#all gall is divided | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

phoward89 · 3 months

Text

Banner by me. Dividers by @saradika

Summary: When Coriolanus signs you out of the hospital to bring you to his Corso penthouse, you see a glimpse of his dark side. Will that glimpse make you run away from him or to him?

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader (Y/N)

Warnings: Coriolanus Snow is his own warning! Possessive!Coriolanus, Obsessive!Coriolanus, DelusionalCoriolanus, Dark!Coriolanus, Soft Dark!Coriolanus?, Head Gamemaker!Coriolanus, Mentions of death, Mentions of planning murder, Mentions of cheating/infidelity (not on reader), Mentions of poison, Large age gap/difference (Coriolanus is 33 while reader is 18), Manipulation, Groping, Slapping, um...trying to think of anything else.

Here's the 2nd part of Forever & Ever, My Darling Rose. I gave the Reader a last name, Halvir, in this just to make some scenarios etc a bit easier to write. But the Readers first name is up to you lovely and wonderful readers to come up with.

Story Masterlist

Chapter 2:

Coriolanus marched towards the nurses’ station with a haughty airs to him. He gave off an entitled, but dangerous aurora that had the nurses shaking in their white nursing hats. He'd threatened to kill every single one of their loved ones (friends, family, pets, estranged family, etc) if something happened to you and the nurses were terrified that he'd make good on that promise. Considering you went out of your mind with a nightmare and cornered yourself into your room, resulting in him being called there to calm you down, the nurses were fearful.

The nurses quickly grabbed their charts and scurried off, excuses that they had to check on patients echoed into the air, as the head gamemaker got closer to the front desk. Patients that are most likely asleep since it was nearly 3 in the morning. Yes, the nurses left their charge nurse behind to deal with the wrath of Coriolanus Snow. The nurse assigned to you was the first to bolt.

“I'm signing Y/N Halvir out since your staff is too incompetent to properly care for a victor.” Coriolanus firminly told the charge nurse as he came to a stop right at the desk she was sitting behind, all by herself since the staff abandoned her to face a fate worse than death alone.

The charge nurse refused to meet Coriolanus’ eye while tentatively informing him, “Head Gamemaker Snow, sir, it's ill advised to sign her out. She hasn't been checked by a doctor and she seems to be dealing with some post traumatic stress.”

Wrong Answer. Coriolanus was outraged that some old nurse had the gall to tell him that he couldn't do what he felt best for his, HIS, darling rose. What did that old hag know? If it wasn't for her calling him, you would've hyperventilated and passed out from sheer fear in the corner of your room.

A private room that he was footing the bill for, by the way.

Well, looks like he'll just have to make the charge nurse’s loved ones disappear for her lack of skills tending to you. He'll also find out who was your assigned nurse, make that useless twit disappear along with her loved ones. Well, the Citadel could always use some more lab rats to conduct mutt experiments on.

“It may be ill advised, but I assure you that I am signing Y/N Halvir out of this hospital and taking her with me, where she'll be properly cared for.” He calmly told the nurse as his cold blue eyes cut her down. Leaning down over the desk, causing him to be face to face with the old nurse, Coriolanus hissed, “Your insubordination has won your son, a doctor, and his family a transfer to District 6. Seems like the hospitals there are in need of more doctors due to the rise in morphling addiction amongst the district citizens. It's such a shame that both of your grandchildren, a boy and a girl, will now be eligible for the Hunger Games as District 6 citizens.”

The charge nurse shook with fear as she pleaded, “Please, Head Gamemaker Snow, don't do that. Please, don't be so harsh.” Quickly, she worked on her computer while adding in, “I'm printing out the discharge paperwork now, just don't send my family away to District 6.”

Coriolanus just stood up straight, his full height of 6’0 towering over the charge nurse as she sat at the desk, typing and clicking away at the computer. He didn't say a word to her, just stared her down with cold, dead, blue eyes.

The charge nurse swallowed down a sick feeling that was welling up while rising from her seat to scurry over to the printer. She silently prayed to the printer, which was growling louder than a feral animal, to hurry up and spit out the paperwork for your discharge.

Coriolanus grew bored waiting for the necessary paperwork for your release. So bored that he was tapping his shiny black shoes against the linoleum floor.

Click, click, click. Click, click, click. Click, click, click. Click, click, click. Click, click-

“Here’s that paperwork for you to sign.” The charge nurse told Coriolanus while hurrying over to him. Quickly she placed the paperwork on the desk before grabbing a pen from the cup on top of the desk. “And here's a pen, sir.” She practically threw the pen at him.

“Thank you, but your family's still headed to 6.” He simply said while signing and initialing the stack of paperwork he was given. It seemed a bit of an overkill in his opinion.

The nurse turned as white as a sheet upon hearing Coriolanus’ words, but she didn't dare try to fight him on it. Her family's fate was sealed by the sadistic head gamemaker, a man whose temperament was worse than his father, the late General Crassus Snow.

Once Coriolanus was finished with your paperwork, he left the front desk without so much as a thank you or a goodnight to the nurse, and returned to your room. You were sitting on the bed watching some late night rerun on Capitol tv whenever he entered your room. Looking between you and the tv, he chuckled, “You like the god awful cooking show where the chef curses out his potential staff?”

“We only get 3 channels on our tv back home in District 12 and this is one of the channels.” You explained to him while he made his way further into the room. Truthfully, you were lucky to even have a tv since you lived in the Seam. Your brother Rein and his girlfriend, Ashlie, had scrimped and saved for years to be able to buy the thing. It was small and second hand; only picked up 3 channels. The Capitol News, Capitol Movie Classics, and Capitol Channel 3. You wished there were more channels, but you were grateful for the ones you had. Most people in the Seam didn't even have that. You know that your neighbor, Corbin, and his Auntie (a mining widow) didn't even have a tv.

As Coriolanus placed your paperwork down on your side table, you stared right at the tv (as the top chef called one of his potential staff a stupid fucking donkey for burning a risotto) and honestly revealed, “Plus watching all of these chefs get cursed out and treated horribly by their potential boss reminds me that somebody out there has it worse than me. Even though I live in the Seam with my coal miner brother and his girlfriend, who's a local barmaid at the hob, nobody's ever treated me as horribly and rudely as that award winning chef treats the people competing on his show for a job in his restaurant.”

“Hmmm…” Coriolanus hummed. Standing by your side, he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear while asking, “And what of your mother?”

“I haven't seen her since she ran off when I was 5 and Rein was 15.” You flatly remarked.

“I see.” The platinum blonde man nodded. He felt rage boil in his cold, icy veins. How could somebody leave you as a child? You were so perfect, so innocent. You didn't deserve to be willingly abandoned by your mother. Oh, if he ever got a hold of that useless bitch she was dead. He'd make sure that she died a torturous death too.

“You signed me out AMA?” You asked, glancing over the form that was on your side table

“Yes, I signed you out against medical advice because the staff here is doing you, my darling rose, more harm then good. They're too incompetent to care for my Victor and you, Y/N, deserve nothing but the best care.” Moving to the wardrobe in the corner of the room, he told you, “I had your reaping dress cleaned and brought here for you when you were admitted. I thought you'd feel more comfortable in that than your uniform from the arena.”

“Thank you, Head Gam-Coriolanus. I appreciate it.” You thanked him, a bit nervous about what name to call him. In the end you decided to just call him Coriolanus, but it still felt heavy and wrong on your tongue.

“Please, just call me Coryo.” He countered while crossing the room with your simple cotton floral dress in hand. “Now let's get you out of your hospital gown and into your pretty dress so we can go home.” He suggested while coming to a stop right at your bedside.

Instead of standing and stripping naked like Coriolanus thought you'd do, you arched a brow at him instead only to ask, “Home? But I thought you were taking me to a penthouse here in the Capitol?”

“I am taking you to the Corso penthouse which is now your new home, my darling rose.” He slowly explained to you, as if you were a small child, while placing your dress down on the bed. Shaking his head, he grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to stand up.

“What the hell are you doing, Coriolanus?!” You shrieked, pulling away from him as he started to untie your hospital gown.

Grabbing you roughly by the upper arms and turning you to look at him, he stared down at you with cold, icy eyes. “I'm tired and want to go home and get some sleep. You will be a good girl and let me help you change.”

You tried to break his hold while assuring him, “I can get changed myself. You can go wait in the hall, Coriolanus.”

“No, my darling rose, you can't. Now, be a good girl and let me help you so we can get out of here.” He told you in a tone that was sickeningly sweet.

“Corio-” You began to protest, only for him to slap you across the face.

Tears welled up in your eyes as your hand automatically flew up to cradle your stinging cheek.

“I told you to be a good girl and let me help you, Y/N.” He sighed.

“You hit me…” You trailed off in shock as tears spilled down your cheeks.

“Oh, my darling rose, I didn't mean to hurt you.” The pretty platinum blonde man cooed while prying your hand away from the cheek that he’d struck in his frustrated anger. His blue eyes raked over your cheek, which was raw and red from the slap. Seeing your tears rolling hotly down your cheeks turned him on, as horrible as that sounded. Brushing his knuckles along your puffy cheekbone, that would surely bruise within an hour or so, he softly said, “I don't like brats and backtalk, Y/N. If only you were a good girl then I wouldn't have slapped you.”

His words left your mind going a mile a minute. So, wait, it was your fault he slapped you? All because you didn't want his help changing? That didn't make sense. Should it make sense?

You were drawn out of your mental musings whenever you felt Coriolanus’ tongue lap up the tears along your cheek. Your breath hitched at the action. Your felt a tightness in your chest and a fluttering in your lower belly as he tilted your face to lick the tears of your untouched cheek.

As his tongue traced your cheekbone, lapping up the salty tear stains on your skin, you felt a tingle in your core. Oh no. You can't have this reaction to him. It's wrong; he’s a married man and older than you. Hell, he's even older than your older brother.

Even though you knew being turned on by him was wrong, it didn't stop you from rubbing your thighs together.

When he pulled away from you, he gave you a lined smile and suggested, “Now that we have an understanding, let's get you in your pretty dress so we can go home.”

Your head was fuzzy with want and you had a slight ache in between your legs, so you were in no shape to protest or fight back. “Okay.” Your breath was shaky as you nodded. “Okay.”

“Seems like I have quite the effect on you, my darling rose.” Coriolanus smirked as his nose ran along your jawline. Your heartbeat was beating quickly, perhaps too quickly, while you felt heat pool in between your legs. Oh god, you've never felt like this before (yea, you've been turned on before, but not to the point where you felt uncomfortable and wanted to rip your hair out) and it both startled and excited you.

He licked the shell of your ear, causing a shiver to run down your spine. “I must confess, Y/N, that you also have quite the effect on me.” He whispered into your ear before pulling away and leaving you to stare up at him with shock all over your face. “Don't look so shocked, my darling. You’re very beautiful and you're resilient; a victor.”

Turning you around, he gently untied your hospital gown as if he was untying the bows to his favorite piece of lingerie. When he was done, he spun you around, nearly knocking you off balance and slid the gown off your shoulders. Your eyes darted to the floor as your breasts were exposed to him. You felt so small under his gaze and towering form as he slid the gown the rest of the way off you.

“You have such nice tits.” Coriolanus smiled in awe, lust shining in his eyes, as he began to palm your nice tits.

“Coriolanus-” You started, only for him to cut you off with the request of, “Coryo, call me Coryo.”, as he began to run his thumbs over your nipples while cupping your tits in his large, calloused hands.

“Coryo, we can't do this here. We're in my hospital room.” You told him despite his actions causing you to get even wetter then you already were between your legs.

“It's a private room, my darling rose. I paid enough for it, so I don't see the harm in us getting my money's worth.”

What the hell did he mean by that? Did he seriously want to mess around in your hospital room? Oh no. No, no, no. No. You're drawing that line at that.

Your hands wrapped around his wrist as you told him, “I just want to get out of here, Coryo. You promised to take me home, remember?”

You prayed that your words knocked some sense into him because you didn't want your first time doing sexual things to be in a hospital room, where a nurse could walk in at any time, with him (he was a married man for God's sakes!).

His demeanor deflated and he sighed, “Yes, my darling rose, I did promise you that didn't I?”, while pulling away from you. He grabbed your dress from the bed and motioned for you to lift up your hands.

“What about my underwear?” You asked, feeling a bit exposed as Coryo looked you up and down with a hungry glint in his eye. It was as if he was a starving man and you were a juicy steak ready to eat.

“You don't need them, darling. Once we get to our penthouse you'll be changing into a shirt to sleep in anyways.” He explained while motioning, once again, for you to lift your arms. This time you obeyed him and he pulled your best floral dress over your head. He smoothed it out, only to press a kiss to your forehead and smile. “You're all ready to go, my Victor.”

The car ride to the luxury penthouse seemed to take ages. You were alone with Coriolanus since he was driving and it made you feel a bit uncomfortable. After what happened in your hospital room (him stripping you and groping your boobs) you didn't think it was a good idea to be alone with him. He was married and you didn't want to lose your innocence, all of your firsts, your virginity to a man that would never be yours no matter the chemistry or effect you had on each other.

You were staring aimlessly out the window when Coryo startled you by placing a hand on your thigh. You didn't say a word, just sighed uncomfortably.

Looking over at you with a worried expression, Coriolanus asked, “What's wrong, Y/N? You seem troubled.”

Pulling your eyes off the window, you snapped your head to look at the platinum blonde in the driver's seat and honestly told him how you felt. “You shouldn't be resting your hand on my thigh, Coryo. You’re married.”

The gold ring on his finger mocked him as it shines against the red and cream floral fabric of your dress. He never had anyone turn him down because of that thin gold band he was branded with by saying ‘I do’ to Livia Cardew, well that is until now. Coriolanus knew that you were young and innocent from District 12 so the thought of being a mistress would horrify you. He knew that he had to ease your worries, so he simply told you, “Don't worry about my wife, darling. I’m taking care of everything; she won't be my wife much longer.”

“I wasn't aware ya’ll were having marriage problems. The Capitol gossip rags make it seem like the marriage is a happy one.”

“Things aren't always as they seem here in the Capitol, my darling rose.” He told you before correcting your grammar with a stern, “And it's I wasn't aware that you were having marital problems.” Patting you on the thigh as he switched lanes, he explained, “You're not in District 12 anymore and since you'll be staying here in the Capitol for a while it's best that you learn how to speak properly; like a Capitol citizen.”

You didn't say a word, just numbly nodded. You never thought that staying in the Capitol while Victor’s Village and your house was constructed meant changing how you talked. You never thought you talked strange, well until now. “Do I sound weird when I talk, Coryo?” You asked, staring at the side of his face as he drove.

“No.” He shook his head. “We just need to work on some small grammar errors here and there, but no, darling, you sound just fine when you talk.”

“Oh…” You trailed off, turning your attention back to looking out your window.

He gave your thigh a gentle squeeze, “You're a rose that just needs some extra pruning and tender care, but fortunately for you I'm an excellent gardener that favors white roses.” His thumb grazed your thigh as he explained, “White roses are the perfect symbol of purity and perfection.” As he pulled up to a large building, his baritone heavily hung in the air with the meaningful words of, “Unblemished; untouched, just like you, my darling rose.”

But how long would you be Unblemished and untouched? Would he take your innocence as soon as you entered the penthouse or would he wait until he was free from his wife? The bigger question was did you even want him to take your innocence? To give you all of your first experiences with a man? Now that was the million dollar question you didn't have an answer for. Or maybe you did, but didn't want to acknowledge it.

AN: Did anyone catch the tv show easter egg I threw in there?

Tags: @kuroosbby001 , @purriteen , @poppyflower-22 , @meetmeatyourworst , @whipwhoops , @bxtchopolis, @readingthingsonhere,@savagenctzen, @ryswritingrecord, @erikasurfer, @tulips2715, @universal-s1ut, @thesmutconnoisseur, @squidscottjeans, @sudek4l, @wearemadeofstardust0, @mashiromochi, @gracieroxzy, @belcalis9503, @shari-berri

503 notes · View notes

k3n-dyll · 4 months

Text

Kingpin!Sevika

||Men, minors, and ageless DNI

CW: Dom!Sevika, sub!reader, Sevika is mean, degradation, free use kinda,squirting, cunnilingus (r! receiving), face fucking (S!receiving), fingering, AFAB reader, pussy slaps, aftercare, she loves you but won't say it

A/N: I just had some thoughts I needed to get out, this was meant to just be a few headcanons but it got a little long

Word count: 1,494 Divider creds. Masterlist

kingpin!Sevika who's taken Silco's place after his untimely death. In need of a right hand of her own, she chose you

kingpin!Sevika who- though, of course, chose you because you're capable, loyal, and trustworthy -just as she had been to Silco- also has a few...personal reasons as to why she made this decision.

You're a tough girl and she is well aware of that. She acknowledges it quite often, always telling you how well you do with the missions she leaves you in charge of. From someone like Sevika, that praise is a lot, and though frequent, it comes in small packaging. Short, sweet remarks that may seem like nothing to anyone else

"Y'did good." "Keep it up."

Or even just a head nod or pat on the back or shoulder to show that she approves of what you've done. It's the ultimate sign that she respects you.

kingpin!Sevika who would keep you by her side 24/7, 365 if she was able to. When you aren't out doing an assignment, a good amount of your workdays are spent in her office, either standing beside her as she sits lazily in the large chair behind her desk, as she uses you as a second pair of ears and eyes while she meets with the other chembarons - or, simply discussing future plans.

kingpin!Sevika whose sharp, silver eyes track your every movement at the end of the day when you're finally alone with her. Watching you fidget with the little nicknacks on her desk as you report back the events of the day, not making full eye contact with her because you know what's coming. There aren't many other reasons she'd have locked her office door completely after letting you in, it isn't like anyone had the gall to barge in unannounced.

"Strip" she'd mutter, fully interrupting whatever you were telling her because, at this point, she's more annoyed at the fact that you're still dressed than she is at some of the cargo being compromised due to the negligence of her blockhead henchmen - she'll take care of that later.

kingpin!Sevika who isn't one for talking about it once you do as you're told because of course you do, shedding yourself of the fabric that shields your body from her intense gaze, giving her a bit of a show because she'd scold you if you rushed.

kingpin!Sevika who can't seem to go a full five seconds without marking you once you're propped up on her leg, naked except for your underwear. She especially loves leaving marks on your tits, biting and sucking on the fat around your nipple, leaving as many pretty little bruises on your skin as she pleases with no real regard for how intense the feeling may be for you

As much as she likes making you feel good, this is about what she wants. She's had a stressful, rage-inducing day and this is the part of your job that she loves just as much as you do. The part where she gets to take out all her frustrations on your body. She's always rough with you, never giving you a second to catch your breath, and though one would think you'd be used to this treatment by now, it takes you by surprise every time. Her strong hands feel like they're everywhere at once, grabbing at your ass, your waist, your thighs, your tits - anywhere she can hold you to keep you close.

kingpin!Sevika who gets impatient with her own teasing rather quickly, a breathy, "fuck this" escaping her thick lips, because she needs to see and touch all of you. Using her mechanical arm to swat at the contents of her desk, allowing the paperwork, the merchandise, and whatever else is up there at the moment to crash to the floor below because it doesn't matter right now. None of it is you. She forces you up onto the surface of her desk, wasting no time in getting your panties off of you, kissing down the length of your body as she lightly presses a finger to your pussy, starting at your leaking hole - a low chuckle leaving her as she feels you begin to clench around nothing- then trailing up your pretty folds until she makes contact with your already swollen clit. The way you squirm and twitch underneath her is enough for her to let out a groan, not giving you much warning before two of her thick fingers plunge inside of you.

"Shut it" she murmurs against your skin when you whine at the sudden fullness, and you're so good to her that you actually try - and fail - to keep quiet. Sevika doesn't actually expect you to succeed, but she loves watching you struggle to obey, sliding her fingers in and out of your drooling cunt at a faster pace the harder you try. "Such a fucking slut, look at that..." she pulls her slick-coated fingers out of you, the emptiness making you whimper. Ever the sadist, she hears this and just like that her mechanical hand squeezes onto your thigh, keeping you in place as her real one lifts up slightly, the palm of her hand coming back into contact with your pussy with a smack. "I said keep that fucking trap shut." In the end, though, it doesn't really matter what you do - biting your lip, clenching your teeth, hell, trying to cover your mouth with your hand - it doesn't work.

kingpin!Sevika who would overstimulate you until you were a mumbling, babbling, drooling little mess, ignoring the aching in between her own thighs and fucking into you with her fingers, rubbing the pad of her thumb over your clit with each hard thrust. After you've sufficiently begged her enough through your ragged breathing and incoherent words, she'll even let you have her mouth, flattening the pink muscle and dragging it up your slit before latching her soft lips to your sensitive bud, sucking on it. Your body jerks forward at the feeling, your hands knotting into her short black locks as your thighs press to the sides of her head. Despite how sensitive she's made you, you can't stop yourself from grinding yourself into her mouth, desperate for yet another release.

kingpin!Sevika who will force you by your pretty hair down off of the desk and onto your knees in front of her, peeling her own jeans and underwear off of her body, unable to take waiting anymore. She's not giving you much of a chance to recover from all the overstimulation, nor is she even going to let you go at your own pace. No. If there's one thing this woman loves doing its gathering all your hair up into her hand and pushing your face into her dripping cunt, rutting herself onto your tongue as you keep it out and flattened for her as instructed.

"You like when I fuck that slutty face of yours, yeah?" she'd cut you off before you got the chance to even try to answer, not that she'd even understand whatever muffled words youd attempt anyways. "Yeah you do, pretty girl - fuck - take it, baby, just like that..."

kingpin!Sevika who's a squirter for sure. You aren't coming back up from your knees without being fucking drenched in her juices and she loves every second of it. An even more cruel part of her wants to push your head to the ground and force you to lick up whatever you missed off of the floor, but she settles for making you clean it up off of her inner thighs, pulling you up for a hot, hard kiss when you're done.

kingpin!Sevika who literally will not let you leave her office until you're all cleaned up and taken care of. In stark contrast to how rough she was with you a moment ago, she'd treat you like a fragile little thing once it's all said and done. You aren't allowed to clean yourself off, no. that's her job. She's not letting you put your own clothes on, not without any help at least. And as much as she may threaten to "make sure you can't walk out of this office properly" she will hold you in her lap until you've somewhat regained your balance.

"You okay?" is likely the most you'd get out of her in terms of sweet words, verbal affection isn't really her forte, but her actions always show that she cares more than she lets on.

It's like this every time, Sevika gently rubbing your aching muscles and pressing gentle kisses into your skin as you come down from the intensity of it all, but she won't talk. Sometimes she even gets back to work while you recover, but she never asks you to leave. She doesn't want you to leave and both of you know that, but you've both decided that it's better left unsaid.

#lesbian #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika smut #wlw #sevika #arcane #I think about her too much #☆kennie's works

636 notes · View notes

funeral · 7 months

Text

Emil Cioran, All Gall is Divided

#emil cioran #philosophy #solitude #quotes #p

459 notes · View notes

cas-kingdom · 3 months

Text

The Night Shift

A/N: First NCIS fic! Decided to keep my OC's name instead of reader as I'm pretty attached to her.

If you're alone on V Day, here's some Gibbs. <3

Title: The Night Shift

Summary: What's worse than a sick Gibbs? A sick mini Gibbs.

Words: 2568

It was two am, and Emmie Gibbs was tired.

She wrinkled her nose as something tickled at it and sat up to reach for the packet of tissues sitting dutifully by the pillow.

It was two am, and Emmie Gibbs was sick and tired.

Tony, the shit-stirrer that he was, leaned precariously back in his swivel chair to stare at her. If it weren’t for the squeak of the chair itself, she still would have noticed his sudden attention by the feeling of his eyes boring into her for perhaps the tenth time since they’d set up camp in the NCIS building about five hours ago. He was relentless.

Emmie paused. Tissue wedged in her nose, sinuses burning, she looked up and stared at him. Tony rose an eyebrow. Emmie hardened her stare. Tony, because he was Tony, purposefully leaned further back so she could see the exact moment he dramatically cupped a hand to his stupid little mouth and—

“Giiibbs!”

Emmie’s jaw tensed. Tony grinned in superfluous victory.

Another squeak, a more familiar one this time, and Gibbs’s swivel chair glided along the carpeted floor around the divider between the cubicles until he could see Emmie. She was still sitting up, looking quite the sight with a tissue halfway up her right nostril and her hair sticking at all angles. On any other day she would have responded to Tony’s pure gall by glaring him straight into the ground. But today was not that day. Today was a bad day. Today, her week-long, just-about-bearable cold had decided to manifest into sinusitis, and she’d woken with a face that felt as though tiny little men were mining for gold in her skull. Ducky had liked that metaphor.

Partly because she was absolutely awful at caring for herself when she was ill, and partly—mostly—because he knew he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on work if she was left to fend for herself at home, Gibbs had dragged Emmie into the office with him. She’d made her rounds all day—curled up on Abby’s little couch at first, then bundled off to an empty room when Abby found working in silence too impossible. At lunchtime, a meeting had been scheduled in the room, and she’d been forced to accompany Gibbs and Tony in the car to a naval base connected to the case they were working on, sniffling and groaning in the back seat like a Victorian child on her death bed.

And here she was now, at two a bloody m, lying on an ungodly amount of blankets, wrapped in Gibbs’s jacket and Tony’s hoodie, on the floor, feeling like her body was readying to explode. Life couldn’t get worse.

Unless you were acquainted with Tony DiNozzo. In which case, life could, and most certainly would, get worse.

Gibbs dipped his head and rose an eyebrow at Emmie. Emmie couldn’t do much in her defence but sniff. Hard. A slight protest only she had the guts to attempt. It was when he pointed a finger at her and motioned with it for her to lie down again that Emmie tossed her arms up.

“Do you know—” Another sniff—“Do you even know how hard it is to lie down and feel your sinuses drain into your throat?” Her voice was so nasally she couldn’t sound stern, even if she put every ounce of effort into it.

Tony, naturally, did not try hard to cover his amusement at that. He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, spinning from side to side absently in his chair with the tip of his tongue held between his smirking lips when Emmie turned narrowed eyes on him.

“I was getting a tissue, FYI,” she said to him and only him. “So, you can stop being a kiss ass, Anthony.”

“Emmie.” Gibbs disappeared behind the divider again. “Back to sleep.”

Tony, meanwhile, gaped. “Kiss ass who?”

Emmie ignored him and shuffled back down again. She shut her eyes and swallowed. Already the disgusting stuff had decided the place it wanted to be right now was her stomach, and was meandering slowly down her throat towards it.

“You were being a bit of a kiss ass,” she heard Gibbs agree.

“Oh, come on. You said you wanted her to sleep!”

“Yeah, and I do.”

“But you’re gonna call me a kiss ass when I tell you she’s not sleeping? Kiss my ass.”

“What was that?”

“Sorry, Boss.”

In all honesty, there was nothing more that Emmie wanted least right now than to sleep. True, she was exhausted, but the part of her brain not currently still enshrouded in said exhaustion wanted to be up and active again, helping Gibbs with the case like her internship allowed.

And yet, the man still believed she needed her head on a pillow.

The team had been working on a case all day, one she didn’t know the specifics of. It wasn’t exactly often that they stayed in the office well into the night to continue their current case, but it appeared Gibbs had a weird feeling about this one. From the snippets of conversation that she’d picked up and actually retained in her decrepit brain, a potential witness was lying unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere, and Gibbs wanted to speak to him the moment he woke up, which, according to the doctors, could be at any time. That apparently required the entire team to stay behind which, considering the fact Emmie was currently holed up on the floor of Ziva’s empty cubicle, not everyone had complied with.

The moment Tony got out of his chair to help Gibbs with something and disappeared from her line of sight, Emmie eased herself into a sitting position once more. She reached for the tissues again, rubbing at her leaking nose with the sleeve of Gibbs’s jacket and not possessing the brain power to regret that decision. She blew into a tissue, paused to catch her breath, then—

“Gibbs.”

Emmie deflated completely. Wow. The world truly hated her today.

She looked up to see McGee walking in with a bag of takeout. He barely glanced at her as he passed, choosing to instead spend that energy alerting Gibbs to the fact she was, again, not lying down.

Before either Tony or Gibbs could come into view once more, Emmie sighed, stuck two bits of tissue in both nostrils, and scooted backwards to sit against the wall.

“Can’t breathe lying down,” she said before anyone could say a single word. “And I’m tired of being tired. I don’t want to sleep anymore. Leave me alone. Don’t talk to me. Shush.”

Tony’s head appeared around the corner, and he snorted again. Then the squeak of Gibbs’s chair as he got up. A rustling. A moment later he appeared with a takeout box in his hand, walking towards her. He lifted it so she could see, and she groaned, shaking her head. A corner of Gibbs’s mouth lifted but he wasn’t about to back down on this fight. He never did.

He knelt in front of her, close enough to see the pallidness of her face and the slight sickly tremble of her small frame. Emmie visibly relaxed when he reached out a hand to press against her forehead, the coolness of his skin momentarily dowsing the heat of hers.

Gibbs checked the watch at his wrist. “Another couple hours and you can dose up again.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep. ‘Till then…” He went to withdraw his hand, but Emmie’s own hand shot up and pinned his to her forehead.

“No,” she said simply.

“No to my hand leaving, or food?”

“No.”

“You gotta eat. You know the drill. Eat or sleep.” She grumbled something and Gibbs reached with his free hand to lift the lid on the box. The smell of warm chicken soup filled the space between them, and Emmie wrinkled her nose. “Come on, kiddo. It’s only soup.”

“I feel too sick to eat.”

“Sleep it is, then.”

“Dad—”

“Hey. The cure for alll Emmie-related illness is sleep. Always has been, always will be.” It was true. Gibbs knew his daughter better than she knew herself, after all. Everyone was different, but Emmie’s medicine was sleep until she could look him in the eye and confidently tell him she felt a bit better. If years of being a single parent had taught him anything, it was that.

With a bit of reluctance, he pulled his hand from her head and leant forward on his toes. “You don’t have to lie down to sleep,” he told her. “Here—” Emmie wasn’t quite sure what he was doing with the pillows and blankets behind her, but when he sat back and she turned as much as her aching neck would allow, there was a nice little DIY upright-bed against the wall. Gibbs, seemingly proud of his work, was met with a look of absolute discontent on his daughter’s face.

He puffed his cheeks out and glanced at the soup. “Aeroplane?”

“Seriously?” Emmie deadpanned.

He reached for the spoon, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “Worked when you were a kid.”

“There’re a few keywords in that sentence, Dad. Are you trying to give Tony more fuel to embarrass me?”

Gibbs glanced over his shoulder. Tony had returned to his desk, leaning dangerously back in his chair to gain the best vantage point. The man had absolutely zero shame.

Gibbs jerked his head. “Check with the hospital about Lupin, would you, DiNozzo?”

Tony visibly deflated. Emmie sent him a smug look and he stuck his tongue out. Reluctantly, he wheeled back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Do this, DiNozzo, do that, DiNozzo,” he grumbled to himself. “Oh, while you’re at it, why don’t you polish my boots and write a thesis on my intellectual prowess, DiNozzo? Sure, I’ll get right on it, Boss!” He dialled the number and put the phone to his ear. “Should I get your laundry and your coffee too, Boss? Should I do—hi, there! Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS, calling for an update on a patient? Ryan Lupin. Yeah, I’ll hold. Thanks.”

“Dad.” Such an exasperated voice could only belong to the resident invalid, and after only a second’s hesitation, Tony—slowly—wheeled himself back, as far as the cord to the phone still held against his ear would allow. Emmie and Gibbs were still on the floor, the former looking most disgruntled at the spoon in the latter’s hand.

“I’m being serious,” she said then.

“So am I,” Gibbs said, “very serious. I’m being very serious right now. Soup?”

Emmie rolled her eyes, but a smile was pulling at her lips all the same. She shook her head. “Go back to your desk, old man.”

Tony’s brows shot up and he grinned. “Oohoohoo!” He was close to rubbing his hands together in sheer glee. “You gonna let her get away with that, Boss?”

“Lupin, DiNozzo.”

“I’m on hold!” The fact that Gibbs made no sign that he was going to pick his daughter up on her insult, when Tony knew that if he’d been the one to call his boss elderly he’d be getting a bit more than a slap to the back of the head, hit a sore spot. “Wait,” he said, looking hilariously appalled, “you’re actually gonna let her get away with it?”

Gibbs, defeated in this part only, dropped the spoon back in the box and put it on the desk. “I’ve been called worse,” he called back, “believe me.”

“Grandpa,” Emmie said.

“Thank you, Em, that’s very helpful.”

“Ninnyhammer, pillock, douche canoe, old man—”

“You already said that one.” Gibbs chuckled. “Douche canoe?”

Emmie shrugged. “Dunderhead.”

“Alright.”

“Ugly…nut.”

“Jemima.”

McGee, who’d since been silently working and eating at his desk, paused. Mouth open, forkful of noodles on its way, he turned confused eyes to the ground.

“Her name’s Jemima?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “How long you been here McGee?”

As soon as Emmie looked the slightest bit like she was about to resume her name-calling, Gibbs put his palm over her mouth. He rose a brow in warning. She blinked. Blinked again. Then—

“Aw, come on!” Gibbs’s face contorted into one of absolute disgust as a rush of air and wet stuff flew at his hand. He withdrew it immediately, holding it away from him, while Emmie sniffed and nonchalantly used the jacket sleeve again.

“You little crapbag.” It was the best he could come up with.

“What? You think I plan my sneezes?”

Tony, up until now quite enjoying the performance, rolled quickly back to the desk with the phone at his ear. “Hi, yeah, I’m still here.”

Gibbs stood and walked briskly to his desk so he could grab the stack of napkins the takeout had come with. “I don’t doubt anything when it comes to you.”

“Thank you.” Emmie rubbed at her red eyes with her hand and slumped against the back of the wall. Gibbs, coating his hands with sanitizer, watched with a knowing eye. He shook his hands and walked back around to Ziva’s cubicle, perching on the desk to look down at her.

“You’re sick,” he said.

“I know. And?”

“And, sick people eat soup, and they sleep. Okay? They don’t stay up at all hours of the night—nooo, no, no. I’m talking now, kiddo. I know you’ve been sleeping all day, I know you wanna get up and back to work, but that’s not happening until your fever’s gone. No point in fighting that, and you know full well. Clear?”

Any other day. Any. Other. Day. The protests were practically clawing at her throat. But a sudden wave of nausea rushed over her and she backed down immediately. Still, the thought of lying down again was awful, and the tired eyes she turned on her dad somehow translated that.

Gibbs sighed. “What’s it gonna take, huh?” Emmie didn’t need to think about her answer to that. She wasn’t even sure her expression had changed at all when Gibbs shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “No,” he said, “come on, now. I gotta work.”

This time, she did change her expression, putting it on in the way she knew worked best. Gibbs, naturally, relented.

“Fine,” he said, motioning with his hands for her to move over. She did, though admittedly it was a bit of a pitiful move with her aching body. He breathed a short laugh but came to sit in the miniscule space she’d made beside her anyway.

“Thanks, douche canoe,” Emmie whispered.

Tony put the phone down. “Still knocked out, Boss,” he said, pushing his chair backwards. When he saw Gibbs on the floor, arm wrapped around his daughter, who had her head on his shoulder, he crossed his arms over his chest and positively pouted.

“Hey, why do you get to sleep?”

Gibbs chuckled and shut his eyes. “When you’ve got a sick kid, I’ll let you sleep on the office floor with her. Wake me before Lupin does, would you?”

“How am I—Boss? Boss?” Tony threw his arms up in the air and shook his head, grabbing a notebook from his desk to doodle in. “Kiss my ass.”

“Heard that.”

“I wanted you to.”

Well, one thing was for certain. Gibbs may have won this fight, but so had Emmie.

NCIS Masterpost

250 notes · View notes

secretswiftymarvelfan · 4 months

Note

Congrats on 3000! Can I please request Steve Rogers/Friends to Lovers/"I said I'd take care of you" tysm:)

Thank you so much for sending something in!

Stay - Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Apartment hunting is becoming difficult thanks to Steve's help

Word Count: 681

Warning: Minor Angst! Fluff!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Masterlist / Celebration Masterlist

You loved Steve. He was you best friend in the world word. You’d die for him, and he’d die for you.

But right now? You wanted to kill him.

You were currently searching for a new apartment. Your old one had gotten damaged in the most recent attack on New York, your landlord had promised you that you’d be back in your apartment in six months' time. But then he decided to sell the land to developers and your apartment block was being torn down for a fancy new hotel.

You’d been staying with Steve while it was only supposed to be six months and it had been loads of fun, you almost didn’t want to move out, but you didn’t want to overstay your welcome. So when your lack of an apartment became permanent you started looking.

Steve said he’d help, he came with you to all the viewing, but he was more of a hindrance than a help. With every apartment you saw he found something wrong with it.

Sometimes the things he pointed out were valid, like the lack of amenities, storage or the kitchen was too small. But a lot of them were so small that he was just nitpicking like the floors were creaky. Nothing was perfect enough for him and it wasn’t even his apartment.

You were looking around yet another apartment, you’d lost count of how many apartments you viewed by now. This was a nice apartment, you couldn’t find anything wrong with it, but by the look of Steve’s face, you knew he’d found at least 5 things wrong with it.

“Right what is it then?” you snapped, arms crossed over your chest.

Steve had the gall to look surprised at your outburst “What?”

“What tiny little thing are you gonna say is so wrong with this place that I shouldn’t go for it?” you stated.

Steve glanced around the room “Well since you mentioned it” he started.

You didn’t let him finish “No, no, NO!” you shouted, “I don’t want to hear it!” Steve baulked “Do you know how difficult it is to find an apartment Steve? There are so many people like me looking and only so many places! So yeah none of them will be perfect! You have to find something that you could work with!” You rant gesturing out at the apartment around you before you pointed a finger at him “Your apartment has plenty of problems that you live with! Like that creaky floorboard by the front door and- and the window that gets stuck in the bathroom! You lived with it so why can’t I!”

“I’m sorry” Steve said quietly, his shoulder dropped.

“I don’t get it Steve” you sighed “Why? Why do you keep doing this? Do you not want me to move out or something?”

“I don’t… I don’t want you to move out” he admitted.

“You don’t? You said quietly.

Steve shook his head as he walked over and closed the distance between you “When you moved in I said I’d take care of you… how can I do that you move out?”

“But-but-” you stuttered struggling to make sense of it all.

Steve let out a heavy sigh as he scratched the back of his neck “guess there’s no better time to be honest… I love you Y/N, so so much and after living with you, being so close to you every day… I don’t think I can go back to not having you around”

Your jaw dropped and your heart hammered in your chest. One of the reasons you want to find your own place was because you’re feelings for him were so strong and you were so certain that he didn’t return those feelings that it was killing you.

“You- you-... I- I love you too Steve” you breathed.

Steve let out a relieved chuckle “So will you stay?” he asked taking another step closer so there was barely any space between you, and his fingers brushed against yours.

“I’ll stay” you whispered as you linked your fingers with his.

Sharing is caring so please reblog if you enjoyed this and maybe even leave a comment to make my day!

If you want to get involved in my I Love You 3000 Event, Check it out here!

Masterlist / Celebration Masterlist

I don’t have a taglist so follow @secretswiftymarvelfanlibrary and turn on post notifications to be kept up to date!

#niamh writes #Niamh Loves You 3000 #Steve Rogers #Steve rogers x Reader #Steve Rogers x You #Steve Rogers x Y/N

233 notes · View notes

lookninjas · 3 months

Text

So I was curious as to why exactly Russia was calling for the arrest of Estonian PM Kaja Kallas, and it turns out they're pissed off at her for taking down Soviet monuments in Estonia.

As a reminder, the Soviet Union invaded Estonia in 1939 as part of a joint operation with Nazi Germany for the two countries to divide Europe between them (the Molotov-Ribbentrof pact). They briefly lost control when Germany decided they could have all Europe, not just half, but reoccupied the Baltic nations as the war turned against the Nazis. Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania remained occupied by the USSR until 1991.

Just. The unmitigated gall of it. Claiming that the warrant is about her removing tributes to the "heroes" that "denazified" Estonia. Charging the leader of a sovereign nation with committing an offense against Russian laws, as though she's somehow subject to them.

If there was ever any doubt in you -- if ever for a second you thought that maybe the Russian government could be stopped from invading other countries by any means other than overwhelming force -- I need you really to think hard about what this means. That they're still acting like Estonia is their territory to occupy. That they think their laws apply to the leaders of other nations.

Russia will not stop until they are stopped. That's it. That's all.

#russia #estonia #kaja kallas #stand with ukraine

223 notes · View notes

lesbiansforboromir · 6 months

Text

Categorically the most galling part of this universal perception that Boromir is a 'poor out-of-his-depth himbo whose completely ignorant of politics' is how it is blindingly canonically apparent that he put massive effort into being a political entity, to the point that his political opinions follow him even into the Council of Elrond.

Without the Council of Elrond, one could interpret his narrative positioning as a more 'Middle Man' and less 'high' as something forced upon him, a (narratively framed) negative aspect of his character that Faramir is critisising and lamenting as just 'part of his nature'. He is being associated with the Rohirrim and other 'lesser' men because he is also a 'lesser' man inspite of his heritage, due to his 'flawed' and 'weak-willed' personality.

Although that is still a bit of a stilted and awkward interpretation in my opinion, Eomer explicitely differentiates Boromir's treatment and manner around the Rohirrim from other men of Gondor he has known. He is 'less grim' etc etc, Eomer felt more at ease in his company, which implies to me more that Boromir interacted with the Rohirrim as equals, unlike most of this kin. Which seems more likely to be an active effort on his part.

But interpretations based off of that are entirely unnecessary, because the Council of Elrond exists! Where Boromir, when confronted with Aragorn's mistrust of the Rohirrim and Gwaihir's accusation that they pay a tribute of horses to Sauron, immediately and comfortably comes to their staunch defense. 'It is a lie that comes from the Enemy' he declares, literally pointing out propeganda that all these elves and dunadain are primed to believe given their own investment in the racial divide between them and these 'middle men'. A primer that also belongs to Boromir, whose place amongst the 'high men' is a right bestowed on him from birth, yet one he is actively discarding here in favour of defending the Rohir perspective.

And not only that! He even goes so far as to place the rohirrim's ethnic and cultural heritage as a reason for their trustworthiness, inspite of the fact that they cannot claim any relation to any so called 'blessed' lineage. They come from 'the free days of old', a statement that is similar to one of Faramir's but that, tellingly, Faramir uses as a method of infantilising the rohirrim 'they remind us of the youth of Men'.

These are all inherently and radically political statements for the heir of the Stewardship, the man next in line to be chieftain of the southern dunadain, to declare, especially when acting as emissary as he is now.

So now, all those moments when Boromir is linked directly with middle men, when his right to his 'high' heritage is questioned, when he is critisised with the same racially charged language as the rohirrim are (too warlike, "we are become Middle Men, of the Twilight, but with memory of other things" [-] "So even was my brother, Boromir") - all of that is now on purpose, on Boromir's part. He is the one distancing himself from the title of 'high' and questioning it's validity in the process, something Faramir clearly disapproved of and was a part of the breakdown in his respect for him. (Understandable, considering Faramir's equal and opposite effort to reclaim the title of 'high' for himself and his people.) Boromir is, essentially, engaging in some kind of racial-hierarchy criticism/abolishionism and activism.

That is not to say that his political opinions all entirely pass muster, he does still engage in racist rhetoric at least once, calling Gondor's eastern enemies 'the wild folk of the east'. But within the context of his own country and it's ethnic diversity, his position is maverick in comparison to pretty much everyone else.

And before anyone says it, let me head off comments like 'Boromir was just being himself, he didn't even know it was political he was just that stupid but I love him for it' No. Boromir's reputation in Gondor was complex and multifacetted but a great many people loved and supported him, clearly we see that there was a divide in political opinion between the two brother's stances on war and society. What you are essentially saying here is that Faramir is such a dull-witted statesman that he was incapable of swaying opinion his way against someone who didn't even know he was a part of the discussion, who wasnt even involved in the debates, against a high society that based their cultural identity on being descended from racially superior Numenoreans. The historical perspective is heavily weighted in Faramir's favour.

The much more likely state of affairs is that Boromir and Faramir have both been working towards their own social change and against each other, causing an opinion divide within the country. And apparently Boromir has not been losing that fight, even if he hasn't been definitively winning it either. Some people call him reckless where Faramir is measured, others say Faramir is not bold enough, Denethor himself claims Faramir is placing his desire for nobility and 'high-ness' over the safety of himself and his people. Culturally Gondor is going in for more pursuits of war-sports (wrestling perhaps) and the adulation of the soldiers that defend them, above the men of lore if Faramir is to be believed.

Society is changing around this debate and Boromir is actively, purposefully and directly involved in that debate! Hells bells, he even describes a part of how he works in the political sphere to Frodo! 'Where there are so many, all speech becomes a debate without end. But two together may perhaps find wisdom.' Boromir is!!! A politician!! On purpose!!

The neutral political position of 'Heir to the Stewardship' given to him by his birth is so ludicrously weighted towards faithful that the effort it must have taken to push the needle and associate with the middle men as such a divisive yet loved figure is MASSIVE. Boromir believed the Rohirrim and middle men of Gondor were his social equals and counted them amongst his people and that was a stance he upheld in PARLIMENT! Stop!! Acting like he's just a blockheaded soldier who cares about nothing else- he cares!! He cares a lot!! Professionally in fact!!

#text post #boromir #erran vs tolkien #tolkien meta #gondor #faramir #gondor meta

346 notes · View notes

candycandy00 · 7 months

Text

Serve Me, Save Me - A Sukuna x Reader Fanfic Part 1

After Ryomen Sukuna inadvertently saves you while killing his enemies, you decide to devote yourself to him as a servant. But the trauma from the attack triggers panic when you find yourself in his bed.

Part 1 | Part 2

Smut (not much in this part). 18+. Slow burn. Softer Sukuna than I’ve written before but he’s still a monster. True form Sukuna. Rape and its aftermath feature prominently as a plot device but rape does NOT occur between Sukuna and Reader. Features PTSD, panic attacks, etc.

If you’d like to be tagged in future parts (I have no idea how many there will be), comment to let me know! You must have your age in your bio or intro post or just tell me you’re an adult in the comment! Likes are appreciated but comments and reblogs (especially with feedback in the tags) make me feel all warm and squishy! Seriously any feedback at all is so wonderful! Divider by @benkeibear!

You ran through the village as fast as you could, fleeing the men armed with swords who were currently cutting down everyone their blades could reach. They spared no one, not women, not the elderly, not even children. Your parents were among the first victims, your younger brother next. And all you could do was run for your life.

This village was supposed to be safe from attacks like these. After all, it was under the protection of Lord Ryomen Sukuna. Your village worshipped him, and in turn he cut down any who would attack it, most often in nightmarishly brutal ways that served as warnings to his potential enemies. That’s why this attack was so shocking, so unimaginable. Who would dare?

But Lord Sukuna was away, conquering some other town, bringing more enemies under his foot. Someone sent a shikigami to notify him of the attack, but who knew when it would reach him, or if he would even bother coming to the village’s rescue.

Even though you and your village honored him as a deity, none of you were stupid. You were under no illusion that he actually cared about the people of the village. But he did care about his reputation, his pride. And an attack on this village was a clear declaration of war on Sukuna himself. Surely he wouldn’t tolerate such blatant disrespect.

You reached the outskirts of the village, where a small shrine had been erected for Sukuna. There was a much bigger shrine for him in the village proper, but this one was well cared for despite rarely being visited by him.

The shrine was the size of a modest home in the village, enough room to house at least five people comfortably. So you had plenty of room to hide inside it, closing the door behind you and trying to be perfectly silent. You thought you had outrun most of the attackers, having stopped hearing pursuing footsteps several minutes ago.

But you were wrong.

The door slammed open, and four men stomped inside, kicking and breaking things as they came, gleefully flaunting their disregard for Sukuna’s shrine. They went straight for you, and you prepared yourself to die. You closed your eyes and waited to be cut down.

Unfortunately for you, these four men were in no hurry to kill you.

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

When Sukuna received word that one of his villages was being raided, he went there immediately to see what fools would intentionally earn his ire this way. He didn’t really care how many villagers were slaughtered, but he was intensely annoyed that anyone would have the gall to attack them when they were technically under his “protection”.

As he moved through the village, he sliced up the attackers into increasingly small pieces. It took no effort at all, barely a thought, and they were reduced to tiny chunks or ribbons of bloody flesh.

He found a gang of them in his shrine in the middle of the village, making a mess of the place, the shrine maidens murdered. It was a direct insult to him, so he slowed down, took his time, sliced up their limbs and left them to writhe on the floor in pools of their own blood. He could come back to them later, force them to tell him who their leader was. If any of them survived long enough, he could enjoy making examples of them. His mind was already coming up with creative ways to display them outside the village, preferably still alive. Their screams of torment would work well to discourage future attacks.

As he moved through the village at a leisurely pace, picking off the remaining enemies who had scattered like insects before his wrath, he remembered the smaller shrine to him. It was on the outskirts of the village, but if the attackers ransacked his main shrine, there could very well be some of them in the smaller one.

When he reached it, he immediately heard screaming coming from inside. A woman’s voice, crying, in pain. He walked inside almost casually, and leaned against the door frame. The people inside didn’t even notice him at first, so caught up in what they were busy doing.

Four men were in a half circle around a young woman, clearly a villager. She was naked save for some ripped pieces of clothing here and there that clung to her, and one of the men was presently thrusting into her while the others held her down. She was screaming, struggling, trying to break free of their grasp, but it was futile. She was covered in bruises, scratches, even a few cuts from their swords. Her lip was busted and bleeding, one eye already swelling, and various other small injuries littered her form.

“Having fun in my shrine, I see,” Sukuna said.

All of the men froze, then slowly turned to look at him. Whatever they had heard about Ryomen Sukuna, they were still unprepared for what they saw: a tall, monstrous man with four arms and four eyes.

The one raping the village girl pulled away from her and stood up. Before he could pull his clothing back on, his body was chopped into twenty different pieces, his blood splattering all over his comrades and the girl on the floor, who screamed and scrambled to get away from the carnage. The other three men were foolish enough to draw their swords, but they were all just chunks of meat on the floor before any of them could take a step toward him.

Finished with his task, Sukuna turned to leave, but then he heard a small, frightened voice say, “Thank you, Lord Sukuna, for saving me!”

He looked over and saw the girl bowing low to the floor, her bloody, violated body trembling.

Saving her? She’d already been brutalized before he arrived. Ah, but the four men would have killed her, probably after raping her several more times. He responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. He’d had no interest in helping her, but if she was “saved” as a byproduct of him killing his enemies, so be it.

He left the shrine and returned to the center of the village to speak to the survivors. He would need to tell them to clean up his shrines, and he supposed he could give them assurances that the enemies would suffer unimaginably for their crimes.

For the next week, Sukuna remained in the village, torturing the lone survivor among the attackers into giving up the name of the man who ordered the attack, as well as overseeing some of the repairs to his main shrine. The villagers brought him gifts and offerings, heaping praises onto him for protecting them, even though he’d done very little in that regard and the attack had come in the first place because someone wanted to challenge him.

One day a young woman appeared at his shrine, her beauty quite striking despite the faint bruises and small scars that dotted her skin. She bowed after being led inside and into his presence.

“I’ve come to offer myself in service to you, Lord Sukuna,” she said. “You saved my life. It’s only right that my life belongs to you. I would be happy to work in the shrine, prepare your meals, whatever tasks you need done. Even if you choose to kill me for your amusement, I am eager to serve.”

He was sitting in a seat custom built for his large frame, one elbow propping up his head as he leaned onto his hand. He grinned down at the woman. He quite liked this type of submission. “Stand,” he told her, so that he could get a better look at her.

Just then, he recognized who she was. The girl who was gang raped in his smaller shrine. She looked quite different now, fully clothed with her hair neatly pinned back. “Why offer yourself to me?” he asked.

She glanced up at him, and he made a motion with one of his hands to signal she was allowed to look at him and speak.

“I really do feel that my life belongs to you, my Lord,” she said. “And I have no life in the village now. No man will take me as a wife after… after what happened.”

Ah, yes. This village, as well as several others, had the ridiculous custom of requiring brides to be virgins. Sukuna himself never understood it. He’d fucked virgins as well as mothers of several children, and in his opinion the mothers were far more satisfying. But he didn’t really care what their customs were, so he made no rules when it came to things like that.

Looking at the young woman before him, he thought to himself that the men of this village were fools to pass up a beauty like her for such a stupid reason. No matter.

“I accept your offer,” he told her, gesturing for her to go deeper into the shrine, where rooms were available for servants.

She bowed again. “Thank you, my Lord.”

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

Walking through the shrine where Sukuna spent most of his time in the village, you feel a sense of relief. After your ordeal during the attack, there were precious few options open to you. The two most obvious ones were becoming a servant or joining a brothel. The latter option was something you just couldn’t bring yourself to do. The thought of sleeping with strange men brought too many horrible memories to the front of your mind.

You were not naive. You knew that being Lord Sukuna’s servant meant you would probably end up in his bed at some point. But you’d given it a lot of thought. Sukuna was away from the village quite often, and he had other servants he used for such purposes. You decided that you could handle occasionally being bed by one man better than entertaining several men every night.

And… Lord Sukuna was a god. He was extraordinary, and he was beautiful. If you did have to sleep with someone, better him than anyone else in the village.

That had been your mindset at the time. Just survive. Just make the best of a cruel situation. Shove the nightmares and trauma to the back of your mind and try to live out your life in relative peace.

The first few days at the shrine were uneventful. You swept floors, washed laundry, and sometimes helped in the kitchen. You saw Lord Sukuna often, but had little interaction with him besides pouring sake for him a few times.

All that changed on the fourth night. You were on your knees in the hallway, mopping the floor with a rag, when Lord Sukuna stepped out of the bathing room and walked down the hall. He wore a simple white robe and nothing more. His hair was still wet, water droplets dripping down his neck and to his chest.

He stopped beside you, looking down. You paused your work and bowed low, waiting for any instruction he might have for you.

“You,” he said in his smooth voice, “Come to my chambers within the hour.”

Fighting the urge to look at him, you kept your head down as you said, “Yes, my Lord.”

He walked away, and you hurried to finish up your chore as your face burned and your heart pounded. You didn’t think it would happen so soon, but you supposed it was inevitable.

As you freshened up in your room, smoothing your tied back hair and changing into a robe slightly nicer than your work clothing, you tried to calm your nerves. You kept telling yourself you could handle this. You hadn’t been intimate with anyone since the attack, and honestly the thought of it terrified you, but this was different, wasn’t it? This wasn’t just any man, it was Lord Sukuna! A god to your village! Being invited to his bed was a great honor.

When you walked into his chambers, he was standing by an open window that stretched from floor to ceiling. Sheer curtains were swaying in the warm breeze of the summer night. While yours was not a seaside village, it was quite close. You could have walked to the beach in around an hour. As such, the smell of the ocean often drifted in on the wind.

He turned to face you, and his tall, powerful form looked imposing. The room was well lit with oil lamps, making every detail of him clearly visible as he untied the silken belt around his waist and opened his robe, then let it slide off his shoulders.

You couldn’t suppress your gasp. Standing nude before you was the most magnificent being you’d ever seen. He looked like a statue, like he was cast from smooth stone. Muscular, with black tattoos lining his body, he stood with two of his four hands on his hips, one holding the robe he’d removed, and the last touching the back of his neck. Four piercing red eyes sat above a very confident smirk.

Confident because he’d noticed exactly where your gaze had settled. Between his strong thighs hung two enormous cocks, not even hard yet and already intimidating. You probably should have been frightened of him, of his unusual body, but at that moment you could only think that he was beautiful, that he was divine.

“Disrobe,” he commanded, and you fumbled with your own sash, hurrying to untie it. Then you opened your own silk robe and pulled it off. You were not especially shy, but you did feel a bit self conscious in the presence of such a perfect being.

His eyes moved up and down your body, seemingly pleased with what he saw. He stepped closer to the bed, and motioned for you to join him. When you reached it, he pushed you onto your back, and you felt your heart racing as he climbed on top of you.

At first, you thought you were merely excited. You could feel a slickness between your thighs, and were relieved that you were even still capable of being aroused after everything that happened. But then two of his hands grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the bed, as his remaining hands moved over you, groping and squeezing your flesh.

Your breaths became rapid and shallow as unwanted memories invaded your mind. You desperately wanted to avoid thinking about the last time you were naked and pinned down while other hands roughly explored your body, but the sensations were there, the fear was there, imbedded in your mind, burned into your body.

At some point Sukuna had pushed your legs apart, and you felt two ridiculously large erections brushing across your body. You shuddered, images and sounds from that terrible day flooding your mind. Multiple shadows looming over you, men’s voices laughing and mocking, hands grabbing you, hitting you, hard cocks tearing their way inside you…

“No!” you suddenly screamed, bucking against Sukuna’s grip.

He didn’t hear you, or he didn’t care. His mouth was on your neck, his hands still holding your arms in place.

You jerked again, trying to close your legs. “Please stop!” you cried, tears bursting from your eyes. “Lord Sukuna, stop!”

At this point you were full on panicking, struggling against his infinite strength, screaming incoherently, sobbing when you ran out of energy to scream. You knew this would anger him. He would probably kill you, but you couldn’t help it. Your brain was full of vivid memories of the worst moments of your life, and you could do nothing to dispel them.

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

Sukuna had planned to have an enjoyable evening at his shrine. He’d had a fantastic meal and a relaxing bath, and his plan was to fuck one of his servants before getting some sleep. Considering there were several beautiful servants currently living at the shrine who were all eager to please him, this should not have been a difficult plan to work out.

So why the fuck was the woman beneath him shrieking and crying as if she was being murdered? She had seemed fine just a few minutes ago, not showing even a hint of reluctance even upon seeing his twin cocks. In fact she had seemed quite enamored with them, her eyes drawn to them while her face became flushed. When he’d first laid her on the bed and begun touching her, she was noticeably wet.

Now she was hysterical, causing him to stop touching her, though two of his hands still had her wrists pinned down. When she realized he had paused, her screams died down and she laid there, panting, staring up at him with terrified eyes.

Oh. It was her. He’d almost forgotten. He’d invited her to his bed simply because she’d happened to be there in the hallway and looked pretty on her I knees in front of him. He’d given no thought to her history, to what had happened to her during the attack on the village. In all honesty, he really didn’t care what had happened to her. She had voluntarily become a servant in his shrine, knowing what that would entail.

It wasn’t as if Sukuna had never forced himself on a woman. It was rare, as there was simply no need for it. He could go to any of the villages that revered him and have women vying for the honor of pleasing him. But occasionally he used it as a way to punish his enemies, taking their wives in front of them. In most cases, the wives ended up moaning and cumming on his cocks while their pathetic husbands were forced to watch.

In even rarer instances, so rare it had only happened a handful of times throughout his life, he had forced himself on powerful Jujutsu sorceresses who had tried to defeat him. Those cases were not even about sex for him, but about power, about dominance, about conquering their bodies to assert who was strongest. There was a thrill in breaking them.

Looking down at the sniffling, teary woman in his bed, he felt no thrill whatsoever. There was nothing exciting about conquering something so weak, breaking something that was already broken. With a sigh of annoyance, he climbed off her and stood up.

“Leave me,” he said, picking up his own robe from the floor and pulling it back on. “Your blubbering has made my cocks soft.”

The woman scurried out of his bed, then immediately dropped to the floor in a low bow. “Forgive me, Lord Sukuna!” she cried. “It hasn’t been very long since… since I was…” Her voice trailed off.

“Since you were raped, I know. I saw.”

Her face reddened. Was she ashamed that he’d witnessed at least a small part of the assault? Another thing about ordinary human women he didn’t understand. Why was she ashamed of the actions of others? Ah well, it didn’t matter.

“I haven’t been… with a man… since that happened,” she continued, her eyes on the floor. “I beg for patience, my Lord. I’m sure that after some time has passed, I won’t be so frightened.”

He sighed again. He would have preferred for her to simply leave his chambers without a word rather than prattle on about her problems. “Fine, fine,” he said, waving one of his hands dismissively, “now go. I’ve suddenly grown bored and sleepy.”

The servant quickly pulled her robe on, saying, “Thank you for your mercy, my Lord!” before rushing out the door.

Mercy? Sukuna scoffed. He’d simply found her annoying and sent her away. He considered sending for another servant, but he was no longer in the mood. So he sank into his bed and let sleep take him.

#Sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #tw: rape

214 notes · View notes

nicklloydnow · 10 months

Text

Leipzig, Germany, 1 April 1945 (the suicides of Ernst Kurt, Renate Stephanie, and Regina Lisso) [photographed by Lee Miller]

“On a globe composing its own epitaph, let us have enough decorum to behave as nice corpses.” - Emil Cioran, ‘All Gall is Divided’ (1952)

#cioran #emil cioran #all gall is divided #wwii #lisso #kurt lisso #lee miller #suicide

6 notes · View notes

void-detective · 9 days

Text

Voice in his Head 🎤

[GIF IS NOT MINE!! All dividers made by cafekitsunes]

Author note: pspsp,,punkintyre fans come get your food. Just because I couldn't resist these two petty bitches fighting and the gay ass thing Drew did at Mania. Also I low-key struggled writing Drew 😭

Warnings: 18+, hate fuck, power bottom Punk, rough sex, top Drew, age difference, anal sex, and locker room sex. DO NOT INTERACT IF MINOR. This isn't a reflection of the real wrestlers and if you don't like gay sex then,, shoo.

Word count: 3,293

Summary: Fed up with Punk's antics over the past few weeks and now the knowledge that he isn't injured as bad. Drew seeks a way to shut up his rival and confronts him in a heated meeting backstage.

It had all been in his grasp.

Everything his hard work had built up to.

It was supposed to be his moment.

…But yet again he had cost him the match.

It wasn't fair, none of this was.

His moment was ruined because of his own ego

April 8, 2024 on Monday night, Raw

Fatal four way match, #1 contender for the World Heavyweight Championship

Drew had the upper hand in the match, or so he had been convinced of the idea. It had been a long match, with the other opponents finally taken out to only leave him in the most of Jey Uso. He could practically taste the victory.

Now standing in the corner of the ring, he was preparing the count for the claymore kick. Most of his attention was drawn towards Jey, who still was recovering from the onslaught of attacks. He had gotten down three, but before he could dash at Jey for the finisher, he had felt something grab his ankle from behind and hold him back.

His confusion quickly turned to pure frustration and anger as soon as he looked back at the man standing outside the ring. Punk; Not only had the man stopped him, but he had the gall to be laughing in his face over the situation.

With the momentary distraction, it gave Jey the perfect opportunity to catch Drew with a superkick and then run him into a spear as he was stunned. Once the bigger man was down, Uso had climbed the top turnbuckle and hit a successful frog slash, then the pin in a matter of seconds. It all felt like a blink of an eye for Mc’Intyre and now laid out in the ring..he had lost yet another title opportunity.

To say he was angry was an understatement.

Once the cameras went off, Drew had gotten out the ring and made his way backstage. His main mission now is to catch the older man before he potentially escapes with that shit eating grin on his face. Sometimes he wished he could actually punch him.

After asking around and searching through the still bustling backstage area, he had found Punk talking with Randy Orton. Still running his mouth even now huh?

Drew tried to mask his anger and irritation by putting a natural expression on as he approached the two men. He gave Randy a passing nod which was returned and turned his attention towards the shorter man of the two.

“Punk, can I have a word with you?” The words come out in a growl despite his attempt to put up a polite facade, and so he stepped away from Randy to signal Punk to go somewhere more private.

The other man gave Drew a suspicious glare, before clicking his tongue and simply nodding along as he excused himself from the conversation with Randy. Now following in suit of the enraged Scottish man who was bringing him to a more isolated area of the arena.

Before Punk could question Drew's intentions he was grabbed by his hoodie and pushed back into the wall behind them. The height difference –although small–, caused Drew to have to lean over the older man in order to get face to face with him. “You are the single most annoying person I have ever had the displeasure of feuding with. You are insufferable.” McIntyre practically snarled at Punk as he tightened his grip on the other's hoodie.

“Hey, hey now don't get your skirt in a twist! I'm just doing my job.” Punk laughed out and raised his hands up, mocking surrender as a smug grin pulled at his lips. “Besides I'm just keeping you relevant after they couldn't push you like they couldn't all those years ago.” He jabbed with a low snicker and raised a brow at him.

The comment only further enraged Drew as he pulled Punk back and shoved him into the wall again, keeping his grip on his hoodie tight. God, he could never keep his mouth closed, did he? He was shaking from anger boiling over as he leaned forward rather quietly, a low rumble came out of his throat

“Be careful man, I'm not at hundred percent, besides- I'm old.” Punk slurred out and kept his hands up, pretty much teasing him, daring him to do something. “Come on, back off. It's not my fault you aren't a lapdog anymore.” He muttered, narrowing his gaze up at the Scottish man.

Drew glared coldly down at Punk in response, a low grunt leaving him as he put Punk down letting go of his hoodie. “Yeah, at least I'm not a washed up guy who's only getting traction because people like riding his dick.” He uttered through gritted teeth and clutched his fist at his side.

“From what you did at Mania, it seemed like you just wanted my attention, Drew. In more than one way.” Punk added with a smirk as he brushed down his hoodie and kept his gaze up at him. “Always chasing my attention like a little bitch.”

The reminder of his actions during Maina had Drew actually pause and hesitate at the mention. Had his actions and behavior towards Punk come off a bit weird? Maybe, but at the moment he had only wanted to mock the man openly and hadn't thought through the implications of it all.

A lot of people had made passing comments or jokes that him crawling towards Punk on the commentary table and showing off his newly won title was a bit..sexually charged or gay. As they jokingly put it.

He wouldn't lie and say Punk wasn't attractive because well– it was obvious to a lot of people. Despite the man's age and the fact he made Drew want to rip his hair out he still looks good for his age.

“I'd dare to say you come off almost obsessed with me.” Punk continued, smirk still plastered on his face, keeping his gaze locked on Drew, not even hiding how much he enjoyed tormenting the man and how amusing he found it.

Maybe Drew did a lot of things out of spite and maybe it did come off obsessive, but Punk had given him a purpose. Maybe that did sound..weird.

“I'm not obsessed with you, you're my bitch. You hear me? When I get my hands on you in the ring, I'll make you regret you ever left AEW.” McIntyre fumed as he unclenched his fingers and stepped forward to tower over the older man.

Punk bit his bottom lip trying to stifle the snicker that threatened to escape him, as he watched the conflicting emotions pass through Drew's eyes. All that rage and frustration pent up in the other man was just comical, was this a taste of his own medicine for what he was doing with Hardy?

“You sound like you want to fuck me or something man, calm down.” Punk joked and crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wall. His sarcastic tone coming out as he scoffed at the nature of his own joke.

McIntyre narrowed those icy eyes dangerously and his gaze darkened at the Chicago native. “Maybe I do.” He snapped back, taking a step forward to invade his space even further. He didn't really care how that sounded but if it shut him up? Oh, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

Punk stared at Drew with wide eyes for what seemed like way too long before blinking several times. His brows shot up in shock as he opened his mouth and bit back any retorts that might slip past. “What?” Was all he managed to utter out in his confusion and furrowed his brow at the other man.

Did he hear that right?

“You heard me, Punk.” Drew scoffed and reached forward to clasp a hand around Punk’s jaw, lightly holding it in larger digits. “If it shuts you up, I will.” It almost came out like a threat, but in reality, it was more so a result of his pent up frustration and other conflicting emotions about Cm.

That confused look morphed into surprise as Punk gazed back and forth in the hallway with a small frown. What was he supposed to say to something like that? One of his hands reached out and pried Drew's hand off his jaw before holding his wrist. Despite not being muscular like Drew, he still had enough strength to get the man to step back with him as he stepped forward.

“Alright then, pussy, do something.” Punk challenged with a scowl and tightened his grip on Drew's wrist, even if he could overpower him it didn't scare him. He was just a petty bitch in his eyes anyway, what was he going to do?

Drew's jaw tensed and his nostrils flared in contempt from the insults spewed from Punk. It felt like a school yard petty off from two men old enough to be dads, but it didn't matter in his eyes. Oh he was going to get him.

Drew never thought he'd get this far..

Drew growled out as he pinned Punk against the locker's room wall, practically attacking the other man's neck. His teeth grazed along his neck till he nipped and let out a puff of breath against the skin. “You better hope you can walk when I'm done with you.” He hissed out as he pulled back and leaned forward till Punk met him in the middle.

It was all aggression and pent up frustration between the two men when they kissed. Even with the hand clasping gently over Punk's cheek and the groans that left Drew. Their breathing mangled and as Drew pulled back, he couldn't help but stare at Punk for what was probably longer than necessary. He could partially feel the coolness from Punk's lip ring and it only added to the man's looks.

Drew's fingers linger across Punk's tatted up forearm which he already had exposed from his sleeves being rolled uo his elbows. His gaze rose to meet the smug grin that Punk had along with a cocked eyebrow. “What, do you like it?” He teased and chuckled softly as he shifted his weight. “I got more, y'know.” He added with a laugh and tilted his head when Drew moved his hand away.

McIntyre’s expression was still scowling and deep in thought as he leaned forward. “Can you keep your mouth shut for five minutes?” He growled with furrowed brows and leaned forward to brush his lips against Punk's again. Desperate and heated with the kisses shared between the two men along with being further encouraged by the moans that escaped Cm.

“I think you're my biggest fan, I've never met someone so desperate to touch me. Still using older talent to get by?” Punk uttered through pants of breaths and when Drew finally parted. His cocky grin only grew at the sight of anger flashing in the taller man's eyes.

“Very funny, Punk.” Drew huffed through his breath and shifted forward, pushing his thigh between his legs. His thigh against his crotch to tease and see how friction he could create. “How was that UFC run?” He sneered getting back in his face with a mocking snicker escaping from low in his throat.

Punk scowled silently, even though he was attempting to contain the grunt from the feeling of the stimulation. His breathing caught momentarily and swallowed back any snarky remarks he had in response.

“That's better.” Drew hummed, smirking through it as he gently pulled Punk off the wall. He led Punk over to the other side of the locker room and pulled apart the kilt, tossing it aside into an open locker. His hand placed over Punk's shoulder as he pushed him down gently to his knees in front of him. He had him right where he wanted him.

The Scottish man hooked his fingers in his wrestling trunks and paused, noticing the stare Punk was giving him. “What?” He questioned sounding genuinely taken aback by the nervous gaze from Punk. This was a first..

“I'm not exactly familiar with this kind of stuff, at least not..enough.” Punk explained slowly as he brushed a hand over his hair while keeping his gaze up towards the larger of the two. He hated how scared and almost worried he sounded but it was the truth and he was nervous to do something like this.

McIntyre paused and moved his hand away as he shifted to crotch down in front of Punk. “Are you serious?” He asked quietly, not faking the shock in his tone. “Men really have never been after you?” His tone was genuine like the idea that men didn't find him attractive was absurd. He was aware it was more normalized that women showed their attraction but something even boarding gay felt like a blacklisted practice even here.

The older man scoffed and raises his eyebrows in response to the genuine compliment coming from Drew. “Surprisingly no, I don't get a lot of that attention from male fans often.” He replied in an honest but also joking manner because yeah, not a lot of male fans came up to him for that reason or not to just shit on him.

“Weird, I think you look great.” The Scot scoffed furrowing his brow as he took a seat in front of him but not before sitting criss-cross. Yeah he still poked at him while he was at it. “I won't make you do anything you aren't comfortable with.” He added in a more sincere tone and watched Punk mull over his response with a small frown.

“You can still..fuck me, least you can do is prep.” Punk moved closer and moved a hand over Drew's thigh till he was leaning closer to the other man with a smirk. “I don't mind telling you what to do while you do it.” He added giving his thigh a squeeze with a small chuckle escaping him.

If only Punk knew the pent up frustration Drew had for him.

The only sound in the locker room was Punk's swallow breathing and the occasional grunt as he leaned over the bench. One of Drew's hands smoothing near his injured arm to ensure he wasn't putting a lot of strain by holding himself up on the bench. “Bit deeper..” Punk gritted and muttered a curse when Drew pressed his fingers in deeper trying to get him prepped enough with just spit and his fingers.

“You're taking this well for someone who doesn't take it up the ass.” McIntyre mused and halted wny rebuttal from Punk by pressing a second finger in. The stinging and stretch making the older man tense up and hiss out, lowering his face into his arm.

“Maybe I do know some stuff, but you don't need to know anything about that.” Punk retorted with a scowl as he adjusted his position so his arm wasn't taking as much stress. The feeling was foreign and he felt his body grow rigid as he tightened his grip on the bench till his knuckles turned white. It burned and only started feeling somewhat tolerable after a while of those larger digits being worked inside of him.

The only response he received was a small hum and chuckle as Drew withdrew his fingers and stood up behind Punk. One hand smoothing over the tatted up shoulders and the other working on trying to get himself slick by just using his own spit. He probably would make Punk take him but that may as well wait till another time.

“Alright, you can go.” Was the only okay he needed before he pressed himself against the other man slowly. His body leant over Punk as he wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him flush against his own body. His grin growing at the way Punk tensed and jolted when Drew finally pushed forward to bury himself halfway into him. A grunt of his own escaping as he exhaled through his nose staring down at the man at his mercy.

There was no mercy or stopping every time he drove into Punk and gave grunts of effort. His arm tightening around his waist as he thrusted harder into the smaller man like it would be his last chance to do so. His other hand curling fingers into his brunette hair and tugging hard enough to make the man arch back into his thrusts.

“Fucking hell..” Punk gasped and gripped the side of the bench for support so he wouldn't be pushed over by the force of Drew's thrusts. He swore the man was driving into him like it would be his last fuck or he was just so desperate for this it made him rough. “You’re a fucking slut, you know that?” He moaned out as he placed his other hand on the surface of the cool metal bench.

McIntyre almost snarled as he bared his teeth and slapped his ass nearly causing Punk to lose his grip if it wasn't for his hold on his waist. “Shut your mouth before I gag you.” He growled in his ear with a smirk when he felt the shutter come from the Chicago man. “Ah, see? Who's the slut now?” He drove his hips forward being met with a loud moan from Punk.

The Chicago native buried his face in his forearm, muffling the sounds spilling from his lips. His body shaking from the pleasure being shot in his system despite how hard he tried to act like it didn't had much effect on him. It brushed his ego to see that he was being so affected by something he should've been able to stop it.

The fingers dug into his scalp and hair causing a sting to resonate in his skull as he hissed out softly. His breathing heavy with each moan they spilt out and the feeling of his neck straining from the way he was being held back. He was going to be sore later.

It only took a few more thrusts from Drew to have Punk cumming hard. His body tensing up from the sensation rippling through his body. His breathing labored as he loosened his hold on the bench feeling his muscles unclench. His body partially collapsed into the bench as his body gave into the exhaustion in his system.

The Scottish man grunted, feeling him clench around him for the moment and tightened his grip on his hair before releasing him. His hand smoothing down his hip as he pulled back and stroked himself a few times. His breathing heavy as he stared down at the other and pulled Punk back till he was sitting on his knees. His expression prideful and proud like he was showing off the title to Punk, it felt good.

Plus the man was pretty all disheveled.

Cm cringed as he gazed at Drew stroking himself in front of him still breathing hard with his chest raising and hand falling. “You have to do that?” He muttered in annoyance but didn't make any moves to get away from him.

Drew shrugged his shoulders with a large prideful grin plastered on his features when he came purposely on his face with a low grunt.“See?” Drew sneered and grabbed Punk’s jaw in his hand as he leaned over to tower over the man. His eyes dark and accent thicker from the excitement and anger still lingering. “Told you, you were my bitch.”

43 notes · View notes

ohtobemare · 1 year

Note

Congrats on 100 followers !!! So excited for you!

Could I get “I think I might be in some kind of love with you.” with Tom? We all know I’m an Ice gal

💜💜💜

Who doesn't love Ice? Here's your fluffy Kazanksy, he's just too much fun to write. Enjoy and thanks so much for your follow and your ask, babe!

Wingman

“Bradley! Bradley, come on—you like peanut butter and jelly, remember?”

The edge of the divided alphabet plate is mere inches from nose diving off the table, threatening a mess of sticky Peter Pan and strawberry jelly on what appears to be bright-and-shiny, freshly waxed linoleum.

Locked in a staring contest with the curlicue of a five-year-old your best friend Nick Bradshaw has entrusted you with, your heart is hammering harder than you ever remember in your short lifespan.

Feet frozen in place, your hand is extended as if somehow you’ve managed to become some kind of Jedi. Attempting to force-control Bradley Bradshaw into cooperation failed, the burp of skin on plastic is nearly deafening as his fat little finger skips across the table, flicking at the separated plate you’d set in front of him moments ago.

“B!” The high pitch of your voice matches the heart jumping behind your ribs–never in your adult life would you have dreamed to ever be so worried about a sandwich, “please—eat your lunch, ok? Your daddy says you like PB and J,”

Time seems to stand still. Exhausted, blood pumping hard through your ears, you feel like you’ve wrestled a bull the entire afternoon. Or maybe a Tasmanian devil. Bradley has been nothing but a high-strung ball of energy since you sent Nick and Carole off for their afternoon, insisting that things would be fine.

In hindsight, maybe you should’ve heeded Carole’s warning of letting Bradley play outside a few hours before lunch. “He gets so cooped up and off the rails if you take him out and let him burn through some of that after-nap energy,” the gall of the woman to actually laugh, “He’s super into Indiana Jones, and you’ll be a great sub in my absence as the damsel in distress.”

But Bradley hadn’t wanted to play outside today. He’d wanted to play dinosaurs in his room with his little green army men, and together you’d both had a blast decimating Sarge and his unit with Tom the T-Rex. Blithely unaware of the gorgeous day outside and its 90 degree sunshine, A/C had been an appreciated alternative. At the time.

But now? You were going to either kill Nick’s kid, or die of exhaustion—whichever came first.

Bradley had started acting up about an hour ago, when he refused to clean up the toys in his room. An all-out hissy fit had transpired as Tom the T-Rex had been violently thrown out the bedroom door, hitting the wall with a thunk.

Feeling sorry for Tom, and staring with popped brows of surprise as Bradley screamed in his bedroom, very quickly your ovaries had shrank into near non-existence at the idea of someday willing choosing this for yourself.

“Pizza!” He shrieks, arms flapping in tantrum like some kind of pterodactyl, which ironically matches the dinosaur on the t-shirt underneath his overalls, “I want pizza!” His little high-pitched boy voice is ringing off the walls of the military housing unit as his bottom lip begins to quiver.

Crocodile tears well up in his soft brown eyes, angry color flaring on his chubby cheeks as he gives the plate one final shove, glaring at it like it has committed a grave offense.

Flinching as the plastic rattles to the linoleum, you puff out a dramatic sigh and scrub your face with your be-jeweled fingers, the cool rings doing little to tame the heat fanning across the bridge of your nose. Your heart has stopped throbbing in worry over the thoroughly dead sandwich, pulse returning to some kind of normal between your ears.

Gnawing at your bottom lip in defeat, you eyeball the splattered peanut butter and jelly and brea. It’s flattened and thoroughly stuck to the floor as Bradley leans over the side of his booster to look at his handiwork. Blinking at it, he looks back to you without even missing a beat, before grabbing the Flintstone cup of milk and taking a long swig.

“Pizza,” you mutter with a roll of your eyes, crossing to the head of the table. “You win, kiddo. Pizza it is.” You’ve never felt more defeat in your life, which is really saying something, because the taste of second place is something you’re all too familiar with being friends with Nick Bradshaw and his motley crew of stick jockey aviators.

Grabbing your purse, you retrieve your wallet and march to the phone mounted on the wall. Spinning the numbers, you order a pizza for yourself and the Bradshaw demon now absolutely adorably singing a song he must’ve picked up from his father, and hung up after the deadbeat clerk monotoned a goodbye.

Plunking down in a chair, your elbows hit the table and cradle your head as you sigh out a breath from the base of your gut. A headache is starting to bloom behind your eyes, and sweat is beading down the length of your spine, drawing your t-shirt and jeans to your skin in the most unpleasant way possible.

Toes curling against the linoleum in an effort to release tension, Bradley begins singing his ABCs in the cutest way possible.

You jump when the phone releases a shrill shriek across the kitchen. For a minute your mind jogs, trying to remember if Carole had asked you to take any calls.

Nick had told you to go ahead and use the phone for anything you may need—slipping out of the chair, you slide across the floor in your socks and pluck it off the receiver, cradling it between your clavicle and ear.

“Bradshaw house,” you sing into the line. Bradley is pushing himself out from the table, scrambling out of the booster to race up the stairs, shrieking for his stuffed animal dog that you have since learned is named Bongo. Covering the receiver, you call for Bradley to please come back downstairs before returning to the call, “How can I help?”

“Sounds like you’re having fun, sweetheart.”

Heart slamming to an all-stop in your chest, you inhale a sharp breath. A surprised squeaks managed past your strangled vocal chords, and heat jumping into your blood is immediate.

Replaying his words through your mind, you imagine him leaning through the doorway of the barracks, phone in hand, dragging the cord along as he talks to you.

Tom Kazanksy has always been a pacer when it comes to talking on the phone. It’s something you learned from Nick himself, who has told you numerous times that Iceman can’t keep it together when he’s on a call. Especially with you.

Goose was practically ass-over-tea kettle about this, Ice glaring at him behind his aviators as you’d given him a goofy grin, picturing the idea as nothing short of hilarious.

The man as cold as ice, tethered by a phone cord every time he picked up the receiver. It was laughable. Actually hilarious. Ice was many things—poised, cool, calculative in ways that were nearly frightening. He seemed far too collected to be the kind that walks when he’s on the phone—that’s your thing.

Fidgeting is a quirk of yours that simultaneously amuses and drives Ice up the wall, which seems counterproductive.

But like many things about Iceman Kazansky, there’s a lot that doesn’t make sense.

Keeping you on your toes is just one of the many things that makes your relationship with Kazansky interesting. He’s the ying to your yang, the cool to your hot. You’re wound tighter than a frickin’ Rolex, and Tom is as smooth as butter in every way that counts.

He’s excelling in his career, making the right decisions, drawing the right attention—and you’re stalled out working at the local garage, tinkering on whatever junk manages to hit the pavement.

Quiet and reserved, Ice is the epitome of charm and elegance. You’re basically the wild card in life’s chaotic game of Uno, forever handing your boyfriend a draw 25 of every crazy thing your life may hand him.

Honestly, how the two of you make it work is unbelievable—you’ve been dating for eight months. You were sure any day Ice would wake up from the hellish nightmare that is your crazy life and leave you, but he'd only seemed locked in for good.

Fairly certain that meeting your parents in NOLA would be the straw that broke the camel’s back, you were dead surprised when Ice had told you he actually loved your family. Your father had done nothing but interrogate the man like a dog with a bone about his career, his plans—all the kills his fancy rank boasted.

And mama? Oh, boy. She’d fussed over him to no end, insisting his skinny ass needed plumped up before your return at Christmas.

“What are they feeding him in California, sweetie? Look at that waist! I could snap him in two. Make sure you feed ‘im good—the way to a man’s heart is through his gut, after all.”

Your mother didn’t understand that you didn’t live together, weren’t cooking for Ice, and could take no responsibility for his eating habits. She’d just pooh-pooh’d your entire protest away, promising to send you both home with grocery money and a few recipes for your box.

You’d stuck them to the fridge with a magnet, Ice just chuckling at your mumble that your parents were the most embarrassing life-givers on the entire planet.

Arms snaked around your wrist, chin on your shoulder, he’d rocked you back and forth on his feet while smiling at the recipes now stuck on the front of your Frigidaire.

“I like your parents, my love. They’re….sweet?” The word was so foreign from him, it had made you snort.

“Overbearing and nosy, but thanks for playing,” you’d shook your head and lazily hung your hands from his thick forearms crossing over your chest, “I can’t wait to meet your folks, Ice. Your mom seems so amazing.”

“You’re talking to my mom?”

Laughing, “Of course I am! You gave me their number, silly.”

“I gave you my parents’ number for when I’m there, princess. I didn’t expect you to cultivate a relationship with Admiral Kazanksy’s wife.” Pressing a heavy kiss to your jaw, the blonde stubble on his cheek was divine as it brushed against the apple of yours.

Giggling in his embrace, your nose scrunches up as you let your head fall back against his shoulder. “Careful there, Tommy. Mrs. Admiral Kazansky kinda has a nice ring to it.”

His eyes had never sparkled so richly as they had that day in your kitchen, catching the insinuation you’d thrown in your little universe. Ice is everything you are not in the way that he is as unreadable as a blank page, whereas you’re easy reading, like phonebook. It goes with his graceful stoicism, his quiet demeanor.

Which is maybe why the two of you work. He balances you out, reigns you in when necessary but loves your unbridled fire. You add color to the otherwise black-and-white pages of Tom Kazanksy’s mission dossier of life, and while you haven’t exactly figured out if that’s a plus or not—Goose, Mav, Slider and everyone else that knows him assures you that you’re the best thing that’s ever stumbled, literally, into Kazanksy’s universe.

You smile at the muffle of voices hanging at the back of the call. Tom is obviously not alone, which amuses you to no end.

“Oh yeah, y’know how it goes, Kazansky—couldn’t be better. Goose’s kid is just the best child a babysitter could ever ask for.” The drama is not lost in your voice.

Tom barks out a laugh, and you imagine he’s shaking his head at you. “I can imagine. Bradley is a little shit when he wants to be.” He says something to someone beyond the call before returning to the phone, “So, about tomorrow. I wanted to ask you—”

Curling the phone cord around your index finger, you check over your shoulder as a shriek erupts from the hallway. Whipping about, Bradley shoots down the stairs, suddenly naked from the waist down and missing the overalls his mother had dressed him in that morning.

Eyes popping wide, he is screaming with a Superman action figure and his father’s dog tags hanging from his neck, face twisted in a horror that you’ve only ever seen portrayed on television.

Somehow, Bradley’s hair and shirt is wet. Which can only mean—

“Oh my gosh! Bradley! Bradley, come back—” dropping the phone and lunging for the toddler, you half remember your boyfriend is on the other end of the call, and right as Bradley races into the kitchen you grab the receiver. Scrambling to right the phone back to your ear, “Ice, I really have–” but he’s laughing. At you.

“This isn’t funny, Tom!”

“It’s fucking hilarious, baby,” his voice is that smooth rasp that makes you shiver as he clucks a chuckle into the phone, “but hold tight. I’ll be over there in fifteen minutes,” he’s calling for someone to tell him the time before he returns. “Think you can keep the gosling alive long enough for me to get there?”

Your eyes are shooting daggers at the wall as you sneer at nothing. “I hate you sometimes,”

Hissing out a noise that sounds like it would be paired with a wince, his mocking, “Ouch, princess,” doesn’t match the lilt in the back of his words. “Don’t burn down the house, I’ll be right there. Hang tight, grease monkey.” He’s been calling you grease monkey since knowing you, and it’s become more of a pet name than anything.

Unraveling, grateful help is imminent, you’re too stubborn to tell him that. Ice is good at everything, and something about watching Goose’s offspring niggles the thought that you want to be better at this than him in the back of your head. Biting the inside of your cheek, you hum suspiciously over the phone.

“Just get over here, Kazansky.” Dropping the phone to the receiver, you turn to rush into the living space in search of Bradley.

You swear to God you can hear him laughing behind the door fifteen minutes later when he knocks, letting himself into the kitchen from the screen door.

Sunglasses on, dressed informally in a t-shirt and tight Wranglers, he’s got a baseball glove under his arm that he drops to the table when Bradley races to the front door, arms splayed wide upon sight.

“Iceman!” Bradley launches himself at Ice’s legs, wrapping chunky little arms around the man’s thighs, “I didn’t know you were coming!”

He’s bouncing as Ice bends to lift him under his arms to his hip, messing the kid’s hair with his fingers.

“You gonna play ball with me, Ice?”

Ice’s smile is genuine as the kid pops off his callsign, no sweat. “You know it, kiddo. Gotta get my favorite shortstop ready for the Phillies, right?”

Bradley’s face couldn’t be any brighter as you lean against the threshold of the living room, arms crossed over your chest as you watch Ice interact with Goose’s son.

“How have you been, Bradley?”

“Gooooood,” the boy giggles and draws out the double-o of the word like children do, breaking off into another giggle as Ice wiggles his fingers into his soft stomach, “can we go play?”

“Yeah, bud. Go grab your mit and we’ll toss a few,” setting Bradley to his feet, he sends the boy off with a light swat to his rear, Bradley beelining past you to whip up the stairs. He's chanting Ice’s name with childlike joy nearly bubbling out of him.

Ice considers the state of the sandwich you still haven’t cleaned up off the floor before looking to you with a raised brow. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a light smirk as he slips the aviators off, hanging them from the collar of his t-shirt as his eyes move about the living space, easily.

You can see he’s calculating, and something shoots down your spine to ricochet off your uterus.

Good god he’s handsome. Sexy as all get out with close-cropped blonde hair, eyes bright enough to melt steel. He can level you with nothing but a smile, make you forget your name the way he kisses you. You might as well be dead when he says your name.

Thinking through all the times he's called you his, wondering if you’ll ever get tired of it, heat in your blood blossoms to your face. You suddenly warmer than you thought possible in the A/C of Goose’s house.

Crossing the kitchen in a few long strides, he reaches for you. Hand sliding home at your hip as you smile at him, he bridges the daylight hanging between you and shuffles your hips flush with his. Smiling at you crookedly, his eyes track yours. Reaching for a curl that’s fallen from your clip, he tucks it behind your ear.

“Help has arrived, princess,” he teases you, low. “Holding up okay?” His voice is quiet, smoky. Dangerous.

Every one of his words hits you right in that little spot between your legs, which has not stopped aching since you laid eyes on this man eight months ago.

“Thanks for coming over,” you coo, lips parting into a little smile. “I’m alright, just tired. Should’ve known I’d need my wingman–you should’ve been here for lunch,” nodding past his shoulder to the mess still living beside Bradley’s booster, your bottom lip rolls inward sheepishly. “Peter Pan and Smuckers crashed and burned.” Your nose scrunches up, teasingly. “I needed reinforcements.”

He snorts a little, brow lifted knowingly. “So I gathered.”

“You’re such a jerk,” you try not to chuckle, but that look he’s giving you makes it impossible.

He shrugs, flippantly. “Yeah, but you like that kind of thing,“ fingers skipping down the full curve of your cheek, they anchor at your chin and tip you head back just so. “I’m here now, love.”

Somehow your eyes just know to drop to half mast as your heart kicks up a few beats against your ribs. His head angles in that kissable way, and before you can even remember to breathe, his mouth brushes against yours tentatively, seeking out a kiss. Grabbing the front of his shirt, fingers fisting into the material, you edge him a little closer until he seals the deal, kissing you long and hard and slow.

His other thick hand is moving to rest at the curve of your neck and shoulder, thumb delicately brushing against the column of your throat as he moans a little into your mouth. Gasping a little, you suck at his bottom lip, tongue carefully slipping between his teeth to lathe a little against his own. Suddenly the room is spinning as he’s bracing an arm against the threshold of the kitchen, backing you against the sheetrock as his hand moves to cup the curve of your cheek.

“Ice,” you whine between his mouth moving against yours. Every nerve is on fire, and you can suddenly taste and feel nothing but his heat as it crashes against your chest. “I—”

“Mmm,” his fingers curl into the flesh of your hip, harder if possible, and he presses his weight forward with his hips, against yours, pinning you against the sheetrock even farther. “It’s okay,” he enunciates with rough exhale, “Bradley is fine—”

Knees basically gelatin and as if on cue, you hear Bradley’s little feet upstairs. He’s talking to Tom the T-rex, looking for his glove before he cries for you to come upstairs. It’s painful, brushing Tom’s hand away from where it’s tracing the soft skin beneath your navel under your shirt, but you have to.

Groaning in irritation before breaking your kiss with Tom, your gaze moves to the ceiling. Tom’s eyes do as well, and he sighs a little in defeat before putting his hands up, stepping back to allow you to slide away, towards the stairs.

“I’m coming, Bradley,” you call up the stairs, your voice not nearly as strong as you’d like it to be. “I’m sorry, baby, I—” His smile is slow as he nods in understanding, and he smooths his hand over his mouth, you not missing the flush on his face.

You rake your hair back as you’re about to take the stairs two at a time, but you stop when Ice’s big hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you. Looking to his hand briefly, your eyes track up to find him, your face painted with the silent question of “What’s wrong?” that you don’t even need to ask.

“You know I love you, right?”

Heart skyrocketing into the back of your throat before it melts back between your ribs, the corner of your mouth lifts in a soft smile as you shrug a shoulder. Winking at him, you step forward onto the stairs, hand falling from his grasp as Ice moves to track you up the stairs. Over your shoulder, you smile at him and nod—you absolutely know you’re in love with Tom Kazanksy, it isn’t even a question.

“And I think I might be in some kind of love with you too, Kazansky. Maybe just a little.” Your fingers pinch to indicate a little amount, nose scrunched up in that way you always do that makes him roll his eyes and shake his head. You round the corner of the open staircase, but backtrack a few steps to peek around the corner.

“But in case you forget, Iceman—I love you too.”

#100 followers #100 followers celebration #blurb requests #top gun fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #controlled chaos squad #call sign meerkat #tom iceman kazansky #iceman top gun #answered asks #tom iceman kazanksy x reader #tom kazanksy x reader #iceman x reader #iceman x you

228 notes · View notes

mylordshesacactus · 5 months

Text

Suncrest Campaign: Coda (Or: The Bugbear Wedding)

(Listen. Everyone in this campaign gets to craft their perfect ending and epilogue--this one, this last little bit of worldbuilding and giving everyone a vignette to close out on, was my parting gift to myself.)

First and foremost, it's important to establish: The bugbear wedding ceremony is genderless.

The roles are not bride/groom, male/female. Bugbear culture is pretty universally military, or military-adjacent, in a way that largely elides those kinds of strict gender roles. The core concern in a bugbear wedding is the blending of clans, of families or villages, and that can happen in any number of ways.

In a bugbear wedding, the stark thematic divide is which partner belongs to the "host" clan, and which is the newcomer. In a very real sense, nothing else matters. And...not necessarily in the way you think.

When we open on this ceremony: Thesh Nightshadow, daughter of the clan chieftain, is dressed in her full ceremonial armor and looking both elated and terrified. She checks in with the party, briefly, then goes to wait beside a massive, laden banquet table.

This table is both the central display of the wedding, and an eloquent thesis on how bugbears view a marriage.

Thesh, in this marriage, is the host clan. She grew up in the Talonholde clan; her father is its leader; she stands to inherit that position. Her friends and rivals and neighbors are all here--they all know her, they all have twenty-odd years of memories together, favors traded, arguments resolved. A history and a mutual understanding of one another, even if they don't necessarily like each other.

Paisley, on the other hand? Even if she wasn't human...she grew up in the neighboring village of Thistledale, and while of course she'll remain in close contact with her family, she's obviously going to be joining the clan of the chieftain's daughter.

Bugbears understand: This places the newcomer in a position of incredible vulnerability.

Paise is very familiar with Talonholde, but in a lot of marriages the incoming partner won't have had time to do that, just for pure practicality reasons. And even so...she loves the place, they accept her, she feels safe, but she doesn't have nearly the same level of...connection. She wasn't born here. Her new neighbors haven't seen her at her best and worst for years, enough to feel secure in knowing her character. She knows few of them very well, and none of them as well as her own people. She is leaving her family home for this marriage, and all she has in return is pure trust that her new clan will protect her as well as her old one would have.

To bugbear sensibilities, the idea of a dowry is obscene. You are asking for this immense sacrifice, this profound leap of faith--and you have the gall to ask them to prove themselves? To contribute material wealth and resources? That's disgusting. That's horrific. That's not a marriage. That kind of callous trade would be demeaning to cattle.

It is the host clan's responsibility to prove their worth. It is one hundred percent on Thesh's shoulders to show her new wife that she will be accepted and embraced by her new clan.

Thus: The table.

Now, Thesh herself is obviously in a position of considerable influence, so her display table is a massive buffet in the center of the village, laden with every possible food and drink imaginable and a gorgeously posed roast stag, with antlers intact for dramatic effect, as the centerpiece--a stag she hunted herself, because this is as much a statement to her home clan as it is to her wife. However, prominently featured among the feast--brought to the front and present in great numbers, so everyone can clearly see it, are five items:

Bread

Fruit

Cheese

Mead and/or Wine

Freshly-slaughtered meat, with a bowl containing the blood of the animal as proof.

Those five items are required for the marriage ceremony. Combined, they represent all the collective resources of a village--none of which should be so punishing that a poor family is unable to source them for a special occasion, but representing a real investment all the same. The requirement isn't meant to be a class barrier--the items can be present in small amounts, the fruit can be preserved, the mead can be in the form of raw honey if you really must--but you need to be able to demonstrate a willingness to try.

(The meat MUST be fresh. It does not have to be something as dramatic as a deer. Most families kill a goat or a pig, or put out a snare for rabbit. What is required for the marriage to be considered valid is that it cannot be smoked, dried, salted, etc--it must be a current, intentional sacrifice of livestock (demonstrating your willingness to give up something valuable for this person's sake) or freshly-hunted game (demonstrating your ability to either hunt yourself or purchase/barter game from a hunter). This, again, isn't meant to be a class barrier--but in addition to bugbear tradition demanding a willingness to make real sacrifice in the newcomer's name, the blood is used in the ceremony itself.)

A horn is blown or a drum is beaten, the gates of the village (or, if this were a smaller private ceremony, the gate of the farm or some other boundary-line delineation of a family's property) open, and the new clan member enters.

Paisley is also dressed in her best--an apprentice's tunic from the university where she studied to become an Artificer--but otherwise, she carries nothing. No entourage (her family and friends are obviously present but they don't walk in with her), no offerings--just a woven basket filled with wildflowers, matching the flowers woven into her cloak for the occasion.

(Traditionally it's a very literal "cloak of flowers", woven entirely from intertwined wildflower stems, but that is insanely difficult and pretty much everyone just weaves flowers into a canvas base.)

This, too, is symbolic: The newcomer brings only themselves, and that which can be gathered freely. Paisley has nothing to prove.

They meet in front of the banquet table where Thesh is waiting with a village elder, and the bowl of blood over a low brazier--not hot, just enough to keep it liquid.

The host clan's gestures are made first--three promises, an oath of what they intend to offer their newest member. The bugbear elder dips his fingers in the stag's blood; he draws two fingers down Paisley's forehead (for honesty), then dips his thumb and makes a single mark in the center of chin (for stability). He then offers the bowl to Thesh, who dips both thumbs in the blood and draws them along Paisley's cheekbones, cupping her face in the process--protection.

Paisley's gestures are made if and only if she accepts the host clan's demonstrations as legitimate and sufficient. Obviously, she does.

She hands her basket to the elder, and takes out her own gestures in order. First, a necklace of flowers that she places around Thesh's neck (new life). Second, a woven flower crown on her head (new ideas). And then, finally, she sweeps the flower cape off her back and throws it around Thesh's shoulders instead--this often gets some laughter because throughout the whole process, Thesh hasn't actually stopped holding Paise's face between her hands, so it can be a little awkward.

That last gesture symbolizes Paisley fully embracing her new clan--she's not expected to sever any ties, of course, but it's a transfer of primary loyalty. Talonholde is her clan now, fully and completely--they've embraced her as their own and offered her not only the rights of a member but also the acceptance and support of a neighbor, and in turn, she's offered them herself in her entirety.

There is then, obviously, a lot of crying and a big feast, all that food wasn't for show.

Paise and Thesh's little background romance was lowkey one of my favorite things to seed into this campaign--as soon as I realized Nim's sister was going to be central to the werewolf arc, I also knew I had to give her a dykey little interspecies romance. (There was initially going to be a like, paranoid little mutual-suspicion thing going on where Talonholde and Thistledale both accused each other of kidnapping or murder, but by that point I knew my players wouldn't bite on that at all and it was more interesting to have the two villages be historically cordial--not friendly, but not hostile.)

They were both taken by the wolf cult during a gay little meeting at the crossroads between their villages, a thing they apparently did almost every week to exchange the letters they'd write during the week. Nim's family presented this as, you know, Paise being a smart girl and Thesh also being real smart and they share a lot of wild ideas, but the whole party immediately went OH??? and they were correct.

When they found the girls, Thesh was half dead--when the werewolves took Paisley to torture as bait, Thesh tried to protect her. They broke her jaw and left it untreated for days; without Andromeda's timely healing magic, she likely wouldn't have survived another night. The party got everyone out of the camp safely--some by the skin of their teeth, but they did it--and, well.

Look, they were the very image of propriety when they reunited, okay. But Thesh dragging herself back from death's door and IMMEDIATELY trying to tell their rescuers that the cult had taken Paisley--refusing to run until she knew she was safe, in fact--was pretty telling. And then when they got everyone back to Albion's thicket Paise basically ignored her rescued neighbors in favor of scrambling up to Thesh and running frantic hands over her jaw and ears and ribs and--

Nim thinks they're adorable and is fully supportive. He DOES have to rib his baby sister a little bit though. Big brother instinct goes both ways.

#d&d #suncrest

67 notes · View notes

lullaebies · 8 months

Note

fic of aegon and helaena's reaction to their engagement

Finally clearing some fic reqs from the box - this one surprisingly flowed out of me pretty easily. I hope you enjoy! it's very much angsty with a tinge of a hopeful ending.

—

“It’s not fair!” Helaena hears Aegon say, behind the doors of his room. He scurried away after Mother and Father told them. Mother rushed after him, and she stayed with their father, who sighed with the same old disappointment and resignation that she always knew him to have. He told her Aegon will get over himself; he told her it would be fine.

Helaena is unsure. She has always known this a possibility, but never considered this fully in her heart. Perhaps she was afraid to. She thought they were better, now that they both had dragons, now that they flew together at times. They were supposed to ride together today. Now it is all ruined.

She fidgets with her hands for a while, before bringing one to the doorknob of Aegon’s room. Her fingers glide over it nervously, afraid to fully squeeze on the gold of it. This will be your room, soon enough, she thinks. Her stomach lurching, she twists it open; does she have any choice but to. “This is what has been decided and it is duty all the same—”

“Another one for me to sorrowfully fail you in, is it not!” Aegon yells back at Alicent when she tries to come closer. She flinches slightly, but Helaena’s step inside the room is what gets the both still. Some books are on the floor; a sundial has been broken as well, spilling sand on the red brick of the keep.

Time stops when Aegon’s eyes land on her, and shatter when they look away. Mother comes, arms open to hug her, but Helaena flinches back just like her, blocking her hands from reaching her shoulders. She does not understand it is no comfort. She does not understand that her eyes betray her, that they show pity and tiredness instead of compassion.

Her mother takes the rejection bitterly, as she does. Helaena swore herself she won’t be the same.

“Can you leave?” Helaena asks her bluntly. Her voice is hushed but poignant all the same. Alicent takes in a jittery breath, and Helaena bites the inside of her cheek. “For now. I only want to speak to my brother.”

Aegon turns around at that, still the same sullen look on his face. She can manage with that; she has handled his sullen face since they were toddlers. Alicent brings a hand to her hair, some protest in her deer-like eyes, but as her fingers trail down the strands of her hair, they find the edge and the end of it only. Helaena only returns a defiant stare, and her mother relents.

“All right,” she finally says. She looks back at her son before she leaves. “Be mindful of yourself, Aegon.”

Aegon grinds his teeth at that, the curls of his hair hanging down a craned head. It’s like a drape, like a divider between them two. Helaena knows her brother refuses to see, refuses to look at many things, hiding from himself; but to Helaena it’s very clear there is no choice but to look ahead. It’s a curse as it is a gift.

When their mother is out of view, the room falls into odd silence. Helaena is scared to step forward, as she is scared to speak first. Her words were never the convincing sort. If anything, they are nearly always disregarded. She’s not sure if she can trust them.

“Lost your tongue now?” Aegon asks, squinting at her. He has a sort of a twisted laugh to him, when in melancholy. “Enough gall to cast away Mother, but not enough to call me your betroth.”

Helaena would have glared at him, had she not known him to mope bitterly. “If you remembered calling me my name, I’d consider,” she answers evenly, though her body’s inner workings are anything but stable. I will not be afraid of you, not the way Mother is scared to defy Father. You were my brother first. “You have a fine assortment of names for me.”

He huffs. “Your rebellion is wasted on me, you idiot,” he answers back, looking away. “If you had any concerns, you should’ve raised them with Father.”

“What could I have said, that wouldn’t have fallen on deaf ears?” She asks him sincerely. There’s a burning sensation in her nose and by her eyes. “If my husband’s words don’t matter, what are mine?”

Aegon turns his back to her then. “Go away. Leave me be,” he says, looking at the window. The gust of wind from outside makes her shiver. The air hitting her has never been her fear; it was a joy, atop of Dreamfyre. But the soft breeze makes all of her hairs simmer, rise up on her nape.

Helaena refuses to leave. She steps ahead instead. “You are the only one that can hear me,” she says, pleading. Perhaps it makes him more scared than consoled. It’s okay; she thinks, even though her tears gather at her eyes. “And I’ll have to be the one who will hear you the same.”

Aegon’s fists clench and unclench, she hears his shaky breath, the way she always hears Mother’s. Mother just wants touch, just wants to be assured, just wants to have control over what she must carry. Is it always the same, she wonders. It’s her only choice to see if so. She reaches for Aegon’s sleeve, clutching it.

“Aegon,” she calls him, voice somewhat shaky now. He turns to look at her with teary, repressed eyes of his own, trying to control his face. She tries to smile through the tears gliding down her cheeks. “I still want to go to the dragon pit today.”

Don’t forget who I am, who I was for you now. In the free blue sky they don’t fear a thing, even when they must look upon the setting horizon. Aegon looks at her hand on his wrist; his own one coming to feel up the fingers with his thumb.

“I’d be a bad brother, to refuse you.” He says through a soft sigh.

“And an even worse husband.” She nods, blinking away the last bits of the wetness in her eyes.

“I’m not your husband yet,” he says unceremoniously, and pulls back the hair that hid his face from her. “I cannot sorrowfully fail you still.”

If Helaena has any doubts to what he means, it clears when he goes to his closet and pulls out some of his dragonriding leathers. The stony weight of duty remains looming; but until it grounds their dragons down, Helaena solemnly swears she will not let herself wither under him; so both of them could still breathe.

#helaegon #helaena x aegon ii #aegon ii x helaena #hotd #house of the dragon #helaena targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #my fanfics #requests #answered #hotd fanfic

82 notes · View notes