bofur shrugged, “Just a handwritten note on the cover ‘Shelve’ nothing else. Looks like someone doesn’t like Bunny, Gorgo had been clocked as reviewing this case biweekly for any updates. It is quite addictive. Clearly as everyone has found out.”

Bifur nodded, “I read it three times. Pretty good.”

Thror nodded then said, “One thing to do then. Send it to Dain, see what deal we can work out with this Bunny.” He couldn’t help but smirk adding, “Get Gorgo her book. No wonder she’s been so book crazed these last years.” Thinking back to her eagerness to scour the incoming author lists for drafts in their family publishing firm they had started in their youth now the largest Dwarven publishing firm around.

Bofur glanced at his brother in a silent debate on who would share the worse news making Niro ask, “What else aren’t you saying?”

Bifur cleared his throat and said, “Well, um, you see, I pulled the file on the author,”

She nodded and Thror asked, “And?”

Bifur continued, “Someone used white out all over the only hard copy and erased it from the system.”

That made the Durins collectively huff and Thrain said, “Dain can muscle it out. Someone’s bound to remember. Worst comes to worst we’ll send Gorgo after them. Not even Gloin could pull her off them if he wanted to.”

Dis, “If need be we could always contact the actors on the radio show and see who their source is and work that angle.” Earning agreeing nods stirring up the next few issues and family announcements of schedules before they split up to head back to their normal routines.

Pt 2

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shesakillerkween

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78, @pastelhexmaniac

#Thorin x Reader OC #Dwalin x Bilbo #Fili/Kili x OC Mal

68 notes · View notes

the-odd-job · 4 years

Text

Harem AU - First time Sideswipe meets Megatron

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Characters: Megatron, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Unnamed Characters Relationships: Megatron/Sideswipe, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Additional Tags: Sticky, Throatfuck/Deepthroat, Purging, Referenced Gangrape, Humiliation, Size Difference Words: 2841

A certain someone shared their harem AU yesterday, which made me go like “???? WHY DON’T I HAVE A HAREM AU THIS IS A TRAVESTY”

Now I have a harem AU.

Snippets of this ‘verse will probably get posted intermittently and wildly out of order as I get inspired to write them. Maybe one day there’ll be enough to compile and fill in the gaps for a full fic. We’ll live in hope!

In the meantime, please enjoy.

And heed the warnings. Plz.

His valve throbbed, and not in the good way.

Sideswipe struggled to swallow through the aching in his throat, staring up at the ceiling and trying so hard to ignore the talk and laughter around him.

Laughter. The bastards were seriously laughing while raping the wits out of them.

And Sideswipe was honestly coming to his wit’s end. There was no end to the spikes they’d shove up his valve or down his throat. He wasn’t sure how long this had lasted already, or how much longer it would last still.

How much he’d endured already, and how much more he would still need to endure.

If there even would be an end to it. What did he know, maybe they’d keep raping them until they died from it. He felt pretty ready to die from it, at least. They’d hit and beat him enough times that he felt more than a little dinged. His throat was raw, stretched past capacity by spikes far too large for him. His jaw ached. He couldn’t get the taste of transfluid off his glossa. His valve burned from being penetrated time and time again without there ever being enough lubricant for even the first one.

At least all the transfluid had started to ease the way after a while. It was seeping out of him now, where he lay spread on one of the tables, unable to quite scrounge up the will to move. It was no use anyway. No matter which way he moved, they’d just manhandle him into the position they wanted him in.

He’d tried running enough times to know it would only elicit uproarious laughter before they’d grab him and throw him back to the center of the room.

Running was a little silly, he had to admit that much even to himself. He had no idea where he was or which door would’ve led to somewhere he wanted to be in—if those doors would’ve even been open. It wasn’t much of a wonder they laughed.

But what else was he supposed to do? Fighting hadn’t worked. He was so vastly outnumbered they had no issues whatsoever just pinning him down until he couldn’t fight anymore, and that was if they didn’t alone already mass so much more than him that they could pin him without any help.

Those spikes hurt the worst.

He could hear Sunstreaker’s ragged ventilations off to the side where they’d dumped his brother onto the floor. Sunstreaker hadn’t tried getting up again, and Sideswipe wasn’t sure if that was because he was too hurt to, or because he had similarly come to the conclusion that it really wouldn’t have done any good.

Endure. That was all they could do at this point.

His ventilations hitched, but Sideswipe continued to ignore the tears that streamed from his optics. They’d made fun of those too, when he’d first started crying. By now it was old news and they only laughed if they got him to cry harder with something they did.

But for the moment there was no one touching him beyond the grip that kept his wrists pinned together on the surface of the table—mech wasn’t even paying attention to him anymore—and Sideswipe took the second’s respite it was to pick the pieces of his pride and dignity off the metaphorical floors, dust them off, and store them for a later moment when he might have a chance to try to put them back together.

Now if they’d just let him pick up the physical pieces of himself too. They hadn’t given him the time to retract his valve cover, doubtful as it was that he would’ve done that voluntarily. And maybe that was what they’d figured, that he might not even do it anyway, so just cut the chase and tear it off completely!

What did he even need it for, amirite?

Sideswipe couldn’t quite contain his sob this time around, but luckily no one took notice of it, because one of the doors opened just then. Sideswipe turned his helm to look, and his spark sank at the sight of the massive grey mech even he, a certified street urchin, could recognize.

Megatron. The tyrant of Kaon, dictator of the city-state.

Unquestioned ruler of the whole damn place.

Megatron asked something from the room at large in a tongue Sideswipe couldn’t understand—Kaonite—his red optics passing between Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Sideswipe couldn’t see Sunstreaker himself, but he heard his twin growl. Down but not out.

One of the beatifically grinning lackeys at Sideswipe’s feet responded in the same language. Sideswipe growled too now, to the tune of more laughter around him.

Megatron was smiling right along with the rest of the room, a genuinely amused expression at complete odds with the usual furious scowl he was depicted with in all the images Sideswipe had seen of him.

Megatron walked into the room like he owned the place, as he did, with mecha moving from his way as surely as if he had had a physical barrier around him keeping everyone at a respectful distance. He walked all the way to where Sideswipe judged Sunstreaker to be laying, then nudged something—Sunstreaker—with his pede.

Like he was shocked, Sunstreaker lunged to his pedes with another reverberating snarl. Everyone laughed again, barring Megatron who merely cocked an optical ridge in amusement. The noise only doubled when Sunstreaker stumbled and fell back into the waiting arms of their rapists.

He only growled harder when he was harmlessly caught, but when he tried to jerk away, they wouldn’t let him.

Sideswipe could see him ventilating hard, before his attention was stolen by Megatron again. He was approaching, and with a wave of his servo the mecha scattered from around Sideswipe.

He shot into a sitting position, a sinking feeling in his spark warning him he likely wouldn’t like whatever was going to come next.

Megatron was next to him before he had the time to force his numb limbs into further cooperation. “Let’s see what you have, little one, hmm?” Megatron asked from him in perfect standard, freezing Sideswipe in place with the weight of his red gaze. His spark was spinning in his chest like a mad thing, and he couldn’t but squeak when Megatron grabbed him by the throat in one sudden motion, forcing him back against the table and spinning him in place until his helm faced Megatron’s crotch.

He knew exactly what was going to come next. “NO!” Sideswipe flailed hard, trying to pull and twist himself free from Megatron’s hold, but it was like Megatron didn’t even feel his struggles with how easily he kept his grip. Sideswipe’s servos shot to the wrist of the hand holding his throat, digging his claws on, but if looks were anything to go by, Megatron’s armor was beyond thick.

He probably didn’t even feel it.

But Sideswipe would feel this. His mouth started aching all over again when Megatron retracted his upper modesty panel and let his spike pressurize.

It was just as big as a mech his size should have, which meant nothing short of colossal next to Sideswipe.

And he didn’t want it anywhere near him, not his mouth, not his valve. Desperate, Sideswipe bent his body in half to kick at Megatron with all the force he could muster—what good could that possibly do for him? Primus, he had no idea—but Megatron merely stepped to the side, his grip on Sideswipe’s throat tightening to a threatening degree.

There was no anger, not even annoyance when Megatron said something to his peers. At once Sideswipe’s legs were grabbed and brought back to the table, and pinned there. He tried to kick free, but it did nothing. “Get the frag away from me!” he barked at Megatron, glaring with undisguised hatred and fear at the mech easily more than twice his mass.

This would hurt so, so bad. Tears were streaming from his optics unbidden again and his throat was constricting from more than just Megatron’s hold on it.

There was an uptick at the corner of Megatron’s serene mouth, but that was all. “Enough of that, now. Open.”

Like hell.

Sideswipe bared clenched denta and growled.

There was more laughter from all around him, but no sound from Megatron. He made up for his silence with action, bringing his free servo around and slipping one of his massive digits past Sideswipe’s lips, all the way to the farthest reach of his mouth where he could jab it in the empty area behind his denta and force his mouth open.

He did it with swiftness and familiarity that made Sideswipe think he’d repeated that same move far too many times before.

Thick digits were shoved into his mouth the moment there was a gap between his denta, and pushed far enough that Sideswipe gagged on them, his back arching off the table. Megatron kept them there for one torturous moment before replacing them with his spike in a move that was similarly so practiced Sideswipe couldn’t help but despair.

And the spike was so much worse. It instantly forced his jaw open wide enough that his faceplates stung from the stretch and Sideswipe screamed as it was rammed straight to the back of his mouth, hitting his throat and making him gag all over again. Except this time it didn’t end there, like it hadn’t any of the times the others had decided to use his mouth.

Megatron pulled him forward enough for his helm to fall off the edge of the table, straightening his throat so that he could shove his spike down it with a jab of his hips. Sideswipe’s servos tightened around the wrist steadily holding him when his throat was stretched far enough that he was surprised it didn’t rupture right away.

It hurt so much, and none of the other spikes had adequately prepared him to take it. Sideswipe cried out, or tried to, but his vocalizer was all but crushed and nothing but a garbled little peal of static came out.

Then Megatron pulled back until only the tip of his spike was still in Sideswipe’s mouth, leaving his throat a gaping hole, only for him to push back in again in the next moment.

On the next withdrawal, Sideswipe managed a scream, and he could hear a cheer rise in the room. Celebrating his pain.

And Sunstreaker was yelling above it all. “Let the frag go of him you slagger! Leave him be! Fragging– Take me instead, just leave him alone!”

Megatron had to hear, but he paid it no mind. There was no time for Sideswipe to adjust to any of it, if he even physically could have ever, before Megatron had already increased his pace, pulling almost all the way out of his mouth before thrusting back down his throat.

Sideswipe struggled. There was nothing left of conscious effort in his motions, just the primal need to get away from the abuse, from having his burning throat opened up over and over again by something that was never intended to go down it. He flailed, but they had his legs, and Megatron ignored anything his arms did, whether it was hitting, scratching, or gripping.

Eventually it was just gripping, his servos having landed back on Megatron’s arm to do no more than hold on.

Megatron kept fragging his mouth. His gag reflex could only take it for so long before his frame heaved and expelled the contents of his tanks—what little there was left from the past times this had already happened.

Megatron just ignored it, even as Sideswipe’s regurgitation bubbled past the spike stretching his mouth open and streamed down his face. It mixed with tears and oral lubricant, and the old messes of energon and transfluid already painting his face.

There was more casual chatter and laughter in the room, Sideswipe could hear it dimly past the wet sound of having his throat ravaged, past the pain that kept trying to steal all of his focus.

It hurt. It wouldn’t stop hurting, and Megatron wouldn’t stop thrusting in and out, stretching the pain filled moments just as his throat was being stretched.

He screamed again in another brief moment his throat was temporarily abandoned by Megatron’s spike, and this time he could both hear and feel Megatron rumble, the vibrations traveling down his spike and touching his sore lips. “That’s it, you little bitch,” Megatron growled at him, lowly, quietly, as if only he was supposed to hear. “Cry for me.”

And Sideswipe did, yelling weakly again only for the sound to get distorted into a bleat of static when Megatron pushed back in. There was no sense to this. No one gave one single damn about his comfort, his pain, his anything, just as long as they could use his body and whatever hole they pleased to take their pleasure.

Megatron was no different from the rest, and his words were no different from the abuse already hurled at him, but he was the leader. He was the only one who could’ve made this stop, but instead he sanctioned all of it and partook in it himself.

And took pleasure in it. Sideswipe could feel that much in the way Megatron’s thrusts began to eventually stammer and lose their rhythm. He pushed in deep only to grind his hips against Sideswipe’s face in circular motions that brought a new fresh hell of hurt to his stretched throat.

Tears were running from his optics despite how tightly he’d shut them. Megatron pulled out, did a few shallow humps that barely dipped into his throat, then thrust in deep again and circled his hips.

Endure.

That was all he could do, but Sideswipe doubted there would be an end to this. Now or ever. Was this what they’d been brought in for? Would death be his only way out?

He didn’t want to die.

But this didn’t exactly make him want to live either.

Megatron thrust as deep as he could get one more time before gripping Sideswipe’s throat tighter, squeezing him around his spike through one tiny thrust, then another, before Sideswipe could feel the hot pulses of his transfluid deep down his throat. Mistakenly he tried to swallow on reflex, which pulled a pleased rumble from his assailant. The last thing he had wanted, but it was too late by that point.

Megatron held him there for what felt like an eternity, rubbing his spike through Sideswipe’s throat and milking the last bits of transfluid out of it where Sideswipe refused to swallow again. His mouth twitched around the stretch his lips were forced into while he waited, and cried, and hurt, and silently prayed for it to stop already.

Panic nearly overtook him again when Megatron didn’t stop there but instead rocked his hips with the threat of just fragging continuing. He flailed, but his legs were still obediently pinned by Megatron’s followers, and this time Megatron struck him across the face for the way his arms hit him.

It wasn’t any small strike either. Sideswipe gasped through his vents at the additional pain in what was already a life of torture.

And Megatron continued rocking, moving his hips just so to slide his spike up and down in Sideswipe’s throat.

Sideswipe had already almost drowned in his pit of despair by the time Megatron pulled out and didn’t push back in again. Immediately the contents of Sideswipe’s tanks followed him all over again, though this time it was mostly Megatron’s own transfluid that came out. Some of it splattered into Megatron’s thighs from the force of its expulsion, but the tyrant utterly ignored it just as he went on to utterly ignore Sideswipe.

Crying, defiled Sideswipe with his face a mess of tears, lubricant, transfluid, and his own vomit. His legs were released, but he didn’t try to move beyond wiping one shaking servo across his sore mouth.

It wasn’t just his servo that was shaking, it was the whole rest of him too. Shivering, interrupted with larger jerks when his sobs took the better of him.

His throat hurt. He wasn’t sure it would ever return back to its normal size, it sure didn’t feel like it had yet. Maybe it would be better if it didn’t, if this was just going to repeat.

And Sideswipe feared this was going to repeat.

“You were so eager to have your turn. Now you’ll have it,” Sideswipe heard Megatron say, and looked past his veil of tears at him. Megatron had turned his attention to Sunstreaker, his spike still standing proudly between his legs, and Sideswipe thought he now knew the purpose of Megatron’s last little jerks: to keep his spike in pressurization so he could rape Sunstreaker next.

“Please,” Sideswipe whispered, but between the pain and fear robbing his voice and his vocalizer only barely functional from the abuse it had taken, he wasn’t sure if anyone even heard him.

Please, not Sunstreaker.

#transformers #maccadams #sideswipe #megatron #sunstreaker #harem au #fic #2020 #megaswipe

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