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dcxdpdabbles · 9 months

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Phantom's number 1 Fan. Part 2

Tim wakes a few days later, half submerged in liquid and hooked to various machines. He is in a tub shaped like a bed, obviously meant to sleep in. Around him is what he hopes is a hospital room with medical tools scattered about and soft blue paint that turns to the night sky the higher it goes on the wall.

On the ceiling are paintings of various constellations. It's rather beautiful.

Tim also notices he feels no pain. None. Not even the aches of his bones after years of abuse while fighting crime. He thinks that's a bit strange since the last thing he could clearly remember was barely escaping Ra's al Ghul, losing his spleen, and gaining more wounds from angry assassins on his way out.

He had been flying half-blind, blinking in and out of awareness. He thinks at one point, Cassie had attempted to call him, and he may have answered, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what he told her.

He did remember what she said in response. She sounded so desperate as she begged over the S-Batplane speakers. "Please, Tim, you're not well. Let us help you. Just tell me where you are."

Too bad for her, since the S in S-Batplane stand for Secert because Tim had built that one on his own in Secert. There was no way she or any of the hero community could track him in it since they had no idea it existed until Tim had taken it and his supplies on his solo mission to save Bruce.

Tim will admit that he is happy they noticed he went missing- even if it was three months too late. Not that it mattered much. The rest of the Bats wanted nothing to do with him. The world only saw him as a young easy wallet as a shiny new CEO. And his friends were all dead or convinced he was insane by Dick.

Tim didn't have anyone to notice he was gone anymore. But Bruce needed him to push through the ache and get him home.

As the Robin who Bruce trained to put the mission first no matter the cost, the one that came after Jason's death so, Bruce stopped allowing himself to think of Robin as a son and more along the lines of a soldier; he quickly shut down the crying child that wailed for someone to believe him, to support him.

Sometimes it felt like Tim was still waiting by the door of Drake Manor, waiting for someone to come and care for him, to stay for him.

The door to his room opens, snapping Tim back to the present. He automatically stiffens, expecting more of the League of Assassins. He can't remember much, but he guessed he was captured by the fact he was sitting in a green glowing water.

He was not, however, expecting a Yeti to walk in, reading a clipboard.

The Yeti looks up, bearing its teeth at Tim when he notices him awake. It takes a moment to realize the action is supposed to be a smile. "Great One's Honored Guest, I am so glad you have awakened. I am FrostBite, your doctor for the remainder of your recovery."

Okay. Ra's has Yetis at his disposal.

He was the only person that Tim knew as the "Great One." Usually, his most loyal operatives too, which means he was deep within Ra's territory.

FrostBrite pauses for a response, but when Tim remains silent, he holds up his board. "It seems to me that most of your wounds have healed. The only problem is that your spleen could not be salvaged due to the damage."

Tim fights to keep the despair off his face. He figured that was the case, seeing as Ras's had it in a jar, but he had hoped.

"...I understand this may be a difficult adjustment. You will always have to be careful when being ill. Even a simple cold could be disastrous." Frostbite steps close, taping one giant claw on the tub's edge. "The Great One has ordered we keep consistent Ecoplasm Baths at the ready for the remainder of your natural life."

Fuck. The Yeti is saying Ra will never let him leave again. It's a threat disguised as a offer of help.

Tim glares down at his hands. They lay within Lazarus' water, gently healing his small scars. This must be some of the purest Lazarus he's ever seen. It must be Ra's own special blend.

The only reason he is wasting it on Tim is that Ra's wants an heir from him. Or for him to become the Heir. He doesn't know, which makes him feel worse but he does know what lust looks like.

It's one that Ra's has aimed at him for too long.

He may as well get this over with. Learn as much as he can. Plan an escape. The best way to do all that is to simply ask.

"When is the wedding?"

Frostbite freezes. "I beg your pardon? Whos wedding?"

"Th Great One and mine" because the madman would never allow a bastard to inherit his empire.

"You and the Great One....are paramours?" Frostbite sounds awe. Shoot his medic doesn't know anything. The Yeti is likely low ranking.

Tim looks away, and the giant white creature jerks into action. "I apologize for not treating the Great One's beloved properly. I shall have servants bring up a meal while you soak. And the finest robe we have! Sweets and messages....offers of gold?....humans always like gold."

He waits until the Yeti leaves, mumbles of giving him the royal treatment echoing in his wake. Tim sighs, sinking into the water. He knows he is being watched as that's what he would do, so for now he needs to stay put and heal.

He's never going to get Bruce back if he acts too rashly without knowing where he is and what else Ra has under his control. Yetis were no easy feat to beat on his own. He like to avoid....a vampire or something too.

Half an hour later, FrostBite returns with the promised meal and change of clothes. Smaller Yetis help him dress in threads of the finest silks. They feel like heaven on his sensitive skin. Tim feels soft and warm all over, pampered beyond belief.

It's been so long since he just had a moment to rest.

He asks for a walk which he is only permitted after Frostbites clears him. It's while he is wandering that he realizes he is in some winter castle. Everywhere he looks, there is ice, snow, and yetis.

He notices all the guards and makes mental maps of possible weak spots. He wonders why he's not freezing despite only being in a thin silk robe. A form of magic?

A few yetis- servants he can tell by their mannerisms- bow as he wanders about. He can't tell where he is based on the sun or the environment. It's....somehow different.

"That's him?" A young female voice asks. He turns his head slightly to catch the speaker in his provisional vision. It's one of the smaller Yetis....he assumes she's a child? Hard to tell when she still towers over him. "The Great One's future spouse?"

"Yes, I heard King Frostbite, himself, tell the Head Butler"

"He's weak," another Yeti says with disapproval. He sounds male but young as well. Not even a teenager. "He does not even have a core."

"He is a human." A much older voice replies. She sounds like Tim's age based on vocal cords. "Humans are not meant to have cores. Despite this he is a formidable fighter. He has to be to have attracted the Great One's eye."

"Maybe not. I heard humans enjoy being cared for like children. They even call partners things like Mommy and Daddy."

"Why?" The boy Yeti sounds horrified.

"Apparently it's seen as attractive"

"That's disgusting."

Tim turns a corner cutting off the conversation as the Yetis snap to attention. They bow low at the waist as he walks by.

He nods at them, which seems to startle a lot of them. Not that he's surprised. The AL Ghuls likely treated them like decorations and never fully acknowledged them.

Tim barely hears the young boy gasp. "He's beautiful."

"That's likely why the Great One is so bestowed."

Tim sighs walking back to his room with a escape plan half formed.

Elsewhere, the rumor mill in the Ghost Zone is running over time as news of King Phantom's human husband-to-be is spread far and wide. Leaders of the Ghost Zone quickly prepare for a ball that will likely be called to celebrate the union.

They have gifts gathered, each wanting to gain favor with the King. The Far Frozen gets overwhelming requests to visit the future Consort, but seeing as King Phantom had to return to the human world, thus leaving his fiancé in their care, they reject all. They do not want the boy to be overwhelmed or caught unawares if he is not tried in any form of politics.

It would not allow him to become a threat to the King's authority's pawn.

This led to even more rumors starting.

By the time they reached John Constine- the only human who has any form of contact with the Realms- the word is that King Phantom's human was currently carrying their child, wanting to marry before the baby was born, and that he was running from a group of humans known as "The Bats."

He was as beautiful as the King Phantom was powerful- which meant he was utterly breathtaking for a human- and that King Phantom was currently in the human world hunting down those who threaten his family.

Across the dimension plane, Danny is blissfully unaware of the misunderstanding as he is busy filling out college scholarship applications. He has only one more year before he graduates, but he would like to go somewhere away from Amity Park.

The Wayne Scholarship is a long and lengthy process, but it will be worth it. A full ride with board and meals? Yes, the housing will be in Gotham but it's a small price to pay.

He wonders if his number one fan has awakened. Frostbite would have contacted him if his guest had escaped the coma.

Tim Drake had been asleep for nearly a week, only kept healthy due to Danny bathing him in his Protective Core ectoplasm and the Yeti's multi-species medical knowledge. As it were, Tim appeared to only be taking a small nap, none of the adverse effects of long slumber appearing on his thin body, but Danny was getting worried.

At this point, he didn't even care how Tim knew his secret. He just wanted him to be alright.

A flash of green light causes Danny to spring away from his laptop, body falling into a natural fighter's stance only to blink at the giant gift wrap present laying on his bed. Cautiously he inspects the gift finding it from Princess Dora.

"May your love lead the Realms into a wonderous future, and may your union bear many children." He reads the small note she had attracted to her gift "What children?"

Pulling open the gift, he stares at two sets of King robes decorated with rubies shaped into snowflakes. More miniature robes and a few booties surround the pair, obviously meant as a family gift.

Tuck to the side of the box is a long and deadly-looking sword. It's pitch black, with a scull as a handle. Dora had tired a scroll to its blade, where she had written My armies are ready to yield to you. You need only to swing this sword, and they shall come to your aid. The Bats will not harm your treasure.

What in the world?

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Phantom's number 1 fan #Tim unleased a love story onto the beings of enterity #Danny is super confused #Somewhere John is freaking out about a possible war #Tim does not remember stopping at Danny's

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ametrictonofaudacity · 6 months

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Gaps 5

Yandere! Platonic! Batfam x Mentally il/Forgetful Reader

Warnings: exploitation of mental illness, depression and self-neglect, forcing the use of medication, manipulation,arguing, implied threats of violence against an animal (DW MOMO IS IN NO DANGER), and captivity and general yandere themes.

Despite what you thought, they don’t hound you twenty-four seven. They are not constantly at your side, are not as close as they normally are. Dick comes around, because it’s Dick and you were normally attached to the hip. Or you had been. Things were different now.

And of course the peace wouldn’t last. Of course the Wayne’s wouldn’t be content to allow you some much needed time to adjust, of course things went wrong. When there’s a quiet knock at the door of your room, you’d stiffened, Momo in your arms.

Tim pushes the door open. It was always Tim, or Damian, or Jason. Dick didn’t really come to see you in the mornings. Not after you’d refused to even touch the food he’s laid out, not after you had ignored his existence the entire time he’d been in your room. As far as you were concerned, Dick was to blame for all of this. He’d had the initial idea to kidnap you, he’d introduced you to his family, he’d been the one to cause your pain.

You shift, fingers clenching your blanket tightly, letting Momo slip out of your arms. She prances up to Tim, rubbing her face against his pant leg, and it makes your heart race in your chest. None of the Wayne’s had hurt her, sure, but she was so little and friendly that it worried you that they would. Tim, thankfully, barely even acknowledges her. He gently nudged her out of the way with his foot, setting down the tray he had been carrying on the bedside table.

“Alfred mentioned that you hadn’t touched your plate. Is the new medication interfering with your appetite?” He asks, and you swallow. You really didn’t want to have your meds changed again. They had just put you back on the prazosin for fucks sake, and you would prefer if you didn’t go back to those stupid drugs.

“Did Alfred mention it or were you just stalking me again?” You mutter, drawing your knees up to your chest. Tim frowns.

“It’s not my fault you keep trying to do something stupid!” He snaps, and it’s defensive. Angry. Maybe it’s because he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe it’s because he knows he’s in the wrong.

“You barely take care of yourself, (Y/N).” He starts, and he angrily sorts your meds as he does so, fingers flicking through the pills to lay them out. You noticed he did that. Compulsively sorted or organized thing when he was thinking, lips pulled into an angry frown.He continues, ruthless.

“We’ve tried doing it your way. We gave you space, like you asked, and you haven’t eaten. You barely interact with anyone, you haven’t brushed your hair since after dinner three nights ago, and not only that, you’ve barely gotten out of bed. You only get up if one of us make you or if it’s to feed Momo or use the restroom.”

His voice starts to rise in anger, getting loudly and louder as he yells in your face.

Your ears ring. You can’t tell the cotton in your mouth is from disassociation, anger, or sheer, unadulterated indignation. How dare he.

“And who’s fault is that?!” You snarl, pushing yourself up. Tim wouldn’t hit you, you knew. He argued with you, and he was clingy as fuck during the rare occasions you let him touch you or got caught off guard enough to not protest when he initiated it, but never did he hit you.

“You all- I can’t even leave the HOUSE! I can’t do anything without a fucking escort! You watch me through the fuckin cameras, you creeper, don’t think I haven’t heard Jason fucking teasing you for it! You all might not be at my hip all the time, but I’m not stupid enough to let myself even THINK for a second that you aren’t aware of everything in my life!”

You scream.

“You’re so fucking convinced that I am incompetent and stupid, you’re so fucking convinced I can’t take care of myself, that you ruined my life for it! That- I can’t even leave the house, I can’t do anything by myself, don’t think I didn’t notice how literally anytime I walk past the kitchen, someone’s always watching me, this isn’t fucking fair or right, and fuck you for doing it!”

You snarl, and Tim just… stands there. Takes it. He doesn’t argue, which you expect, but he doesn’t apologize, either. You hate that you used to trust him. You hate that you used to look up to him, admiring his wits and intelligence when he had been using those very same attributes to rip apart your life so he and his family of snakes could pick up the pieces and put them back together again.

“I trusted you and all you did was throw my trust in my fucking face!” You snarl. “I told you, how I struggled to remember things! How I felt like I was going insane because my stuff kept vanishing! You offered- you offered to help me search my apartment! Was that just- just another opportunity to stalk me?! To manipulate me?”

Your voice cracks. You weren’t even screaming anymore, no matter how much the anger burns.

“You were right to trust us.” Tim finally says. “I know you don’t like it, I really do, and that it’s not fair, but we’re doing this to help you. You-“

He sighs, running his hand through his hair.

“You haven’t eaten. Haven’t brushed your hair, or your teeth. You’re lethargic. You fight us every step of the way on taking your meds. What if we weren’t around taking care of you? What if-“

He wrings his hands slightly, and you feel a trickle of doubt seep in. He seems to genuinely believe what he was saying. That you needed him, needed them, to keep yourself alive. To keep yourself sane. You don’t know if it’s delusion or paranoia or some other, crippling thing, but it makes your stomach twist with guilt and what might be sorrow.

“Tim.” You cut in, grabbing his hands in your own. His eyes widen, and you worry your grip is too tight from your anger and your desperation to be heard, so you loosen it, slightly. He tightens his grip.

“Tim, I took care of myself for years. And I-“ You swallow, there’s this faint pressure in your eyes that might be the beginnings of tears, but it was something. “- I get I didn’t always do the best job, okay? I get that. But you need to just- you need to trust me. Please.”

You plead, and his face softens, cracks. The anger drains and you feel guilt. What you’re doing, it feels like manipulation even though you know it’s not, and you wonder how the Wayne’s have gotten you so twisted up into knots that even asking for your autonomy as an adult and a person felt like some forbidden thing. You hadn’t even been with them that long. Certainly not long enough for Stockholm Syndrome to occur, and the conditions for Stockholm weren’t even really being met, you were pretty sure.

“I do trust you.” He insists. “We all trust you. But- you need help. Help that you won’t get for yourself and won’t let others get for you. Can’t you just trust us back?” He asks like it’s simple. Like you would want to trust the people who hurt you so totally, so completely, you thought you would never recover. The Wayne’s had been the few people in your life you had sought out, the few people who had been a part of your life, who hadn’t minded your quirks and oddities. They had fit into your life so seamlessly you had nearly forgotten a time they weren’t there, and it had scared you, so you’d pushed them away.

You should have pushed them away sooner.

Your hands go lax, and you slide them from Tim’s grip. There’s a moment where he seems reluctant to let go, before he releases his grip, and you place your hands in your lap.

You were already tired of arguing. The righteous anger had burnt itself out in the face of how sincere he was being.

“Why don’t we get you ready for the day and you’ll feel better?” Tim offers suddenly, like you hadn’t just nearly broken down in front him about being treated as incapable, being treated like a child.

You hold out your hand. He places the pills in them, and you glance down. You consider throwing them across the room again, but last time you had, you had simply gotten the same medication forced down your throat. You take the pills with a grimace, and Tim passes you a glass of water. This, you also resist throwing.

You eat mechanically, the food tasting like ash in your mouth even though you know it probably tasted delicious. Alfred’s cooking always did. When you’re done, you set the plate to the side, and Tim takes it.

“Why don’t you get dressed, yeah?” He asks softly, like you have a choice, and you narrow your eyes at him, silently communicating you wanted him out of the room. He doesn’t budge.

“Hey, Tim, where’s the-“ You jump slightly when Duke pokes his head in the empty doorframe, surprised.

“Oh! Hey, you’re up! Tim said you were having trouble with your hair, yeah? Want some help?” He lifts the comb and strangling brush, a myriad of other things in his arms.

You pause, considering. Part of it was spite, part of it was the fact Duke was asking, and not telling, but you nod, and he beams. He looks absolutely delighted, and he steps into the room after a moment.

“Awesome! Grab a pillow to sit on and let’s get started, yeah?” He beams, setting down his supplies on your bedside table. He doesn’t mention your meds, or the food, or anything else. It’s refreshing.

“Sure.”

Momo hops into your lap, the little opportunist, and you stroke her fur softly as Duke gets everything situated. Tim looks horribly jealous, and the thought makes you a little smug. It didn’t even feel all that petty, given how he had just been practically demanding you listen to him, and Duke had come in, offering you help but not demanding you take it.

Duke’s hands are gentle as he does your hair, carefully working out the tangles, and you hum, leaning back into it. You were still.. wary, you’d be an idiot not to be, but it was a little better with his fingers in your hair and you wanting them to be there.

“Duke?” You say slowly, Momo in your lap.

“Yeah?”

“Why’re you okay with.. all of this?” You start, fingers tapping on your thigh as he works out the knots.

“What do you mean?” He asks, and you wonder if he’s going to play stupid.

“All of it. The kidnapping, the tampering with my medication, the…” You trail off.

Duke sighs. He sounds so much older than he is, and it makes your heart ache.

“I’m not.” He says lowly, glancing at the now closed door Tim had left through. “I understand where they’re coming from, don’t get me wrong but.. it’s not fair to you.” He finished. “Figured I may as well give you some normally.”

You nod, and sigh, leaning against him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

#yandere dc #yandere platonic x reader #yandere platonic batfam #yandere platonic Duke Thomas #yandere platonic Tim’s Drake

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spaceycowboys · 1 year

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echoes of your name inside my mind

pairing: aemond targaryen x female!reader; aegon targaryen x female!reader (one sided)

summary: aegon has a constant reminder that you will never be his, no matter how badly he wishes you to be. or maybe you could be.

warnings: light smut, yandere!aegon, pining!aegon, oral sex (female receiving), fingering (female receiving), NONCON/DUBCON SEX (female receiving but not reader and not heavily detailed), noncon voyeurism, violence, threats of bodily harm, unconsented kiss, aegon is a lil creepy, not edited, will return later to edit. open ended for possible part two if anyone wants it, please let me know if i missed anything!

notes: repost because i am convinced tumblr hates me. i am not 100% pleased with this if i am being honest :( but i am still wanting to post it! i think it turned out good, it just didn’t end up exactly like i had wanted it too. thank you everyone for all your patience while waiting for this fic, and thank you everyone for being so kind when i had to delay due to being ill, i appreciate each and every one of you. i imagine this ready being the same tyrell!reader from my fic starry eyes sparking up my darkest night but not necessarily a sequel to it! just could possibly be in the same universe. please interact and leave a comment or reblog and let me know your thoughts, feedback of any kind if always so appreciated! please heed warnings before you consume this content! i don’t want anyone reading anything that may make them uncomfortable. title credits: don’t blame me by taylor swift

word count: 4.1k

Aegon’s never felt this way before. The swelling in his chest so unfamiliar when you smile softly at him, a smile you typically reserve for your husband, directed towards him across the table at dinner.

Your hair is down this evening, something you’ve only started doing recently. Foregoing the braids and just letting it fall down your back, it looks better with the way it frames your face when it’s down, Aegon thinks to himself. By the looks of it, Aemond thinks so to.

Aemond loves you, his sweet and kindhearted lady wife, so very deeply. At one point it would’ve made Aegon sick to his stomach to witness, willing him to throw up whatever . The way he dotes on you, holds your hand while you walk through the Keep, brushes your hair back when it gets in the way of your reading, tenderly rubs your face with his thumbs when you get excited while talking.

It still does make him sick to his stomach, just not in the same way it used to. No. This sickness crawls at his chest, a feeling so cold yet so hot, and his stomach twists into tight knots, hands clamp up and throat swells in an unfamiliar way. It makes him feel like he’s dying.

Perhaps he is. Maybe not having a love like the love you hold for Aemond will ultimately be what kills him. He’s sure Helaena could love him if he could show her any kindness. He doesn’t want that kind of love from Helaena.

Aegon’s eyes watch as Aemond continues his conversation with Jason Lannister, but hand reaches for yours as you speak animatedly with Helaena about something.

His ears are ringing as he grabs the cup full of wine and downs it in two gulps. Aemond’s hand squeezes yours twice, you smile at Helaena as you squeeze his back. The servant girl refills his cup for him, tearing his eyes away from your joined hands he looks to her.

Her hair is the same color as yours. Though, her eyes aren’t the same color, eyebrows aren’t the same shape, lips are quiet a bit smaller than yours. Her hand looks about the same size as yours, even if it is rougher and has callouses.

She will do. He supposes.

“What is your name?” He looks away from her as he asks, and her hold on the pitcher tightens.

“I’m sorry?” Her voice is shaky, she’s already annoying him.

His head snaps back to hers, eyes boring deeply into her own as the girl feels her blood run cold, “I asked you for your name.”

She looks around the table. Her eyes lingering at the Queen, his mother, Helaena, and you for a moment.

“My name is Elaine, my Prince,” He hums a bored tone before nodding.

“I will require wine in my chambers after dinner, Elaine.” His voice isn’t soft, and he doesn’t hide what he plans on doing later.

His mother looks furious, Helaena just looks down at her plate. You, however, you look almost disappointed. As if you couldn’t believe he would do such a thing, let alone in front of his own wife.

Aemond pulls your eyes away from Aegon, a frown adorning his face when he notices the grimace on your own. His eyes looks at the shame on Helaena’s and the anger on his mothers as she looks at his older brother before he puts together what must’ve occurred.

He clears his throat and gives lord Lannister a tight smile, “I must apologize, my Lord. My wife is quite tired today and seems to be ready to retire,”

The words are a courtesy, not much else, everyone at the table except Jason Lannister seems aware of that, “Can your lady wife not see herself to bed, my Prince?”

Aemond’s hand twitches at the implied disrespect, but it’s Aegon who speaks up, “Are you implying that that my brother should allow my Good Sister, his lady wife, to head to bed alone?”

Jason Lannister looks uncomfortable at the attention of the table now being on him, “I meant nothing of it, my Prince. I just meant a Lady can typically see herself to bed while her husband continues his evening,” He ends the statement with an awkward escaping his mouth at the heated eyes of the two Princes as well as the distressed eye of the Queen at the impending argument.

You clear your throat, dainty hand reaching for you husbands nervously, “Ah, yes, Lord Lannister. I am sure I could find my rest alone, however; my husband has been very tired as of late, and I require him to have an appropriate amount of rest.”

Aegon watches Lord Lannister like a hawk, demanding him to imply any further sort of insult to you. When the Lord stays quiet, averting his gaze to the Hand of the King, Aegon allows his eyes to travel back to you and Aemond, watching distastefully as he places his hand on the small of your back to lead you to your private quarters.

εїз

The servant girl, Elaine, doesn’t struggle when he grabs her waist and pushes her face down on his bed when she walks in. She knows what she’s here for, but Aegon can’t help but feel irritated she didn’t even bother to actually bring any wine. The lack of drink will make the experience harder for him, the more sober he is the more he’ll be able to realize the woman beneath him isn’t you.

She doesn’t struggle when he grabs her hair tightly, groaning when he thinks of it being you beneath him, his cock stirring to life at the thought of you being beneath him as he lets his imagination run wild.

She does, however, cry when his cock enters her. She isn’t nearly as wet as Aegon would like for her to be, but he can make do. It’s not like he truly cares much for her pleasure anyway.

When she gets to loud, he presses her face harder into the mattress and thrusts into her a little faster. Her sobbing ruining his mood, but not enough for him to stop.

He thinks of you. Your soft smile that you sent him at dinner, the way your eyes lit up when you spoke with Helaena as she talked about the twins, the way the neckline of your dress dipped almost too low to be considered modest.

Fuck, he can’t stop wondering what your bare chest looks like, if you like it when your nipples are sucked on, if you prefer being on top.

The thoughts of you have him cumming after a few more thrusts. When he pulls out, the sobbing maid stands shakily and looks to him, silently begging to be dismissed. He waves his hand towards the door after telling her to expect a visit from his mother.

εїз

Aegon doesn’t spend much time in the library, he’s never been one to care for learning any histories or reading silly stories, but he knows you do, which is maybe why after hearing Aemond would be gone for the afternoon he heads towards the library. Silently hoping for a moment alone with you, just to be in your presence for a mere moment before leaving the Keep for the remainder of the day until he’s drug back to the castle and more than likely forced into bed with Helaena.

When he turns a corner around a large shelf housing books, his eyes nearly pop out of his skull in surprise.

His eyes must be deceiving him, there is no way Aemond would have you in such a position where people could see you.

But he does.

Aegon feels like he’s intruding on something, and honestly he knows he is. But he can’t tear his eyes away.

Aemond has you pressed up against a bookshelf, one hand pressed against your chest to hold you in place. He’s under the skirt of your dress, though Aegon can’t see what Aemond is doing, he has an inkling of what’s going on beneath your skirts.

He’s heard whispers of your husband’s insatiable appetite for you, how maids would often be searching for you only to find you in a semi-public area with your husband’s head between your legs or roughly fucking you from behind. He’d thought they were lying, honestly. There was no way Aemond would doing such a thing, his self-righteous brother wouldn’t dare do such a thing to his sweet wife.

Apparently he does.

You’re biting your lip to keep any noises from coming out, whatever Aemond’s doing with his mouth beneath your skirts, you’re very much enjoying.

It’s not really the first time Aegon has seen the two of you in such a position, but never in a public place. Not that anyone but the two of you really visit this particular library.

Usually when Aegon watches, he watches from a distance. There is a balcony on a tower that if he stands at the right angle he can see in your room is his go to spot. Or, when he’s feeling desperate, he’ll hide in the tunnels of the Keep, standing outside the one leading to your room with his cock in his hand as he listens to your moans and pleas as Aemond fucks you harshly.

“Aemond,” Your voice is a breathy moan, it sounds like heaven.

Your hands rest at your sides, clenched tightly as your husband eats you as if you’re the last meal he’ll be allowed to have. Which Aegon can’t ever say it out loud, but he would do the same. He’s never been one for giving oral, but if he could live and breath between your thighs, he mouth would rarely leave your cunt.

Your moans have Aegon’s cock stirring to life beneath his pants as he watches. He doesn’t know how long Aemond has been committing the taste of you to his memory, nor how close you are to cumming, but if he had to guess you’re close.

Your body is tensing, hands gripping the edge of the bookshelf so tightly he wonders if it will break, moans getting louder and nose scrunching up. Chants of his brother’s name, Aemond, Aemond, Aemond leave your mouth is desperate, pitchy whines. Whole body shaking as his brother’s hand moves from your chest to take one of your own and intertwine your fingers.

The loving gesture has Aegon’s cock softening as he bites back a scoff. It’s easier for him to watch when Aemond has had a rough day, more interested in taking in the moment rather than giving. When Aemond is soft, it’s not as easy for him to remember who you are to him, who he is to his brother.

Your breathing evens out but your hand stays intertwined with his brothers, eyes still closed in the afterglow of your orgasm. Aegon decides to take his leave when he notices his brother moving under your skirt. He doesn’t want his mother to think any less of him than she already does; for not only lusting for is good sister, but for watching as his brother pleasures her.

He can always find you later, he supposes.

εїз

Aegon does find you later.

He finds you sitting in the Godswood, praying to the Old Gods just as you pray to the Seven in the Sept with Helaena.

“You pray to the Old Gods often, sister?” His voice startles you, a laugh slipping past his lips as you turn to him with wide eyes.

“Prince Aegon, you frightened me,” Your voice is as soft as it always is, steady as if not to show how much he actually frightened you moments before.

“Apologies, sweet sister,” He hums out, as he makes his way over to sit next to you in front of the weirwood tree, “I did not know your family had the faith of the Old Gods,”

You hum softly before glancing over at him, “During my time in Winterfell I became quite fond of their faith,”

Aegon feels his stomach turn sour at the mention of your time in Winterfell, when Cregan Stark had been the one your father had been leaning most towards for your betrothal, up until his grandsire and mother sent a letter offering Aemond’s hand.

“You spent a lot of time there?” He know how long you spent there, how fond you became of the North and the people, of Cregan. His brother spoke about the distaste he held for the Starks often after you had been moved here permanently as his.

“Hm, a little over a year, it was very different than Highgarden, and very different than here,” You trail off, talking highly of the North.

Aegon stops listening to your words, opting to watch the way your mouth moves as you speak. He doesn’t know what comes over him, maybe it’s the close proximity, or perhaps it’s the fact that it’s the first time you’ve actually been alone with him, he isn’t sure.

But one minute, your speaking and smiling, then the next, Aegon’s mouth is on your own. A gasp of pure shock escapes you, eyes wide in horror.

Your mouth is as soft as he imagined it would be, but you rip yourself away from him before he can truly savor the taste of you.

You look like you’ve been struck, eyes wide with tears lining them and mouth open in shock. Aegon’s throat tightens up at the look of betrayal on your face, “What have you done?”

His hands shake as he reaches for your own shaky ones, bile rising in his throat as you stand quickly and move to leave the area, more than likely to find your husband and tell him what his brother has done.

“Wait,” He rushes to follow you, “Wait! I’m sorry, fuck! I don’t know what came over me?”

His hand grabs your wrist, squeezing tightly as he turns you towards him, “I’m sorry. I don’t- Please don’t tell Aemond,”

You struggle to pull yourself away from him, causing his grip to tighten even more as he shoves you up against a nearby. You can feel it bruising, “Of course I am telling him! He is my husband, and you have dishonored me!”

He winces, “No, no I haven’t. I would never, you don’t understand. It was a mistake. I did not mean to,”

“You did not mean to? What was your intention then, Aegon?”

He sighs, frustration rising in him as he looks at you and your stupid, beautiful face, “I love you,”

Horror bleeds into your features, “No!”

A halfhearted laugh escapes him, “Indeed, my Lady,” he nudges his nose against your own, causing you to jerk away from him.

“Aegon-“

“Don’t say anything,” He whispers softly, mouth ghosting against your own, “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Tears fall down your cheeks as you look at the man before you. He’s smaller than his brother, but still bigger than you. And his nails are now digging into your wrist painfully, blood seeps through his fingertips.

You’ve heard the whispers, your own handmaidens doing their best to keep you from the older prince due to them. The whispers of how when he travels to the streets of silk, he requests women who look similar to you, or enough like you from behind. How your husband never allows you to be alone with his brother. You didn’t want to believe them, refused even.

You cannot ignore the words as they whirl around in your head now.

His face is in your neck, nose nudging at the junction of where your shoulder and neck meet as he inhales your scent and sighs.

“When I’m King, I could take you from him. I’ll get rid of him, rid myself of Helaena. Just you and me, sweet girl,”

Your ears are ringing, fear rushing through your veins as you begin struggling against him as sobs escape you, “Please let me go, Aegon. Please don’t hurt me,”

The fear that bleeds through your words cause him to rip away from you, as if your touch burned him. He looks as if he’s actually seeing you for the first time since he kissed you.

Your face is wet with tears and snot, hair slightly disheveled from the struggle, wrist bruised and bleeding from where he was gripping you. It shames his to watch you struggle to catch your breath, you are obviously struggling heavily with what he’s done, and his veins are on fire looking at you. He’s disgusted with himself as he feel his cock harden at your appearance.

“I’m, fuck, I’m sorry,” He’s sorry he hurt you, but he’s not sorry about much else. He knows your going to tell Aemond, and he won’t be lying when his brother comes to confront him. He may be a pig, but he can’t bring himself to dishonor you or imply you a liar.

He watches as your wipe your face, watching him wearily as you slowly leave, surly rushing to find a handmaiden to help you clean yourself up.

He decides to go to his room and wait for Aemond to visit him, or his mother. He supposed it’ll be whichever you run into first.

εїз

Aemond feels his blood boiling as he marches from your room to Aegon’s. Fury flooding his veins as he grinds his teeth together.

The state he found you in was heartbreaking, blood on your wrist still flowing as you cried and sobbed out what had happened before getting on your knees and clinging to him like a child, begging him to not be angry with you.

Anger was never an emotion Aemond felt like he could possess towards you. After all, you’re his sweet, sweet wife. He loves you.

Aegon, on the other hand, is a different story. He knows that no matter how bad he wants to, he can’t kill his brother. He wishes he could, but his mother would be furious if he did so.

He dismisses the guards as he walks into his brother’s room. Aegon stands, preparing himself for a fight immediately, only to be caught slightly by surprise as his brother gives him a once over and then starts laughing.

Aemond laughs, an actual humor filled laugh, “I’m sorry, truly, this is just so fucking funny,”

Aegon flushes, a deep red covering his face, “What?”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Aemond grits out through clenched teeth, “She is my fucking wife. My wife!”

Aegon loathes the tone in Aemond’s voice, the way he’s talking down to him as if he’s actually done something wrong, which he knows he has. But it’s not as if he raped you.

“I am painfully aware, brother-“

“No, you spoiled fucking cunt, I don’t think you are,” Aemond pushes him up against the wall harshly. “And, quite frankly, I don’t give a fuck if you are or not.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, “I know she is your fucking wife, Aemond.”

Aemond’s hand is on Aegon’s throat before the bitter sentence spits its way out of his mouth, squeezing in a threatening manner, but not tight enough to choke him fully. If Aegon hadn’t pissed him off, and if he couldn’t see the look in his brother’s eyes, Aegon could assume he was jesting.

“If I find you even breathing near her again, I’ll cut your fucking cock off and feed it to Vhagar. You dishonor our mother, you dishonor your wife, I will not allow you to even think about attempting to dishonor mine just because you’ve decided you want her,”

It’s not a time to pick at him, Aegon knows this, yet the words come out anyway, “And yet you fuck her anywhere you can get your hands on her, that is a bit dishonoring, do you not think? Hm, little brother?”

Aemond’s fingers squeeze at Aegon’s neck, “I will fuck my wife anywhere I please, brother, because I am her fucking husband.”

He rips his hand from Aegon’s neck when he starts turning slightly purple, “I pity you, Aegon.”

Aegon growls and considers lunging at him, “I don’t want your fucking pity,”

Aemond huffs out a laugh, “No, but you do want my fucking wife. And you cannot have her,”

A fit of rage fills Aegon as he watches his brother laugh at him, “When I become King, I could annule your marriage to her, and take her for myself,”

Aemond’s face is hard again, eye gleaming in a deep anger, “If you attempt to do anything of the sorts, you will be disappointed when I turn to our older sister and back her claim,”

Aegon knows it was a low blow, and he truly never would annule your marriage to his brother. He wouldn’t want to have you against your will, despite what people say about him.

His head falls slightly, “I wanted her, at one point.”

He’s never admitted it out loud to anyone of importance, when you’d come to court with your father all those years ago, been kind to everyone you’d met, Aegon had been taken with you. A small similarity the two brothers shared despite their many differences.

He’d heard his father speak to his sister about how you’d be a good match for her son, a true Queen you’d be one day. He silently hoped his mother would try to take you from Rhaenyra and give you to him, and he’d been partially right.

His mother did fight for a marriage for her son, Aemond. While Aegon was stuck marrying his unhinged sister, his crippled brother would be given your hand if your father agreed.

Sometimes he wonders if he would have turned out different if he would’ve spoken up, but he knows he’ll never know. Aemond would probably kill you if it meant saving you from the horrors that you would most likely live if Aegon took you. His sexual appetite alone would never be satiated, Aegon knows Aemond would see it as doing you a favor.

“I know,” Aemond’s words surprise Aegon. “You know?”

“I’m not stupid. I see how you look at her, how the whores and servants you tend to ask for look like her. I know you watch when I take her,”

Aemond’s words should bring Aegon shame, but they don’t, “I am not sorry,”

It’s clearly stated, the clearest thing he’s said to Aemond in years, if they had been closer Aemond may have cared.

“And I am not sorry, either.” His hurt tone hurts Aegon’s heart, but it doesn’t hurt it more than knowing that he’ll have to watch you be with Aemond for the rest of his life. “She is my wife. You have a wife. If for whatever reason you are still unsatisfied, you have plenty of whores at your disposal, find one that looks enough like my wife to state you,”

Aemond closes his eye takes a deep breath, a look in his eye that Aegon does not recognize when Aemond looks back at him, “If you touch her again, if you draw blood from her body again or tears from her eyes, I’ll take your fucking head and gift it to her. I won’t see you near her again. I may not be able to kill you right now for harming her, but do not take this as me letting this go. You are lucky our mother loves you, because if she didn’t I would not let you live for what you’ve done. If it happens again-“

Aemond cuts himself off and shakes his head, giving his brother one final bitter look before storming out of his chambers.

As he watches Aemond walk away, Aegon’s bitter feeling molts into something deeper. His brother is right, he does have whores satiate him, plenty of them can look like you. He can shove their faces into whatever surface is near and pretend it’s you under him.

Aemond will ruin this for himself, Aegon knows it deep down, feels it in his bones. He knows Aemond is only possessive because he knows how unworthy he is of you; he’ll slip up somewhere. And when he does, when he does somehow ruin things with the pretty little rose from Highgarden in an unmendable way, and only then; Aegon will step in and show you a new form of undoubtful devotion.

Aegon will be King, a fact everyone but his cunt of a sister knows. But you? He’ll worship your body and fill you with his son before Aemond even knows what hit him. You’ll be the Queen.

#aegon ii x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #hotd smut #aemond smut

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probably-writing-x · 1 year

Text

Everything, Always

Summary: Rafe had never seemed to care about anyone other than himself. It was each for their own and it always had been. So why wasn’t it the same with you?

Warnings: Sexual references throughout, alcohol, fighting / violence

Word Count: 2.5K

Author’s Note: I had so much fun writing this so I hope you all enjoy <3 Have a lovely day !! Alsooo I’m all out of requests right now so if you think of anything please send it in xoxo

“Where is it you need to be this time?” Rafe asks you, tucking an arm under his head between his hair and the pillow as he watches you, the bed sheets hanging low over his waist.

“Family dinner,” You comment, “My grandparents have flown in for the weekend, meaning we have to pretend to all like each other for a hundred hours and then go back to normal.”

“Can’t you get out of it?” He frowns a little, his eyes trailing over your every move.

You let out a laugh as you tug your top over your chest, fixing it over your torso, “No, I already skipped out on the ladies’ brunch yesterday, and the girls’ beach day on Wednesday - they’ll start getting suspicious if I keep telling them I’m ill constantly.”

Rafe pushes himself to sit up against the headboard of his bed, eyes still following you around the room as you tug your shoes on, “Who cares if they get suspicious?”

You roll your eyes, “Because I’d rather not have the conversation of ‘yeah I’m fooling around with Rafe Cameron but it’s nothing important’.”

He raises his eyebrows at you, a smug smirk dancing over his lips, “Fooling around.”

“Goodbye Rafe,” You assert, grabbing your bag and closing his bedroom door behind you - thankful that the size of this house meant you could generally escape unseen.

The two of you had been hooking up for a few months now, starting from one drunken night after a party and carrying on when he’d told you not to leave the following morning. Then he would text you at 2am when both of you had nothing to do. And you’d text him on weekends when your parents were away on business. And then you just started knowing that you wanted to see each other - he’d no longer text asking you to come over, he’d just text to tell you he was on his way. It was nothing more than that, though. Just all of the benefits with none of the strings attached - exactly what you wanted. In your so-called ‘perfect’ Kook lifestyle, it was nice to have a little part of it that nobody needed to know about.

~~~

Open your door it’s fucking raining

You’re half asleep looking at the message, blinking the sleep out of your eyes. Before you can force your fingers to respond, the little ellipsis bubble appears to tell you he was typing again.

Seriously, I’ll break the window

You know the threat is empty, but there was always a part of you that never knew with Rafe. You push yourself out of bed and walk cautiously down the stairs, avoiding the steps that would creak too loudly. His silhouette is visible through the glass of the door, close enough so that he can be sheltered under the cover of the porch. When you unlock the door, he’s practically pushing to get through.

“Fucking hell, answer your texts woman,” He says, shaking a hand through his hair to relieve it of some of the water.

“Shhh,” You hiss, “What are you doing here? I told you my family were staying this weekend.”

“What? You don’t think you can be quiet?” The smirk on his face is enough to make your blood boil.

You hit his chest but he doesn’t move so much as an inch at your contact, “Either get upstairs or get out.”

Rafe mock salutes you, with a growing grin on his face, “Yes ma’am.”

The two of you weren’t a couple, so you didn’t cuddle afterwards or anything. That would be far too romantic. Instead, you would lay on one side of the bed and him on the other, both with one arm tucked underneath your pillow, facing the other person on the mattress.

“What did you have at brunch?” Rafe asks you, his voice deep as he speaks quietly into the space between you.

You let out a little laugh, “You don’t care, why are you asking?”

He rolls his eyes at you, “Humour me.”

“I had poached eggs and avocado on toast,” You comment, “It was disgusting, and unseasoned, but it stops my Grandmother from judging me.”

“Is it nice seeing your family?” As he asks the question, Rafe reaches out a hand and starts drawing his fingertips up your arm - it’s not the sort of touch that is going to lead to anything, it’s just gentle and soft and like he is doing it purely for the desire to feel you.

You frown a little, “What’s with the questions Rafe? Why are you being weird?”

He stops his hand on your arm, though doesn’t pull it away just yet. But it’s like your questions snap him back to himself, and eventually he pulls himself away, shaking his head a little like drawing back to reality, “I better leave, can’t be here when your grandparents wake up, can I?”

With that, he pushes himself away from the bed to stand up and you’re the one watching him this time as he picks up his discarded clothes from the floor and refits them in the exact way as when he’d arrived.

“Are you going to Topper’s party on Tuesday?” You ask him as he re-laces his shoes, one foot on the seat of your vanity chair.

“Yeah he wouldn’t let me say no,” Rafe rolls his eyes, “Are you?”

“I think the girls said something about us going,” You try to sound as nonchalant as possible, though you’re almost absolutely certain that you fail in doing so.

“So I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” You shrug, pulling the sheets up high on your chest to snuggle into them.

“Tuesday,” Rafe raises his brows like he sees right through you, walking around to your side of the bed.

In the moment, he leans down over you and presses a soft kiss to your lips, lingering just above you for a second longer.

“Goodnight, (Y/N).”

He leaves after that, closing your bedroom door behind him silently. In all of these months, that was the first time you’d ever kissed each other goodbye. It felt weird and unknown and oddly comforting. But you drift off to sleep soon after, a settling uncertainty on your chest.

~~~

The party is busy by the time you get there and it’s already littered with faces you don’t know - Topper had a habit of inviting every person he’d ever found himself in conversation with, until his house was practically bursting at the seams.

Your eyes scan the crowd until you find Sarah and hurry over to her, thankful for a familiar face amongst the unknown. The two of you had known each other since you were young, having grown up doing everything together - and Sarah was another one of the reasons why everything with you and Rafe had to be kept so on the down low.

“There you are! God, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!” She beams, wrapping you in a warm hug, “Where have you been?”

“Yeah, it’s been a busy couple of weeks is all,” You nod, “I haven’t been feeling great either.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re better now!” She smiles, “I have so much to catch you up on.”

Sarah grabs your hand and takes you through the crowd until the two of you find the table of drinks, and she pours one can out into a cup for you, handing it over.

“How are things with you and John B?” You ask her, taking a sip as you glance around the room, only looking for one pair of eyes.

“Shhhh, Topper would kill you if he heard you talking about it here,” She widens her eyes at you, “But they’re going well. And things at home are surprisingly good too.”

“Oh really, how come?”

Sarah looks around before leaning in close to speak in a hushed tone as she says, “I’m pretty sure my brother is seeing somebody.”

“He’s what?!”

“Well, I don’t know if seeing someone is the right term because he only ever seems to go out past midnight. But, whoever she is, she must be someone special because I’ve never seen the guy so happy,” Sarah laughs, “I mean, literally, you’d think it was a different person.”

“Really?” You try to mask your smile with a look of surprise, fighting back the grin tugging at your lips.

Sarah gets distracted before she can say anything else as Topper comes up behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder. She widens her eyes at you before forcing a smile and turning around to face him.

“Is it okay if we go off to talk somewhere?” Topper glances over at you with a small smile before turning back to Sarah, “Alone.”

“Sure, Top,” She takes a deep breath, following behind him as he dips out of the party.

In their absence, there’s a clearing in the group as a tall form pushes through the bodies - Rafe tumbling over bumping shoulders to get himself to the table.

You turn to the drinks and refill your cup a little more with the rest of the can. Before you can turn around, you feel the presence of him behind you, his arm leaning over to grab a cup.

“Excuse me,” He mumbles, his voice close to your ear as he dips his head down.

You lift your head up and it bumps just slightly against the hardness of his chest, “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Oh no,” Rafe moves his other hand to your waist and grips the skin, “Don’t move on my accord. But you could be a doll and get that whiskey for me.”

You lean over, aware of how you push back into his crotch as you bend. In the moment, you’re sure he grips you just a little tighter.

Rafe holds out his solo cup and your start pouring the brown liquid in, the bottle lightening in your hand.

“Woah, woah, woah,” He laughs, “Anyone would think you’re trying to get me drunk.”

You set the bottle down and pick up your own drink, turning around so that you’re stood against his chest, having to tilt your chin upwards to see him properly, “Get you drunk? Oh no, you’re terrible in bed when you’re drunk.”

Rafe raises his brows at you but his eyes seem to darken at the thoughts running through his mind, “Well,” He takes a long, slow, sip of the drink, “Maybe I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

With that, he disappears back through the crowd and you find your eyes trailing after the back of his head.

The party’s been going on for a few hours and everyone is slowly starting to get more and more intoxicated. With that, more and more people that you don’t know seem to be filling out the rooms. As a result of the strangers and all of them getting fuelled by liquid courage, it doesn’t take long before a fight breaks out.

Kelce is arguing with someone over something you hadn’t caught the start of. But you catch sight of it as soon as Kelce pushes the boy and sends him stumbling backwards, knocking Sarah forward into you.

You grip her arms to hold her upright, “Are you okay?”

She nods and holds onto you, “Let’s get out of here.”

She holds your hand and goes forward ahead of you to get out of the bustling crowd of people. It’s then that you notice a second too late, as the boy’s arm draws backwards to hit at Kelce, who shoves him again before he gets the chance to hit back. As he does, the boy’s elbow drives straight into you, colliding with the side of your head and your eye.

It’s all a blur after that, shouting and pushing as you fall forward onto Sarah, who’s now the one holding you up. You clutch one hand to your eye and pull it away to find your hand already stained in blood from the cut.

“Oh my god, we need to get that looked at,” Sarah winces, pulling you through the crowd.

The last that you see is Rafe in the middle of the two of the guys, his arm swinging back as his fist collides with one of their faces. There’s a fury on his face you’re sure you’ve never seen before, even from him.

On the porch, you and Sarah find a place to sit and she comes back with a pack of frozen peas and a kitchen towel.

“It was all I could find,” She furrows her brows, “Are you feeling okay?”

You smile and take them from her, wrapping the kitchen towel around the peas and pressing it to your head, “I’m okay, don’t worry.”

“I’m going to get you some water, okay?” She nods, squeezing your knee before disappearing back inside.

You press down on the wound and the pressure makes it sting, the cool bleeding through the towel to give you some sort of relief.

It’s then that the porch door swings open again, this time with force that seems to radiate through the air. Rafe steps outside, his eyes wild and angry as they flick over the outside, eventually landing on where you were sat.

“There you are,” He breathes out, his eyes dark as he comes over to crouch down in front of you, his hand finding home on your thigh, “Let me see it.”

You pull the ice away from your head and notice the towel stained with blood now too. Rafe brings a hand up to your face, brushing your hair away - his soft touch an odd juxtaposition to the anger that seemed to radiate from him.

“That guy is an asshole I swear to god he-“

“Rafe,” You glance down at his hand on your thigh, where his knuckles are split and starting to turn into a blotchy red edging towards purple bruises, “What did you do?”

He pulls his hands away from you and looks down at them, “Nothing, it’s okay.”

“I didn’t ask you to start a fight with him,” You point out.

“I didn’t start it,” Rafe defends, “He started it by hitting you.”

You fight back a smile, “Do you do this for all of the girls you’re hooking up with?”

Rafe rolls his eyes, “Don’t look at me like that.”

You laugh a little and his eyes catch yours again, cooler now and seemingly softer.

”But you’re doing okay though?”

“Besides the pain and the fact I’m seeing three of you?” You joke, grinning at him.

“Hilarious,” He rolls his eyes once more, turning over his hand and holding it spread wide waiting for you, “Come on, I’ll take you home and we can get that cleaned up.”

You let his hand wrap around yours as you stand up and follow him down off the porch, your thumb and fingers brushing over the rough of his knuckles. It injects a fluttering into your heart, like he was some sort of knight in shining armour. And yours at that.

~~~

His parents and Wheezie are already asleep by the time you get home, and you shoot Sarah a quick text to tell her that you were safe but that you just wanted your bed, and that she didn’t need to worry. Rafe places a hand on your back and guides you upstairs with him, his phone torch lighting the way up towards his bedroom.

“Here,” He says as the two of you go through to his en-suite and he turns around, his hands gripping your waist as he lifts you up to sit on the countertop.

“It’s really not that bad I promise,” You encourage, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

The cut curved around the side of your temple and it was starting to bruise either side towards your eyebrow.

“Yeah, well, can’t be too careful,” Rafe mumbles, rummaging through the cupboard until he finds what he’s looking for.

He comes back over to you with a small blue canvas box in his hand, unzipping it to take out a couple of wipes.

“Alright, try not to hit me when this hurts,” Rafe smirks, peeling off the wrapper of one of the wipes and leaning it over just above the skin of your injury. As he presses down, you wince and grip onto his bicep tightly, your knuckles turning white under the tension.

“Sorry,” You mumble, your cheeks flushing hot under his gaze.

Rafe drags the wipe over your cut, cleaning up the blood that had dried around it.

“It’s not too bad,” He comments, his voice low, “But you might have a nice bruise for a couple of weeks.”

You shrug your shoulders, loosening your grip on him, “Bruised eye and bruised knuckles? What a pair we are.”

“So we’re a pair now?” Rafe raises his brows just a little at you, the slight shadows of a smile over his lips.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean-“ You fumble over your words, your cheeks heating up beyond what you thought possible.

Rafe wraps up both of the wipes and tosses them into the trash can on the floor, “All done.”

You fiddle with your fingers on your lap, avoiding his gaze as he moves around the room to put everything away, before finally turning back to you.

“You want to go to bed?”

“Oh Rafe Cameron you know how to be romantic,” You scoff, pushing yourself down from the counter to stand beside him, his height towering over you.

He scoffs and pushes your shoulder gently, “Keep it in your pants (Y/L/N).”

With that, Rafe disappears into his bedroom and you have no choice but to follow behind him. He’s pulling back the covers of the bed before stripping down out of his clothes and piling them up on the chair next to his desk.

“Here,” Rafe rummages through one of his drawers before turning around to you, “You can take this.”

He’s holding a hockey jersey in one hand, waiting for you to take it.

“I didn’t take you as a hockey fan,” You laugh.

Rafe shakes his head, “Rose bought it for me, I think she ran out of ideas for birthday presents about three years ago so now she just gets us anything.”

He turns around and clambers into the bed, tucking an arm under his head as he waits for you to change, folding your clothes and putting them on top of his.

“You need to be this side,” Rafe comments before you come over to the bed, “You can’t lay on that side of your face.”

He shifts himself over to the other side, turning so that he’s facing towards the middle of the bed. You climb in beside him and turn to face him too, your cut slowly starting to throb less against your head.

“We’ve never done this,” You say quiet enough to be a whisper, like you’re uncomfortable even thinking of saying it.

“Never done what?” Rafe narrows his eyes at you, “Is that bruise making you lose your memory or-“

“No, I just mean we never just… go to bed.”

Rafe laughs outwardly, “That makes me sound like an asshole.”

“No, no,” You shake your head, “I just mean-“

“I know.”

The two of you fall silent again and Rafe reaches up a hand to draw up your arm.

“So Sarah was talking about you earlier,” You whisper, like you don’t want to disturb the moment.

“She did?” He raises his brows at you, “What did she say?”

You chew at the inside of your lip like you’re not sure what to say, or if to say anything at all, “She told me…” You pause, “That you seem happier, and she thinks that you are seeing someone.”

“Wow,” His face shows no clue of his emotion, “I guess I’ll have to start keeping my cards closer to my chest.”

“Right, yeah,” You clear your throat, “Definitely.”

“So we haven’t done this before,” Rafe confirms, trailing his fingers over the sleeve of the jersey that seemed to drown your figure, “How do we do this?”

“I don’t-“

Before you can say anything more, he grips two hands around your waist and lifts you over him, dropping you slowly on the other side of him.

“What are you doing?”

“This feels right,” He mumbles, drawing you back against his chest and wrapping an arm underneath you around your waist.

His other hand draws up to brush your hair out of your face, cautious over the cut where he leans over and presses a soft kiss to the skin just next to it. Rafe drops his other arm over you so that you’re engulfed in his embrace and he shuffles himself impossibly closer behind you, his breath dancing hot over the back of your neck as he drifts off to sleep. This wasn’t like you. You two never did this. The romance, the little kisses, the cuddles? So why did it all feel so natural??

~~~

When you wake up the next morning, Rafe is still wrapped around you but he’s already awake - having always been an early riser. He’s trailing his fingers along your skin as if he’s tracing your body, mapping it out. And he stops when he feels you start to wake up.

“Morning, sunshine,” He mumbles, pushing aside the material of his jersey on your shoulder so that he can press a kiss to the skin there.

You groan and turn around to face him, wiggling against his hold around you.

“Woah, woah, careful darling,” He says, glancing at the bruising around your eye.

You stop in your tracks, like you’ve been put on puase, “What did you-“

“I just didn’t want you to lie on it, in case it hurts,” Rafe shakes it off, clearly hoping you’ll dismiss his comment quickly.

“No, no, not that,” You flick your gaze between each of his eyes, “What did you call me?”

“Oh, shut up, I’ve definitely called you that before,” He rolls his eyes, trying to bury his head into your shoulder to avoid your burning attention on him.

You pull back just enough to keep your eyes locked on his, “No you haven’t, you never have. You’ve called me plenty of things but never that.”

“Why’s it such a big deal?” He scoffs, scratching the back of his neck as if a tell of his lack of nonchalance.

You push yourself up to lean on your elbows, looking down over him laying beside you.

“All of this, what’s going on? You kissed me goodbye the other day, and you fought a guy at a party for me, and you patched me up last night and you wanted to just go to bed with nothing happening, and you cuddle me like we’re some sort of couple and you call me dar-“

“Okay, okay, I got the message,” Rafe interjects, “What’s wrong with all that?”

“It’s not you,” You defend, “When this all started, when we first started, you told me it was no strings attached, it was a hook up, it wasn’t even like a friends with benefits kind of thing. It was nothing. This? How you’ve been acting the past couple of days? That’s not nothing.”

Rafe looks away from you for a second and his jaw clenches and unclenches, once, twice.

“Rafe.”

He turns back to you, “I didn’t… I mean, I don’t… we’re not…”

You raise your brows at him and he relaxes the tension in his shoulders, as if in defeat.

“I didn’t plan for this,” He shakes his head, “But we started seeing each other more, and sure it was great because it was just sex and that was great and then… I don’t know. I wanted to see you. I started thinking about you, and not just about texting you at 3am but like actually seeing you. And I wanted you to stay later and come over earlier and I wanted to start being more than just this, I wanted everything with you, always. I’ve never felt like that with someone before and then last night just made me realise it even more that somewhere along the way I fell for you and I-“

“You fell for me?”

“It’s just an expression I-“

“You fell for me?” You bite your bottom lip to try to lessen the wide grin across your cheeks.

“Seriously shut the fuck up,” Rafe rolls his eyes at you.

You shake your head, “You can’t be mean to me, you fell for me.”

He snakes a hand underneath the bend of your elbows and pulls you from your waist until you’re settled on top of him, his hands wrapping low around your back.

“Does it make the sex really boring if we’re like a proper couple now? Like does it have to be all lovey dovey?”

Rafe laughs from deep in his chest, his hands dropping down lower over the curve of your ass, “Why don’t we test that theory, darling?”

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snezario · 2 months

Text

Sub-Optimal; Ala/stor & Vo/x

based from an idea that @sneezingfetishftw posted. I kind of want to expand on that beginning part with a prequel ficlet of Alastor being sick but idk if I'll actually get around to it... I think this is the longest one-shot I've ever written... somehow this turned out to be 1.7k words?

Alastor leans against the headboard of his bed and takes a sip from his mug, grimacing as the hot liquid travels down his throat. Coffee was probably not the best choice right now. The warmth of it was nice against his sore throat. Of course that wasn’t the only unfortunate telltale symptom of illness he had awoken with a couple days ago.

He had been pretty good at hiding the whole illness thing under wraps for the first half of the day, that is until he had to sneeze. Usually he was good at stifling them into oblivion, but this particular cold seemed hellbent on disrupting his ability to control his faculties. The first unstifled sneeze caused all the lights in the hotel to flicker, which wouldn’t have caught much of anyone else’s attention. It was the second, third, and fourth ones that well, almost destroyed it.

It was after that whole fiasco that he was banished to quarantine in his room because according to Vaggie Who the fuck knows what other chaos his sickness will wreak havoc on the hotel? Normally he’d be holed up in his radio tower, but his quarters within the hotel are not half bad. Hence, him still being in bed to begin with. A sharp prickle in his nose reminds him how miserable being sick makes one feel.

hih'ZZSSHHhue!

He tries to keep it contained, lest he face Vaggie’s wrath. Not that she’s much of a threat to him really. As Alastor recovers, he’s interrupted by a loud BANG! His bedroom door swings open to reveal Vox standing dead center in the door frame. Alastor rolls his eyes at the other Overlord.

“Do you mind?”

Vox ignores Alastor’s question and breezes past the threshold, plopping himself on a red armchair by the fireplace.

“I was just passing through the area and a little birdy told me you were feeling a bit… under the weather.” He scrolls on his phone as he speaks, although the wide grin on his screen makes it obvious how much he’s relishing this moment. Alastor narrows his eyes, an unlikely story— Vox would never pass up the chance to taunt him, especially in a case like this.

“Well, I’m not quite on my deathbed as you can see. I didn’t realize that you missed little old me so much that you just had to come by and visit. It is flattering that you stopped by, in any case.”

Despite how awful he’s feeling, Alastor flashes Vox a cheeky grin, knowing full well just how to push the other demon’s buttons. The entertainment value of seeing Vox absolutely lose his cool is almost limitless. Although the pesky tickle is urgently becoming more than a mere annoyance. Alastor would much rather listen to Pentious’s Egg Bois spew nonsense to him for hours on end than be seen like this. Vulnerable and weak, in front of Vox no less. But it’s not something he can avoid at the moment.

Vox wasn’t someone who shied away from physical contact. He never denied himself the opportunity to encroach on someone’s personal space when he saw fit, it was mostly a tactic he employed to assert dominance or to emphasize a point. Or in this case, threaten his rival. Leaping off the chair, he’s in the radio demon’s face in a heartbeat, clenching the collar of Alastor’s pajamas in his hand.

“You arrogant prick, you think that I give a flying FUCK where you’ve been—”

Vox pauses when Alastor inhales sharply, no doubt to make a scathing retort. The radio demon raises a fist to his face and angles himself away from the other Overlord.

hhzh—hhh’ZTCHhiew! hih! ihĨ̴̢̛̘̠̪͍̠̣̪̪͗͒̓̃̎̀̓̕͜Z̵̪̝̱̪̘̺̣̗̘̍Z̷̡̜͔̱͖͉̰̭̽̽̎̆̿̉͝͝T̴̨̧̼̫̜̤͈̖̬͈̈́̄̒̓̾̀̎͠͝S̷̨̱̭͚̬̻̬͐̑̐̏͆͝ͅḨ̵̣͍͈͙͈̝̜͑̓͋̉͊͛̀̑̚H̵̤̯͔̱̓̎̈͘̚̕uu!

The space around them crackles with Eldritch energy, tendrils of which encompass the room. Vox’s screen glitches and completely shuts off.

“What the actual fuck?” The lights flicker back on and Vox’s screen illuminates again. He gives in to a full body shudder (not of his own accord though) as the static shock between them fizzles out. He jumps back from Alastor, his eye spiraling intensely. Alastor sniffles into a plain cloth handkerchief.

“Oh dear, pardon me. I’m not quite in control of my faculties at the moment.”

“I hope you fucking choke on your own mucus,” Vox snarls at him before storming out of Alastor’s room.

It’s humiliating but because the hotel has Alastor as its facilities manager, there is very little modern technology at Vox’s disposal. Meaning, he has to walk… out the front door like a common sinner. The hotel is located quite a bit away from the main hubbub of Pentagram City, which is both a blessing and a curse, depending on who you talk to. Vox makes his way to the edge of the city, a chaotic and desolate area and at the first sight of a screen (an old television set sitting in the window of a dilapidated pawn shop), he transforms into electricity and travels back to the Vees’ penthouse.

What kind of weird voodoo magic did the smiling freak do to me? Vox sits alone in his penthouse suite, glaring at nothing in particular as his eye dilates as he fumes about the outcome of his interaction with Alastor. One day, that pompous bastard would find something more than coffee in that stupid mug of his.

He idly rubs a hand down his screen as a fleeting fuzzy sensation runs through the circuitry in his head, almost like an itch he can’t quite reach. He proceeds to take a long sip from his mug, the coffee in it is only lukewarm but it’s the caffeine boost he wants anyways. Vox is feeling more drained from engaging with Alastor than he thought. It’s not entirely out of the question, but it does surprise him a little. Nothing a little caffeine wouldn’t fix. He downs the rest of the drink and settles into the sofa, turning the plasma screen television screen across from him on with a simple thought. The ambient sound immediately soothes him and the incident with Alastor floats into his memory archives to be forgotten.

An hour passes and Vox is sleepily scrolling on his phone. He could nod off right there. That is until a buzzing in his head catches his attention. It almost feels like tiny feathers caressing his internal wiring, not so much caressing as tickling. Similar to before, he can’t seem to reach it and quell the sensation. But unlike before, it’s not just a momentary annoyance. His deliberation is interrupted when his breath hitches once, then twice before he pitches forward.

“ih…ih'DZZSHHH!”

He blinks in confusion. That’s it? He just had to fucking sneeze? Again, he finds his thoughts disrupted by a familiar sensation. Vox tries to rub the tickle away but given his… specifications he realizes he doesn’t even have a nose to—eh'TZZSSHIEW! hih’IZZSHuhh!

What the fuck is happening? He sniffles. Ugh, gross.

Between the sneezing, the developing tension headache, and the exhaustion it feels like—Vox’s screen lights up as it dawns on him. He fucking has Alastor’s cold. That motherfucker. His blood pressure skyrockets and sparks shoot off his frame, threatening to short out the electronics in the room (of which there are many). Before he knows it, he’s already electro-teleporting across the pentagram to confront the radio demon.

“ALASTOR, you pretentious manipulative fucking son-of-a—”

Although Alastor can’t determine the actual content of Vox’s plethora of insults and cursing, they do steadily increase volume as he approaches Alastor’s room.

“Hmm?” Alastor turns his head as Vox barges into his room for the second time that day. He is sitting in one of the red armchairs by the fireplace, with a book in his grasp. He wears his deceptively inviting smile as always, although it is slightly dulled down by his current illness. Vox breathing is heavy and ragged, his rage undeterred by Alastor’s placid expression actually seems to intensify as he stands face-to-face from his rival.

“YOU… you did this to me!” He jabs a finger in the radio demon’s face, mere centimeters away from stabbing him in the eye. Alastor calmly pushes Vox’s hand down.

“Careful now, unless you want to cause another city-wide blackout.” Alastor teasingly reminds him of their previous on-air encounter.

“Whatever stunt you phhhulled this m-morhhn—” Vox’s voice falters, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He sharply turns away as he succumbs to the persistent itch.

“hh—hHEHh’IZZSH! Fuh—hih…h’KSHHHIiiue! ih’Z̷͖̥̩͕͒́ͅZ̷̩̲̯̠̺̘̟̆̕T̴̛͔͆̒͌̄̚͘Ć̷̘̒̌͐͝͠H̶̥̦͖̰͙͙͙̩̠̋͛ͅH̶͍͕̪̙̦͎́́̋͝uu! ”

The lights pulsate with each sneeze from the television demon. Vox groans, leaning against the wall. That last one hurt like a bitch.

“Oho! I see the problem. Apologies, old pal. Snf! I thought someone so advanced as yourself would be immune to such trivialities.” Despite his flippant tone, Alastor is genuinely surprised. He wasn’t actually certain the static shock would have affected Vox when he did it. He is, however, quite entertained by the development.

Before Vox can respond, Vaggie throws the bedroom door open.

“Alastor, what the fuck are you even doing? I thought we told you to—” The ex-exorcist jabs her spear in his direction and is about to go off on him when she notices Vox is slumped against the wall. Spinning her spear, she redirects the point towards him. “What’s he doing here?”

“Oh him? He’s no threat, at least not in his current condition,” Alastor makes a dismissive motion with his hand, a mischievous smile on his lips. Vaggie scowls at him, her hands crossed over her chest. Her gaze flits between Alastor and Vox.

“What did you do—Actually, wait I don’t want to know. Just… stop fucking with the lights.” She swiftly turns around and shuts the door behind her. Still smiling, Alastor turns his attention towards Vox, who’s looking quite pathetic. Well, more so than usual.

“You hear that, my dear Vox? Get a hold of yourself. Now if you’ll exhhcuse me I hh-have— (dang it, now it’s his turn) hh’iZTSHHuu! eh’D̴͚̼̊̂̒Z̵̳̥̈́̀̐͊̃̊̄͘̚Z̵̻͓̖̪̤͊͒̄̓͗́̂͑͜͝͝S̵̼̖͌̔̚HHHiew!” Unfortunate timing, but can’t be helped, Alastor thinks. He scrubs a finger under his nose and proceeds to pore over his book.

Vox narrows his eyes, adjusts his bowtie, and stands up. Vox glares daggers at Alastor, who appears to be ignoring him now. As he heads to the door, he feels an unfortunately familiar prickle at the back of his screen. NO! Not aga— heh’DZZSHHuh! Fuck. He catches Alastor smirking in his periphery.

“Gesundheit!” The radio demon calls out after Vox’s retreating figure.

#hazbinhyperfixation #fiendwriting #also new HC unlocked: alastor’s abilities going haywire when he doesn't stifle #barely proofread tbh so apologizes for any issues with grammar and the like #anyways here's so more audiovisual demons #the title is cheesy i'm sorry!!!#i recently realized that all my old fics don't have any titles so they're all like untitled 1 or untitled 6 #here i go just another fucking day where i throw out fics into the abyss #heyheyhey fuck my life #i hope the glitch text shows up okay...

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lorata · 2 months

Text

mentor lyme, for @dorics

i heard it's your birthday??? (unless that was a joke in which.... enjoy a free ficlet lmao)

500 words of Lyme in the mentor seat under the readmore :)

*******

Exhaustion burns behind Lyme’s eyes, that particular kind of gritty that marks too many stim pills and shots of caffeine. The mug by her elbow has long gone cold, congealed at the bottom into inedible sludge after the third failed reheating.

Roughly two weeks in, only a handful of tributes left. The Arena has been a hellscape to make up for the lack of combat-worthy tributes, not even a dark horse from the industrial or outlying districts or a clever engineer to spice things up. Claudius has taken more of a beating from the Gamemakers than anyone he’s run into and that’s unlikely to change before the end, but he only has to outlast the others. Nothing else matters.

Low sponsor funds for this early in the Games, but sponsor interest is middling this year in general. Nero’s working the floor — he switched over once his girl died, Lyme can’t even thank him — but people are cagey, ramifications floating unspoken in the air like bad flatulence at a fancy dinner party. The Hunger Games can be brutal, violent, bloody, even tasteless, but Snow forbid anything be political. Nothing dries up people’s wallets like the threat of subversion.

The clock ticks into midnight, numbers on Lyme’s console clicking over from jULY 20 to JULY 21. That endless stretch in the middle of the Arena when time has no meaning to a tribute, and yet something snags in the back of Lyme’s brain. Currently Claudius is curled up in a tree, lashed to the branch by a length of rope, the nearest tributes at least a mile away and the Arena disturbance warnings quiet, and she gives herself the freedom of letting her mind wander.

Twenty-first, twenty-first, what is it about July the twenty-first —

Oh.

Careers don’t celebrate birthdays once they hit Residential, but the Centre keeps records in their files for annual testing purposes. Lyme paid attention to Claudius because of where his fell; early in the Games year, a distinct advantage that she’d argued would counteract his childhood illnesses and naturally rangy frame.

“Happy birthday, kid,” Lyme murmurs. Burt from Nine casts her a sideways glance but doesn’t comment, and she blows out a breath and returns to her screen. Vitals show fever and rapid heartbeat even in sleep, all the signs of low-level blood poisoning. The cream she’d sent would keep him alive, for now.

Fuck it. It’s the kid’s birthday, not that he’ll have any idea. Lyme digs into the sponsor reserves and pulls up a tin of blackberries. Gamemakers never charge that much for berries, relative to dried meat or even bread, but a handful of berries will get him further than a roll and feel like a treat besides. Lyme queues the parachute to fly out when Claudius wakes and leans back, cracking the tendons in her neck.

Leaving Claudius’ camera on her main screen, Lyme tabs over to the brownie recipe she had open on her other display and reads over the instructions again.

It’s not a jinx, she tells herself. It’s a promise.

#lorata answers #anonymous #we must be killers: tales from district 2 #my writing #oc: claudius #thg: lyme

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warsofasoiaf · 5 months

Note

I just came across this bit of reddit dribble and was curious what your opinions were:

“Tywin doesn't think he's smarter than he is. I'm not just saying this because he is actually pretty smart, but because he doesn't overestimate his intelligence or it's ability to get him and his family out of trouble. So much of what he does in the series is defensive actions based on the assumption that his enemies know what they are doing and are smart enough to be threats.

You have to remember, he doesn't actually start anything. He sent the Mountain to raid in the Riverlands because Cat kidnapped Tyrion unprovoked. That actually gave him Casus Belli against the the Tully's at minimum, and the Starks once Jamie confronted Ned about it and Ned backed up Cat, and the Arryns once Lysa imprisoned Tyrion. Tywin tried to avoid open war by raiding instead, as a means to pressure Hoster Tully to influence his girls to let Tyrion go. It was an action that could be easily walked back if Tyrion was released, allowing everyone to move on. Everyone involved should have recognized that Tywin was within his rights to outright invade the Riverlands in response to the kidnapping, and his merely raiding was restraint meant to leave room for de-escalation. The problem was that Lysa was insane, Cat and Ned were morons being manipulated by Little finger, and Hoster was incapable due to illness. Tywin overestimated the intelligence of his opponents in this instance, by a lot. He also never underestimates the Tyrells, unlike everyone else, because he understands how cunning Olena is and how she runs the House. While everyone else assumes the Tyrells are jokes, Tywin understands that he has to keep them happy. He likely figured out that Olena was the mastermind behind Joffrey's death and chooses to scapegoat Tyrion to maintain the alliance.”

Holy moly, this is a bad read. Alright, let's go start to finish.

Tywin specifically sent Gregor Clegane under unmarked banners to raid the Riverlands. This is not a means by which to pressure Hoster, because theoretically, Tywin isn't doing anything - these are supposed to be brigands, not Tywin's household guard attempting to influence Catelyn's behavior. Now, of course, everyone knows that this is bullshit, it's not like you can confuse the Mountain that Rides for anyone else. But if Tywin has the casus belli, as OP suggests, why does he command that they fly no banners? He knows that he can't do it, hence why he creates the fig leaf of deniability.

The idea that the raids were meant as restraint for de-escalation is positively laughable. Tywin is conducting a chevauchee, which is warfare in the medieval era. Even if we take Tywin at his word that he was wronged by having his flesh and blood kidnapped, he's not "de-escalating," he's going further up the escalation spiral: kidnapping to war.

Moreover, we actually see what de-escalation looks like, because Hoster Tully attempts to do so. That's right, "incapable due to his illness" Hoster Tully responds to Gregor Clegane's raids by attempting to de-escalate: by seeking the King's Justice. He sends a delegation to Robert's court (and he believes he'll be appealing to Robert, not Ned sitting while Robert is faffing about on a hunting trip) to beseech the King's Justice. This is specifically what you do to de-escalate, you appeal to the next rung up the feudal ladder first. However, to Tywin, beseeching royal justice makes him look weak and reminds him uncomfortably of his father Tytos, who was so weak that Aegon V needed to intervene in the Westerlands. As many meta writers, including myself, have written, Tywin has a strong emotional fixation on the projection of strength, responding to any hint of weakness with maximum brutality to ensure that he is feared and no one doubts the capability or might of House Lannister.

Regarding Olenna Tyrell, that's an invention of the show. In the books, Tywin and Olenna don't interact, rather they foil each other's plans. As to believing that Olenna was actually guilty, Tywin's characterization actually goes against that. If Tywin believed the Tyrells would kill Joffrey, he'd destroy them, because you don't raise your hands against the Lannisters and live.

Thanks for the question, Anon. Go dunk on them.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#tywin lannister

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thebroccolination · 2 months

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Krist's Thai Fans

My favorite thing about Krist's Thai fans is how kind they are. As long as you're respectful when you ask, they're more than willing to answer questions about him and clarify the past to people who are looking for context. That's what I've always done, and it really speaks to the kind of bond that exists between him and them that although interfans have happily tried to destroy his reputation overseas for years, his Thai fans are able to be this patient dealing with the same misinterpretations of his character over and over.

And a lot of them have been fans since SOTUS. I've spoken to some who attended the filming of SOTUS. Some have known this man since he was a teenager, and since he wears his heart on his sleeve, they know him better than most fans would know the average celebrity. At the BMF finale event, he started crying when he saw a fan he hadn't seen for months. He thought she'd lost interest, but it turned out she'd just gotten busy with work and had been donating to his food support for months instead.

Before I went to Thailand, my friend told me he'd been to a bunch of BL actor events and he said of all the fanbases he saw, Krist and his fans seemed the most like actual, genuine friends. And then I attended the BMF finale event and Krist's solo concert, and my friend was right. At the fan benefits portion of both, Krist not only recognized his fans, he had unique ways of interacting with each of them. One woman opened her arms and ran at him with a yell, and he grinned and yelled back. One guy walked up to him with a beaming smile and Krist lit up and hugged him. It wasn't a, "Hey…you!" thing, he knew these people well enough that he immediately recognized them and matched their energy.

Two friends, a guy and a girl, took a 3:1 photo with Krist, and it was clear from his nervousness that it was the guy's first time meeting Krist. He lingered after, said something to Krist, and Krist beamed and took his hands. The guy walked off the stage barely keeping it together, and his friend turned around and waved at Krist with a knowing smile.

Then, during a group photo, a woman and her friend told Krist that she'd been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and she would likely never meet him again. She was smiling, and he gave her a long hug. She passed away recently.

The reason I'm so enthusiastic about Krist as a person is because I saw firsthand the amount of energy and devotion he reserves for the people who care about him. Friends, family, coworkers, staff, fans. He could easily give half of what he does and it would still be admirable. The fan benefits for the second day of his solo concert went on until at least eleven at night, and the concert started at three. And he was there rehearsing from early morning after doing another concert with benefits the day before. And he was sick. He got through both days using steroids, and he was violently ill from them afterward.

And like, every time I think about this bond with his fans, I'm moved by how immensely kind his Thai fans specifically have always been to me. They've been through so incredibly much with the weird witch hunt against Krist spearheaded by international fans. He was tormented off social media in 2020, but his long-time Thai fans were still there. Watching as western people arrived in this fandom for the first time and started cheerfully spouting death threats at someone whose language they didn't even speak. These people saw one screenshot and an inflamatory TikTok or two and rather than ask anyone why Thai fans weren't also baying for his blood, they decided they knew best and that his fans must just be simps or idiots.

When I visited Thailand last year, it struck me how humble and kind most of these actors are. Be it because they have perspective from working other jobs (doctor, chef, etc.), and if they're like Krist and only work in the entertainment industry, they might just see their fans so often and at such close range that it's probably impossible to want to maintain an Aloof and Mysterious Distance from them. Maybe it's cultural, too. Here in Ireland, Irish people famously don't give a toss when they see Irish celebrities. I saw Hozier on the corner in my neighborhood a few weeks ago chatting with an unhoused man and no one at all reacted.

All this to say, since KristSingto will be active this year, and they'll likely have a series announced at the showcase, please encourage people to do more research than skim through a YouTube video called PROBLEMATIC BAD PEOPLE IT IS ACCEPTABLE TO BE MEAN TO. If not for Krist, then for his queer Thai fans who are, I can confirm, extremely tired of international fans coming into fandom with sanctimonious and cruel intentions that make the entire experience dramatically worse.

I promise you if Krist had ever been perceived as homophobic by his Thai fans, who know him far better than we do, then his queer Thai fans would still be saying something. He also wouldn't have primarily queer friends. Like, it's not one or two. Most of his friends are queer. The industry is queer.

Anyway, y'know. Another day, another casual effort to stamp out this nonsense so we can all enjoy KristSingto time in peace.

#i also just wanted to talk about his fans #they really are absolutely lovely #i'm as excited to go back to thailand later this year to meet his fans again as i am to see him #his solo concert especially was such a bright and happy time <3 #thai fandom has its own issues but overall it seems a lot more relaxed #krist perawat #thai bl

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formula-juanmanuel · 1 year

Text

Chapter 1

pairing: female!driver oc x mick schumacher

word count: 2.7k words

warnings: explicit language, drinking, motorsport accidents, mentions of sex, mature themes, mentions of mental illness and side effects of this, mentions of prescribed medication, mentions of death

Hey everyone, welcome to my new story. I have never written before but I am so excited to start. Please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions I am so happy to take them on board. Hope you enjoy and love you all :)

If you would like to be added to my taglist, let me know in the comments :)

“We are finally getting to see the first female Formula 1 driver in just over 30 years hit the grid in 2026 and we couldn’t be more excited about it! The woman in question, Lori Hoffmann, 2025 F2 Champion and the newest driver for Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team. Welcome to the podcast, Lori!”

“Thank you for having me, TC! Wow, when you say it like that it all feels very real. Far out!”

“It is an incredible achievement and anyone who has been watching you rise through the junior categories knows that you are a force to be reckoned with. You set a record within F2, winning the championship with the biggest points margin we have ever seen, a feat that not even your 2026 grid mates, Charles Leclerc, George Russell, Nyck De Vries, Mick Schumacher, Oscar Piastri or Felipe Drugovich managed to achieve.”

“Yeah, this year in F2 was absolutely insane, from the very start I felt like I was absolutely on fire. I had the best team behind me as well and I cannot thank them enough for their support this year. I had a lot of criticism coming into this season that I had never really had in years before and I think it was because I was starting to look like a real championship threat. But I live for the pressure and I love to prove people wrong and that’s what I did. I was also lucky to have some amazing supporters and mentors this year and I couldn’t have done it without their love and hard work too”

“That leads me to a question I have been meaning to ask you. Daniel Ricciardo? What is the relationship between you both? We have seen him in your box a fair bit this year and from what I have heard, he is coaching you, is that correct?”

“Hahaha, I was waiting for this question. Yes, Daniel Ricciardo! Since the start of this year, Daniel has been my advisor and mentor, I guess you could say but he really just is the circus leader to my hectic racing weekends. He actually reached out to me at the end of 2024 after his World Driver’s Championship win and his retirement from Formula 1 and asked if he could be of assistance to my career. I was obviously shocked and honoured that he would even be interested in helping me. I mean, being an Australian racing driver, he was always someone I looked up to. I, of course, said yes right away and he has been helping me this year with an increase in press and media responsibilities, F1 team offers, improving my mindset and just really helping me to keep myself calm and focused during the season. That has obviously been an issue in the past for me and he has been a massive help.”

“I am glad that you mentioned that, I know you are very open about your struggles but it can be a hard topic to bridge. Do you mind explaining for the people listening who may not know the full story, why you have had to focus so heavily on staying mentally healthy this year?”

“Yeah of course! It is not something that I am ashamed of and I think it is incredibly important to talk about, especially in a sport that can be so focused on ‘manning up’. I took a break from my F3 career in 2020 following the death of my close friend Anthoine Hubert. I have always been incredibly tough but this accident rattled me and I made the decision to take 2020 off to focus on getting back into a space where I loved racing and wasn’t scared to be on track anymore. I was still around F3, F2 and F1, supporting my friends from the pits but I was traumatised having watched my friend lose their life doing what they loved. It was the worst moment of my life. I know a few people were quite critical of this decision but it was the safest for myself and my fellow grid mates and I came back and won F3 in 2021. I am doing better now, but I am still always conscious of my mental state.”

“That was a tragic accident and a reminder of the risk that all the drivers take each time they hop into the car. I am truly sorry for your loss. You mentioned your support for your friends during this year off and I think this is truly one of your best qualities as a racer. You are so fiercely competitive on track, earning yourself the nickname ‘Black Widow’, which I must say fits you so well. You are small and unassuming, unique and bright in appearance but you strike quickly and without mistake. However off track we have seen almost a complete 180 of that. You are known for your amazing friendships, pranks and protective instincts.”

“Yes hahaha! On track I am not to be messed with and like all racers it can be hard to not hold grudges away from the track but my friends mean the world to me. Growing up as an only child I always wished for a brother, I guess because all the boys at school played with and talked about cars so I wanted to have someone to talk about cars with at home who wasn’t my dad. Getting into karting and rising through the junior categories has really given me my biggest wish. I think for me my relationship with Clem, my Trident team mate of 3 years, is the closest thing I will ever have to getting a brother. He is only a year younger than me but I am incredibly protective of him and he is one of the reasons for my spot in F1, having him as a teammate meant I had constant reassurance and advice. He has been racing longer than I have, I only started karting when I was 15, so he always has tips and tricks for me. As a friend, travelling the world and racing with him means laughs, tears and memories I will never forget. I am so happy to be moving to F1 with him next year. I am also so lucky to call so many of my 2026 grid mates my closest friends. Lando, Alex, Felipe, Lance, Esteban, Charles and George have all been supporting me since my start in F3 in 2018. I am very lucky for sure.”

“Getting to have your teammate be one of your best friends must feel like a dream come true. Do you worry that being in a competitive team with George will place a strain on your relationship?”

“Not at all, I really do feel like we have the experience and maturity to separate the track from life and place it in its box. Don’t get me wrong, we are both so competitive, to the point of having run each other off the track during our yearly karting races a few times”

“Fantastic! It is good to see some healthy competition. Now Lori, before I dive into some quick this or that questions, I just wanted to ask about how you got into racing in the first place. I believe your father played a big role in this?”

“Yeah Dad was my biggest supporter in motorsport for sure. I grew up around cars with him working as the consignment manager for Dutton Garage, which is a car dealership in Melbourne which specialises in rare, luxury and classic cars and as such I spent a lot of time there when I was growing up. I am sure I have some pictures of me sitting in a Jaguar E-Type or a ‘69 Miura at the age of 5, biggest smile on my face. I used to sit in the foyer area and read books about all the cars which in turn got me reading about and watching Formula 1. From there Dad eventually, when he realised this wasn’t just another childhood phase, got me a kart and the rest is history. I was an apprentice mechanic from 16 as well, working in the garage there until I left to race in Europe in 2018 and that has helped me fall even more in love with cars and racing.”

“Very impressive! So you know your way around a car? What would be your favourite car of all time if you had to pick?”

“Absolutely I do! I have three project cars sitting in my warehouse back in Australia so I know a manifold from a cylinder head, for sure. Favourite car is an easy pick actually! A 1979 Chevrolet Corvette. It was the first car I ever drove, I was 13 and one of the regular customers at Dutton came in to collect it and when he saw me looking over it in awe, he let me drive it down the garage to the front for him. It was only about 20m in a straight line but I was terrified that I would break it. I was hooked though after that and this customer actually helped to sponsor me in F3. That is also the reason I am racing with number 79 next year too. Same year as that beautiful car which holds so many memories for me.”

“It is so nice to hear how passionate you are, not just about racing but about cars and the history and science behind them! Alright, are you ready for some quick fire questions?”

“Absolutely! Fire away”

“Alright! Weights or cardio?”

“Without fail it would have to be weights, although I do love a good run”

“Understeer or oversteer?”

“Oversteer, you know what Jeremy Clarkson said, at least you won’t have to see the object you are crashing into with oversteer! Hahaha”

“Hahaha, oh gosh! Wet race or dry race?”

“Wet race, growing up in rainy Melbourne, I got a lot of experience”

“Night race or day race?”

“Day race actually”

“Be a scientist or an artist?”

“Scientist, I love science”

“Ok, last question, Senna or Schumacher?”

“Oh god, ok ummmm, how do you even pick? They are both incredible drivers. I am half German so I was raised on Schumacher and Vettel. So, Schumacher, lock it in”

“Fantastic Lori! Well it was an absolute pleasure chatting to you today and I cannot wait to see the rookie year you have in 2026. All the best and we will talk soon”

“Thank you so much! I will see you around I am sure”

Stepping into my new home in Brackley, I set my keys down onto the kitchen counter and dropped my duffel bag to the floor. A huge smile crossing my face as I walked into the living room and looked out the bay window framing the flower filled garden beyond. I knew I wasn’t going to be here much, the farmhouse only being my home during factory trips and simulator tests, but none the less, I was already in love. It was every bit as cosy and warm as I could have hoped, a sheer contrast to the sterility and coldness of the hotels I would be staying in across the 2026 season.

As I sat down on the bay window seat I allowed myself to finally take in the last few weeks, a breathy laugh leaving me as a few tears of happiness slipped down my face.

“Lori, I know I am meant to be professional and talk about this contract with you… but holy fuck!” was all I heard down the line as I answered my phone much to the annoyance of my trainer, Evan.

“Avery slow down! What is happening? I am mid training session and you have already lost me” I mumbled through the phone to my manager and best friend of 4 years.

Avery and I had met at the end of 2021 after my F3 championship, both of us on holiday in Athens. I recognised the Australian accent while exploring the Acropolis and realised she was by herself on this trip, as was I. I went over and introduced myself and the rest was history. Her degree in communications and her understanding of my wants and needs from years of friendship made her the perfect manager for me as I came into my 2024 F2 season.

“I just got off the phone with a team about 2026!” she said loudly, although this time it was thankfully not a scream.

“Avi, I don’t understand, we have had heaps of team offers.” It was true, not to sound too cocky but I had already been contacted by Williams, Alfa Romeo and McLaren. None of Avery’s phone calls to me about the offers had been like this though.

“You absolute dumbass! Take the hint! This was THE CALL” she said dramatically and within half a second, it clicked. I put my hand back to check the workout bench was still behind me and lowered myself slowly to sit down in shock.

“No… please don’t joke with me. I know I have pranked you so many times this year and I am sorry for that but this is so cruel” She had to be joking.

“God, I would never do that to you Lori. But you need to pack as you are needed in Brackley in 3 days.” I could tell she was smirking, knowing that mentioning that little town in the United Kingdom would confirm what I was trying so hard not to believe.

“Holy fucking shit” was all I could get out as my hand smacked over my mouth. Evan had been trying not to eavesdrop but at my words his head whipped around from where he was stretching on the floor, trying to decide if I had just gotten good or bad news.

“Mercedes, they want me?” Evan’s eyes were wide in shock now, huge grin from ear to ear.

“Hell yes they do. I am booking us tickets now and will send you all the information after this call but I will see you tonight for dinner anyway and we can go over it all then”

“Ok amazing, wow! Ok sounds good, let me know. I will get back to my training, guess I may need it even more now”

“Yes, good girl and say hi to Evan for me” she said giggling like a school girl down the line for me. I rolled my eyes.

“Hey Evan! Avery says hi” I yelled out to him while still on the line. I could see him blush and say a small hi. These two had been after each other for months with no confidence to commit.

“OMG! NO! SHUT UP! FAR OUT! OK BYE LOSER” and with that she hung up.

“Guess we better get you training to deal with all that porpoising” was all Evan said as he came over and gave me a massive hug and slap on the back.

“Oh fuck off you!” I was smiling so much it hurt though.

All of that had lead me to a few hours before, sitting in the Mercedes AMG Petronas Formula 1 headquarters across from Toto Wolff, putting my signature on a billion pieces of paper, joking away with my new team principal.

I had put my phone on silent, Mercedes had made a few posts for the official announcement and now my phone could barely keep up with the tweets, instagram messages and tags and texts from family and friends who didn’t already know.

My head was swirling but all I knew was that I had 4 weeks until I was in Bahrain for testing and a million things to organise before then. While I hadn’t let it cross my mind until now, it was also 4 weeks until I had to deal with a massive pain in my ass again and I was not looking forward to being forced to be civil with him. I knew for a fact that he would be out to make my rookie season a living hell. Too bad for him he would be doing that from a Williams.

#formula 1 fic #mick schumacher #daniel ricciardo #clement novalak #lando norris #george russell #mercedes amg petronas #charles leclerc #nyck de vries #alexander albon #driver!reader #driver x reader #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #mick schumacher x reader

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saltsicklover · 11 months

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Fan Mail - Part 1/2?

Title: Fan Mail

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2500

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Death/Murder - Let me know if I missed anything.

-- I am writing a part 2 for this, might even drift into a part 3. I don't see it going longer than that because I struggle writing long form stories. I hope you enjoy! --

Disclaimer: I do not own Bucky Barnes, or anything related to Marvel within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.

I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that may contain mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.

Bucky has never gotten fan mail. Ill wishes and empty threats via the postal service sent from all over the world, sure, that's old hat by now. But, a well wish or a 'thank you' have never been penned for him. Those sentiments are reserved for the real heroes, not Bucky, definitely not Bucky. At least, that's what he tells himself every time he ends up empty handed while everyone else in the tower is ripping open letters.

Every Thursday fan mail from the week gets brought to the common room of the tower. Each stack is bound together with a flimsy rubber band, each pile threatening to burst through the rubber being pulled taught against the paper. This has gone on for as long as anyone can remember, always a pick me up from the tough battles the Avengers always found themselves in.

"You'll get something, Buck, don't worry," Steve tries to sooth Bucky with a firm grip on his friend's shoulder, "The mail isn't even important anyway." Bucky can't help but huff as he eyes the bulging pile of letters in Steve's hand, his fingers gripping the mail so tight Bucky thinks they might combust under the pressure.

"Yeah, Steve, it's all good," Bucky manages, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. Neither bother to exchange another word, Steve just squeezes his friend's shoulder before heading down the hall.

Bucky lets his eyes wander over each member of the team that still resides in the room, each with at least a handful of letter's in their possession. He tries to push the uneasy feeling from his chests, the deep green envy sneaking in between the cartilage that partners his ribs with his sternum.

The next week, is more of the same, and so is the week after that. Wanda likes to curl up on one of the plush chairs in the common area, letters in her lap as she carefully opens each one. She barely lets her fingertips touch the paper, the envelopes opened carefully with her fingernail. She keeps her hold to the outside edges of the cards, like she is worried that if she touches the words they may disappear.

Sam likes to lean against the island in the kitchen, spreading the contents of each envelope out in front of him, taking each piece in like a mission report. He gets photos of women, with flirty words scrawled across the backs. Each note smelling of a different sweet perfume that always seems to give Bucky a headache as he walks by.

Clint and Natasha open their letters together, sitting on the floor in her bedroom. Laughter flowing through the open door as Bucky passes. He tries not to focus on his lack of correspondence but that's always easier said than done. He is just thankful that most of the team views their letter opening as an alone-time activity so he doesn't have to witness the joy that radiates through them with each envelope they open.

Bucky doesn't even bother to stop by the common room on Thursday mornings anymore, his brain has given up on the idea that he will get a letter, his heart following close behind.

One unusually cold Thursday, the fresh spring flowers outside threatening to wilt form the cold snap, each bundle of letters is placed neatly on the coffee table; accompanied by a singular letter addressed to "Mr. James Barnes". Steve spots the letter first as he browses over the piles in front of him. He snaps his eyes quickly back to the lone envelope and unbridled joy swells in his chest from somewhere deep in his soul.

"Bucky!" He yells, his eyes never leaving the paper on the coffee table. "Bucky, get in here!" Steve can't help but let the newfound joy escape with his words, a wide smile spreading over his face as Bucky walks into the room. The smile make's Steve's cheeks hurt, but all he notices is the grumbling coming from his best friend as the brunet trapses into the room.

"What is it Steve?" Bucky carefully pinches the bridge of his nose with his right hand, his left arm folding defensively over his body to hold the elbow of his right arm, the whole manner done without thought.

"You got a letter," Steve speaks, the words coming out in a jumbled heap from his lips. Bucky cracks one eye open at him, staring at the blond across the room from under his dense eyebrows. Excitement sparks deep in his chest, glowing like a barely lit ember deep in the darkness. Each passing second causes his excitement to grow like flame overtaking dry grass but he does everything in his power to stomp out the feeling before it overtakes him. The words hang in the air, neither man daring to move. Bucky cracks his other eye open as he lowers his hand from his face, lacing his thick arms across his chest. "Did you hear me, Jerk?"

"Yeah, Punk, I heard ya', just not sure if I believe ya', that's all," Bucky moves, each stride filling him with more anxiety as he gets closer to the coffee table. He tries to tell himself that Steve isn't just playing some cruel joke on him, and that maybe, just maybe, someone out there actually wants to write him a letter, but his negative thoughts get the better of him as he comes to stand next to Steve, a scowl burned deep into his features.

"What is it, Buck?" Steve takes Bucky's shoulder in his hand, squeezing it reassuringly with a too tight grip. Bucky doesn't bother to look at his friend, his eyes are too focused on the lone envelope sitting on the coffee table, his name scrawled across it in blue pen. Steve watches as Buck's scowl melts into confusion, his eyes trailing over the ink again and again and again, almost like he doesn't believe it's there. All the brunet can manage to do is read his name, offering his friend a slight shake of his head at the question, or maybe it's at the situation all together.

Bucky leans over to grab the letter, taking it carefully between his fingertips. Suddenly he understands why Wanda barely touches her mail, the feeling that it may go up in cinders from his touch prickles deep within his stomach. He has known all kinds of fear and anxiety, but this is a new feeling all it's own.

Steve leaves the room without a word, leaving Bucky standing there alone, the beige envelope balances delicately on his fingertips, palms facing the sky like he's begging for a answer to an unspoken prayer.

Bucky doesn't open the letter for weeks, and nobody says a word about it. Hell, nobody but Steve knew it existed until it fell out of the breast pocket of his leather jacket when he sat down for dinner. Tony wanted to tease him about it, but the warning looks that he received left him coughing up his miss sipped iced tea instead.

Bucky found himself taking in the details of the envelope whenever he could, between missions and meetings, at night before bed or in the morning over his first cup of coffee. The blue ink on the front has smudged a bit from when he got caught out in the rain, but the soft tan of the envelope and the striking depth of the ink still draws his eyes. The stamp placed delicately in the upper right hand corner was adorned with a beautiful yellow butterfly had been stamped over with an official marker for the postal service. There is no name, just a PO box located in New York City. The thought of his name alone on the envelope left a tinge of loneliness in his heart if he thought about it too long.

When Bucky finally gets the courage to open the letter, three weeks had passed. He sits on the corner of his bed, the lamp from the bedside table illuminating his careful movements as he slips a finger under the seal. Carefully, he tears it open, pulling out a couple of pieces of paper, folded over on themselves. They are the same color as the envelope, the ink the same too. He holds the paper under the lamp, letting his eyes drift over each sentence, word, letter.

"Dear Mr. James Barnes, I hope this letter finds you well. I would like to start off by saying that I was unsure about writing this letter to begin with, but my therapist says that by writing it I may be one step closer to healing, so I decided to give it a shot. You don't know me, so this might seem odd, but give me a chance anyway, please.

When I was nine, a man broke into my home, the home I shared with my grandparents. I didn't know it then, nor did I for some time, but my grandparents were holding onto some information that I later came to learn was for Hydra. My grandfather's father worked for a man named Arnim Zola, and he had stolen files from him. Those files were passed down to my grandfather.

Now I don't know that much about what my grandparents did for Hydra, or why they were holding information for them, but I do know that they were cruel and abusive towards me. They would send me to sleep, often without food for nights at at time. My grandfather was keen on hitting me with a leather belt. I won't bore you with the details. But, that night the man broke into our home, I knew from that moment that my whole life was going to change, so I hid in the coat closet while the man shot them. I know I should feel guilty for not helping them, but all I could feel was the relief that they would never harm me again. Besides, they passed quickly.

It is odd to feel so thankful for such an act of violence, but that man saved my life, and for that I am eternally grateful, which is why I write to you now. When everything with the bombing of the Sokovia Accords happened, I finally put together that the the Winter Soldier was the man who saved me.

I know that part of your life is long behind you, but from one suffering soul to another, I just want you to know that you saved me, and I can't thank you enough. I hope this is able to provide you with some sort of closure, or healing, just like I am hoping it will for me.

With warmest regards-"

Bucky can't help but read the words over and over again as a sickening feeling twists deep in his stomach. The first letter he has ever gotten as a hero, in this new life of his, is really written the darkest version of himself that he wishes he could forget. Hell, he would flay his skin open himself if it meant that he could undo his trespasses made at the hands of Hydra.

Maybe its the salt sick sweat that coats his skin or the trembling of his heart beat through his veins but Bucky feels sick. The type of sick that makes you want to wash yourself from the inside out, yet he can't stop reading the words.

He doesn't sleep that night. Or the next. Or that week for that matter. Steve is the only one to notice the sudden shift in his best friend. He urges the older man to speak, to lean on him for support but Bucky refuses, the sick feeling settling deep in his bones whenever he thinks about the letter. Maybe it's because deep down, beneath every single bit of self loathing, the acquiesce of bile soaked enmity he feels proud.

He knows he shouldn't, the brunt edges of his life too fragile, the healing too slow, but the jewel of his ego only seems to feed off of the words scribbled in that letter. Even after all of the disaster, destruction, and death he caused, something good actually came out of it, and for that he feeds the feeling in his chest- the satisfaction that drowns out the loathing.

The next letter Bucky receives comes a month and a half after the first, the PO box in the corner of the envelope the same as before. His stomach twists at the sight but his heart pounds with a sort of excitement he hasn't experienced in years.

"Dear Mr. James Barnes, I hope this letter finds you well. I hope that you have received my last letter and that you got the chance to sit down and read it. I am sure you get so much mail all the time and part of me worries that my little envelope got lost in the shuffle of it all.

I must say, though I told myself over and over not to expect you to write back, I have to admit that I am a little saddened that you didn't. I know you can't possibly write back to everyone that sends you a letter but I couldn't help but get my hopes up.

I have talked about the last letter with my therapist, and I think it helped me find a new sort of closure for that part of my life. Now, however, my heart seems to be missing something to dwell on, or possibly look forward to, which is why I am writing you again.

I hope this isn't too forward but I was hoping that maybe we could be pen pals. I know it sounds old fashioned, maybe a little silly, but it's always a 'no' if you don't ask, right?"

With Warmest Regards-"

Bucky reads and rereads the letter again, a feeling of confusion and excitement swirling together in his chest. He can feel his heart beat below his skin, pulse thrumming hard and fast. He can't help the joy that courses through him at the words on the page, simple and blue, jotted down quickly by the way the ink flows together letter to letter.

Maybe he will write back, the thought nags him every free moment that he finds himself in. It also nags him during meetings and on mission. He can't help but try picture their face, but the nothing comes to mind except a feeling of happiness, or maybe even pride, and it swells in his chest leaving him a new form of breathless.

Bucky carries both letters with him, tucked deep into the chest pocket of his jacket, or under the suit he wears for mission. The letters pressed close to his heart. He takes comfort in knowing they are there, that someone is out there, thankful for his existence. He is thankful, too.

Maybe he will write back, he tells himself just before he turns out the light to go to sleep. Maybe he will, maybe, maybe maybe.

#bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel x reader #bucky barnes x fem reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fan fiction #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you

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leviathans-watching · 2 years

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hello, darling! How are you? I love your writing, and I'm obsessed with your blog aesthetic as well! <3 take good care of yourself because you obviously deserve it from how hard you're working

my request is quite simple! please don't feel forced to write anything you don't want to, and feel free to ignore this if desired! I was listening to "My Girlfriend is a Witch" (October Country) and I thought to myself: the obey me brothers with an s/o who's a witch/sorcerer! I wasn't thinking about ALL characters (because my favorite is Lucifer), but feel free to actually include anyone you want! Thank you for your time and I appreciate the effort!

> if you desire something more specific: the MC would be a human exchange student like Solomon, using magic to some things and making potions, having also very good cooking, and admiring storytelling. Any trouble envolving dark magic among the brothers? MC can resolve it! Or at least try to help. Another witches are bothering Mammon again? MC will talk to them, since the witches in question are on their class anyways.

(also, may I be 🍓 anon? hehe <3)

lucifer x witch!mc

includes: lucifer x gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

wc: .5k | rated g | m.list

a/n: this was so cute!! i also have a longer series with sorcerer mc here! my inbox is open to chat, req, or leave feedback so come say hi!! and yes, you can absolutely be 🍓 anon hehe

please reblog <3

at first, lucifer hadn’t trusted you in the slightest. sure, he’d technically been the one to choose you as the new applicant, but he hadn’t actually looked at your application, something that was definitely coming back to bite him.

at least you weren’t part of the coven that mammon was entangled in, he had thought to himself, trying to look on the bright side, dim as it was.

slowly though, you grew on him. though some of your pursuits had ended poorly, like when you’d accidentally burned off your eyebrows making a potion, or had a spell go wrong and made everyone in rad only able to tell the truth, he began to feel more amused by them than irritated, a sure sign you were endearing yourself to him.

and some of your skills were quite helpful, he had to admit. when belphie had gotten sick with some form of rare illness, you’d saved the day by cooking up a remedy when even simeon and solomon were unable to. and some of your teas and herb mixtures were useful, not to mention delicious.

now, lucifer mused, he was completely head over heels for you. sure, there were still things that you did that gone on his nerves, or thins you said that he didn’t fully agree with, but you truly were one of a kind and now incredibly important to him. plus, your sense of humor was amusing, even if he’d never admit it.

(for halloween you’d decided to dress up as a classic witch, complete with a black hat and broomstick. somehow, he’d been convinced to join you as a vampire, and diavolo had been a werewolf. it was silly and lowbrow, but he had one of the pictures saved as his phone background.)

“what are you thinking so hard about?” you ask him, drawing him back to the present. a grimoire is open in front of you, and he can see your chicken-scratch handwriting in the margins.

“you,” he replies simply, and you make a face.

“what about me?”

“i didn’t really like you when we first met,” he confesses, “so it’s quite strange how much that has changed.”

“you know, i get that a lot,” you reply, unbothered. “a lot of people find me irritating.”

“i cannot fathom why.”

“oh, shut it,” you chide light-heartedly. “if you keep going i might have to curse you or something.”

the threat, which you used often, was empty, something you both knew. “right,” lucifer says, giving you a smile. “well, we don’t want that. i’ll be on my best behavior from now on, i swear.”

leviathans-watching's work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

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alastorscreamlover · 3 months

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Sick And Tired of You

Lute has caught a mysterious illness and her life is no longer what she once had. How will she recover? How will things get back to normal? Or will they ever?

Trigger Warnings: Strong language, Gore

It started with a sniffle, nothing to worry about really, maybe just some left over gunk from being at that god awful place after The Purge. It wasn’t uncommon, coming back covered in sinner blood you always had to detoxify yourself and that’s what Lute considered it to be, for maybe the first week. From a sniffle to a sneeze, she could hide it with ease but Adam and the other angels weren’t so stupid. Sure they looked on the bright side of everything when up in heaven which gave her good cover but it wouldn’t last forever. During training it really started to show.

Slipping on solid ground, missing marks with her spear Adam would make overexaggerated jokes about ‘Danger tits becoming Lazy tits just because he fucked her right.’ Not that they ever did such a thing but Adam would make it known, lie or not, that he made sure to keep his angels in shape with his holy nut sack. It would make her roll her eyes, but after the final rally she’d saunter out of sight, only to crawl her way back to her room when relieved by her higher ups. Chills capturing her body like a vice grip, coughing up a lung or six. Lute had never felt something so violent in her body.

Maneuvering her body into a perfectly warm bath she tossed her mask to the side only to catch a glimpse of what she looked like. Who was this ghastly woman looking back at her? Gaunt features, bloodshot eyes, deep circles and sunken cheeks. She wasn’t fooling anyone, they were simply letting her walk around like a fool for weeks, like she deserved to be gawked at like this. Her fists clenched, teeth gritted but the rage didn’t last long when she heard her door fling open. There was only one person who felt her privacy was so arbitrary to disrespect it, and in a sense she respected it.

“What do you want?!” Lute called.

“Good you know I’m here!” Adam replied as he shoved open the bathroom door, Lute quickly snatched a towel and looked away, as though he hadn’t stared at her face during training for hours; perhaps she should have kept on her mask more often. Not even perhaps she SHOULD have. Though Adam could have the IQ of a walnut sometimes he did know how to pick up on things, first man, first to pick up on her ques. Water sloshed as she pulled her knees to her chest and she glared at him, another wing out to cover her body as he ogled her biting his lip, sharp teeth, eyebrow wiggle and all. “What’s SO important that you need to be here Adam?” She asked, hostility lacing her tone, a clogged nose making her voice congested.

“Ya see, Danger Tits, that’s just the problem!” The high angel began doing a finger gun at her and plopping down on her toilet. “You’re so important! And here you are being all fucked up all the time, it’s like you’re…” He waved his hand making grumbling noises as he reached out for the words he was looking for, “A weak fuckin pussy!”

The sickly angel couldn’t help but flinch, sure Adam called angels a lot of things but his words were always nicer to her, they had a bond that she’d raise heaven, earth and hell to keep. “No I’m not I-”

“You’re SICK.” An accusatory finger pushed into her wing before grabbing her feathers, “And angels, real angels don’t get sick.” voice low and angry, there was a threat in that sentence and she’d seen it before. Witnessed and taken out that threat for him.

“No Adam,” A slight shake in her voice, “I’m not, I’m just tired of all those fucking-”

“DON’T BULL SHIT ME, or are you just a bad a liar as those stupid fucking hell spawn!” He was enraged, his little Lute was lying to him, betraying him, and seeing that fear in her eyes, as much as he didn’t want it he knew he was right. She was being human, and that was a problem. “I won’t let you fuck this up for me Lute, not for anyone up here.” He gripped her wing harder, yanking her from the tub as she fought to be removed from his grip. Unfortunately those bones in her back were hollow, weak, and she felt a snap, causing her to cry out in pain.

“Please, don’t! I’ll get better! I’ll do everything you ask! I’m still-”

Her pleading meant nothing at this point as he tore a wing from her, “You can’t be a weak link hot stuff, I can’t afford it, you gotta go where you belong you haz been.” He grinned and Lute ran. Naked, afraid and one winged she darted through her apartment, reaching for her spear only to have holy light hit her in the back. A wretched noise was forced from her lungs and with a snap a portal opened up between her and the high angel. Her eyes begged and pleaded as her chin quivered, unable to support her argument before he grabbed her ankle.

“I liked you, I really did, tits and all,” He let his smile fall and snapped his fingers, A long gold chain with a golden weight at the end slowly began to descend the hole, attached to her ankle.

“ADAM!” She screamed, desperate to stay as she reached out trying to fight the weight only for Adam to grab her hand as she was held between heaven and hell. Her clammy hand was barely able to hold his.

“Oh! Almost forgot,” it was a sadistic smirk that followed as he tore off her other wing tossing it to the side, “guess I’m having wings tonight!” Her hand easily slipped from his and she landed on the red concrete with a hard thud, unable to stop her own fall she swore there were more than wings that were broken.

The light of hell burnt deeper than it used to, it burnt her to her now, most likely absent, soul. “Fuck.” Was all she whispered trying to roll onto her side to get the pressure off her back, only to find her body instinctively curling to protect her vital organs. Coughing hard golden liquid spurted from her mouth, slowly turning red as it hit the ground. God if she wasn’t sick before she was now. Why would a harmless cold cause so much.

Hearing a creaking from down wind she bolted upright only to fall forward unable to support her own bodyweight. Running on pure adrenaline still didn’t give her enough to function. Even when the voices coming up behind her became audible.

“But Vaggie she’s-” The soft tones of Lucifer’s brat almost begging the fucker that should have been killed in the past extermination.

“No!” It was stern but as time passed it seemed Vaggie had relented. Lute’s vision was fading, only a growl leaving her as red pants came into her line of blurred sight. A warbled mash of voices echoed before she no longer saw the true hell she’d landed in.

Three days. That’s how long she was out, a high fever, major blood loss, she’d caught Fallen Syndrome while in Hell not too long ago. It starts out as a human like cold, but over time if a weak willed person would succumb to it, demon, human or angel one would start to succumb to hallucinations and end themselves, others, or anything in sight all to serve Lucifer. Lucifer himself did not create the disease but bacteria that existed in hell over time created it. Seldom did they latch on to angels but they are often attracted to those with strong wills. Alastor was the one to diagnose her and Charlie was the one to get her the cure, but Vaggie.

Vaggie was the one who watched over her. The previous angel felt it was her duty to keep Charlie safe but also to keep Lute in line if she was going to be here, and as they watched her golden blood turn to red it showed she might be here for a very long time. Regardless, that question wasn’t answered till Lute woke, grumbling, weak, and dizzy. “Where-” Vaggie didn’t let her finish.

“Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel.” It was delivered deadpan, more as if a guard was talking to a prisoner and for Lute it might as well have been just that.

“You slimy little fuck!” Lute bellowed, going to leap at Vaggie only to find she could barely move. It all happened so quickly in her mind but her body wouldn’t respond. Slowly Vaggie walked up instead picking up a tray of food and setting it on Lute’s lap.

Of course it was hard for neither of them to react as though they were on the same side but Vaggie began it, “Here we want to rehabilitate you and get you sent to heaven. Just like every. Other. Sinner. Here.” The words backed a punch in Lute, each word like a painful jab. Adam had truly cast her out and the discoloration on her bandages on her legs and arms proved as much.

Red.

“But first we need to get you better, how are you feeling?” The moth demon continued, though her voice sounded more genuine now and Lute went frigide. The horrible grotesque feeling reached all over her body and she rested her head back, succumbing to the reality in front of her, “Like shit.” She replied and Vaggie smirked. “Welcome to the beginning of recovery then.”

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lute #hazbin hotel adam

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cassynite · 3 months

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thoughts on rogue trader companions so far (got to the end of act 1 last night in yet another ill advised late night gaming session):

Abelard: I, the player, have such a soft spot for old men who take on mentor-like positions to my pc (blame it on being raised my grandfather ig).

But Wren actually finds Abelard pretty stifling at first and is furious when she finds out he'd been keeping an uprising from her and trying to take care of it on his own, because she's an awful micromanaging boss who's got to do shit herself and thinks everyone who does things without her direct knowledge are going to either fuck up or betray her about it. They're getting along a little better since then and she does ask for his opinion on things, even if she rarely follows it lol.

Idira: Wren warmed up to Idira pretty quickly, considering she introduced herself by revealing she knows about Wren's past and her deepest hurts (I know that the actual dialogue is referencing the torture hook in her background but I'm interpreting it as Idira knowing about what happened between Wren and her sister).

But after Wren made a very open "you tell anyone about that and I make sure you get spaced" threat, she starts to rely on Idira's divination skills to help her navigate tough situations. She's not threatened by psykers or Idira's powers otherwise, and senses that she's relatively open and isn't trying to pull the wool over her eyes because of how tenuous a grasp on her own powers she has--ironically, by being on the verge of madness, Wren trusts her to tell her what she's actually hearing.

Argenta: Wren tends to view people who are overly dedicated to the Imperium with distrust and disdain; she grew up kind of on the fringes of society to begin with and spent the majority of her adulthood as a crime lord with a dim view of the Imperium, since she spent a lot of her time either in direct opposition to those people or manipulating their systems to get what she wanted. Because of this she's written off Argenta as a space-Bible-thumper and ignores her views. She's the first person who gets kicked off the team once they get a full roster.

Pasqual: She has slightly more respect for the knowledge-pursuing Adeptus Mechanicus than Argenta's Adepta Sororitus, but any limited respect for Pasqual turns to pretty severe distrust when she finds out he sold out his mentor to the Imperium. Wren's super clannish in her thought processes, and doesn't believe in a greater good; Her People are all that matter to her, and people who backstab, no matter the reason, are to be viewed with distrust at best and as the enemy at worst.

The only thing keeping Pasqual marginally in her good graces at this point is his relationship with Abel, which Wren has already projected her childhood relationship with her sister onto. She's not telling him shit about what she does with her business unless absolutely necessary though and has probably created contingency plans to space him if he tries to pull the same shit on her.

Heinrix: Lol. Lmao. Hi Inquisitor guy, yes of course I'm a loyal servant of the emperor, nothing to see here<-former crime lord who would have scattered at the word inquisitor a month ago

Wren was absolutely hoping never to actually come across this guy she was supposed to play courier for, like "Oh gee I guess we never found him, shame," so running into him while trying to clear up the mess on Rykard minoris was a bit of a disappointment, but she's decided that she can play good Rogue Trader while he's around. At this point he's brand new, she's sussed he's kind of into her, so she's playing into that and making herself seem friendly ("you seem lonely, if you want someone to talk to I'm not the greatest conversationalist but I am a great listener"). She's sure she'll be totally fine dumping him when needed and will not get attached, even though she's said this about the last like three people she's integrated into her crew and it's never played out well for her yet.

Cassia: Sweet child. Wren absolutely thinks that Cassia would not survive a day on her own, extremely powerful navigator or no, and is kind of condescending to her because of that. She was the quickest and easiest person for Wren to trust and consider one of "her" people on the new ship and she plans on doing what she can to secure a permanent position for Cassia as her navigator. Wren's got a real soft spot for her and takes her everywhere. (Also I, the player, stan Cassia like no one business and wouldn't dream of keeping her out of my party. Lidless stare is too OP.)

#cassy bitches #cassy plays whrt #please keep in mind im developing this character with Very Little idea of the actual setting and only broad strokes for her background #so these opinions will probably change once im through with this playthrough

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animeyanderelover · 2 years

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Maybe Tomura's darling trying to put their self in between him and someone to stop a fight?

I finally wrote my last exam for this school year and with less stress on my mind, I think it’s time that I start thinking about a date for when I’ll open my requests again!

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, obsessiveness, paranoia, abduction

To stop a fight

✋Shigaraki tends to have a ill temper, he acts most of the time more like a bratty child than an adult after all. He avoids going out of the hideout and under the crowd most of the time for multiple reasons. He knows that he’ll just get annoyed very quickly, knows that he might get strange looks for his rather ruffled appearance and his dry skin and knows that he might end up killing one or two if they get on his nerves. Throw his darling into this aspect and you’ll get on top of it his overly attached and clingy behavior, this unwillingness to leave you alone.

✋Kurogiri is probably the only one who tries to solve conflicts that erupt within the League of Villains. Conflicts with everyone else usually end with Tomura turning them to ashes with his Quirk, they have no use for him after all whilst people like Dabi and Toga at least help him to reach his goals. However, they do get death threats if they happen to get under his skin and especially if you are involved, Shigaraki spits warnings around all the time.

✋The time you spend with others in comparison to other members of LOV is a minor part because the man is such a jealous guy. He’s clingy, he wants attention and is absolutely ready to hurt or even kill for that. That’s what leads to such intensified hostility whenever you are around someone else and they look a second too long at you.

✋His hands are probably twitching with the instinct to end the person he’s currently arguing with but his sour mood is replaced with initial shock when his s/o suddenly interferes and tries to stop the argument. Shigaraki might even panic a bit since he is afraid that he’ll lose his temper and hurt his s/o by accident so he just tells them to leave at first. His tone is reflecting his annoyance and frustration, hints a little bit at his urgency for you to leave the scene though.

✋You refuse though, especially if the person he is arguing with is someone outside the LOV in which case the chances for him to seriously erase them from this life is very possible. With you being stubborn, Shigaraki feels probably just a little bit exasperated, probably just a little bit annoyed with the fact that now from all times you decide to stay. There is this hint of hesitation within him though.

✋The man never keeps secrets, you know that he is a villain and killed people before. However, you probably never saw it before and that is something Shigaraki doesn’t really want you to witness either. He is worried a bit what you’ll think about him after you’ve seen what he could do to you if he wouldn’t be so careful, wouldn’t wear his special gloves. It you’re already frightened of him this experience would certainly triple your anxiety.

✋On the other hand you have the best chances to calm him down enough to let it go, better chances than maybe even Kurogiri. Shigaraki listens better to you and is a sucker for his darling and since he has such a petty temper and gets passed with smaller things, you might be able to convince him that this argument is pointless and that it isn’t worth getting mad. He’s not completely gullible though, if he is really mad you’ll have to come up with something to have him drop his aggressive mode. Chances are that Shigaraki himself will sort of make a deal with you in which you will do something for him and in return he’ll drop the fight.

✋It’s probably easier to have him drop a fight with someone from the LOV than with anyone else, mainly because he knows that he can’t kill those people since they work for him. Anyone else he can kill and since Shigaraki tends to become quite murderous and forgives hardly, pushing him away from such a person is usually more difficult. Even with his hesitation to use his Quirk with you watching.

✋He’ll begrudgingly agree if you’ve done your job rightly, leaving after sneering angrily one last time at whoever he just argued with, one of his many warnings spat out before he finally leaves with you. It is a wise decision for the other person not to provoke him even more though because that might make things harder for you and more deadly for them. If they make comments about you or seem to be interested in you it especially rubs Shigaraki in the wrong way.

✋He has pent-up frustration afterwards nevertheless and that is going to show one way or another. He just straightforward hisses at everyone who disturbs the time he demands to be alone with you after he left the argument behind him and he sort of wants you to comfort him now. He’s still in a fairly grumpy mood.

#yandere my hero academia #yandere mha #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere bnha #yandere shigaraki #yandere tomura shigaraki

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hookaroo · 10 months

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Laden of the Torn (4 of 25)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: One Two Three Tagging @priscilla9993@cocohook38 <3

***

All too soon, the guards were back, making a terrible racket and showing no regard for Killian’s misery.

“Move out, prisoner! Hop to it!”

“Don’t make us come in there!”

Groaning quietly, Killian collected trembling limbs and tried to remember how to stand. He had just gotten one foot flat against the floor and his bare stump on the wall for balance when heavy armor flounced across the room in his direction.

“Dawdling will only earn you a proper hiding!” growled the guard as he grabbed Killian by the elbow. “Move!”

Killian allowed himself to be hauled up; gods knew he couldn’t manage it on his own. The dingy walls spiraled around him as if the entire building were caught in a raging maelstrom. Killian gulped back now-familiar queasiness. The laceration in his scalp seemed to be splitting the whole thickness of hair, skin, and skull, until even his brain was rent in two. A violent shove by the guard sent him stumbling forward, and perhaps under normal circumstances he would have caught himself before falling, but his physical condition plus the unexpected drag caused by the ball and chain gave him no chance this time. He landed hard on his knees, and it seemed his thoughts would never stop rattling around inside his poor banged-up head.

Impatiently, another guard tromped inside, and together, they dragged Killian up and frog-marched him to a waiting line of similarly encumbered prisoners. He was shoved to the back--“Where I can keep an eye on you”--and it was probably for the best, because if he were leading the ragged gang of convicts, their route to the front door would have been slow and circuitous. As it was, at least he had the feet of the man in front of him to focus on, and something pointy between his shoulder blades to motivate each unsteady step.

The outside light was utterly blinding. Killian had to squeeze his eyes closed and shield them with his hand as he continued to stumble forward, hoping he wasn’t about to crash into the prisoner ahead. The shackle at his ankle was already chafing his skin as he dragged the heavy ball along. Above the clanking and grating all around, he began to hear jeers and mutterings of condemnation--a crowd of onlookers, gathered to bid good riddance to the criminal element?

A sharp little pebble struck Killian on the head, perilously close to his throbbing injury. Judging by the cursing and impotent threats coming from up ahead, his fellow prisoners were dealing with the same thing. So far, the guards didn’t seem to care as long as they weren’t the ones being targeted.

Killian slitted open watering eyes in the unlikely hope of seeing someone trustworthy among those gathered, someone who could take a message to Alice, or at least tell her what had become of him. The faces were mostly a blur, loathing and scorn the only thing recognizable among them. Not a trace of sympathy that Killian could make out. Well, he had trekked for several days to reach this particular location, with its ill-fated House of Blessed Bread and its ambush. If anyone did know of him here, they were likely to be allies of Ahab’s and no friend of Killian’s.

At the end of the cobblestone street, where an intersecting road led out of town, an indistinct wagon stood at the front of a similar line of convicts, who were chained together by the ankles and already dressed in tattered prisoner’s uniforms. Killian could not make out their number, or the number of guards stationed nearby, but it was certainly enough to discourage foolhardy escape attempts. Now would be the last chance to act, while relatively untethered and lightly guarded. Which did not matter in the slightest, given Killian’s current helplessness: he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere even if he could muster the strength to break free.

Except, he wasn’t the only one who could calculate the odds.

Before Killian knew what was happening, the two men in front of him had whirled and were shoving him backwards into the rear guard, as shield or distraction or both, and he was fortunate that the force knocked him sideways just enough to avoid the ready spear. But his head collided painfully with the guard’s steel breastplate, adding to the fog already slowing his reflexes, so that the only thing saving him from complete collapse was a desperate flailing hand grasping at whatever was nearby.

Shouts of anger and alarm spurred more convicts into action, and the sentries were suddenly hard-pressed to keep control of the line, though with some of the more courageous onlookers rushing forward to wrestle back the fleeing, the chances of anyone making it through to freedom were slim. Still, with nothing to lose, those who had taken the gamble fought fiercely. Killian found himself clinging to a guard’s spear arm as a fellow prisoner wrestled for control of the weapon. The guard’s free hand took a fistful of Killian’s hair and smashed his face into the other man’s temple. Reeling and spitting blood, Killian staggered sideways, hoping to get clear of the struggle, only to take an elbow to the jaw from the irate criminal.

A high-pitched ringing accompanied Killian’s heavy landing on the pavement. Fighting for breath, he tried to roll away from the action, but his chain became entangled with the guard’s feet. He made himself as small as possible and closed his eyes, praying he wasn’t about to be trampled or gored by an errant spear.

Having just subdued two other would-be escapees, another guard turned just in time to see his comrade tipping over, almost in slow motion. In the heat of the moment, he could not be blamed for thinking that Killian had intentionally used his chain as a tripping hazard. As the first guard landed with a crash, still engaged in the desperate struggle over his spear, the second raced over and dealt a hefty blow to the convict who had started it all. Skilled or merely lucky, he managed to knock him out in one, then he turned his fury on the hapless pirate nearby. Without even checking on his downed colleague, he began to beat Killian with the butt of his spear, pummeling him across the back and shoulders, kicking him in the ribs, making an example of the one man who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Too out of breath to even beg for mercy, Killian lay helpless as he absorbed blow after undeserved blow.

It seemed the violence lasted a lifetime, twice the length of his Neverland days, until he could only hear the weapon hitting flesh and no longer feel it. Everything else had gone strangely quiet, and he imagined the villagers, train of convicts, and even the birds in the trees focusing on punishing his past sins. Then a loud, arrogant voice cut in.

“Pardon me, gentlemen. Is it truly your intention to kill this old cripple?”

Once again, Killian could swear he recognized the voice, though he was in even worse shape to identify it than he had been the first time. Not Ahab, though; he would stake money on that fact. To be honest, the only thing that mattered was that the beating had stopped, momentarily at least.

“We warned ‘em what would happen if they caused trouble,” came a growled response. Killian drew a long, careful breath, the first he’d managed since time began.

“Is that so?” The stranger sounded disinterested, bored even, but despite his current suffering, Killian could hear the devious undertone in the words. “Well, should you decide to deliver the promised number of laborers to that lot over there, allow me to offer you my services.”

There was a blessed beat of silence where nothing happened apart from the very act of breathing threatening to tear Killian’s rib cage through his chest. Then the guard gave a disdainful huff.

“Dunno how much use he’ll be in the labor camps anyway, with only one hand.”

But he did not resume the bludgeoning, and Killian heard him take a step back. The newcomer seemed to sneer as he replied,

“I’m sure they’ll find something for him to do.”

A spearpoint was suddenly digging painfully into a bruise at the small of Killian’s back.

“Get up, then. If you want to live, now’s your chance.”

Killian couldn’t, of course, and it had nothing to do with the will to live. Inflammation stiffened every muscle and fused each joint, and even the attempt to lift his head sent a lance of severe pain down his spine. He groaned hoarsely.

“This one’s about done for, I think. Get the rest moving.”

A moment later, shouts and the shuffling of feet made it plain that Killian was being left behind. The guard poked him again.

“Last chance.”

With massive effort, Killian managed to roll prone, stifling curses all the way. He’d rather meet his death face forward, but the thought of lying on his throbbing back made him even more queasy than he already was.

“If I may?”

Killian heard the rustling of movement and the scuff of boots on the stone near his shoulder, and he cringed, expecting more caning, or even a blade across the throat. Instead, rough hands slithered beneath his bruised torso, and then the wind left him again as he was hoisted up and slung over a broad shoulder.

He must have blacked out momentarily. When awareness returned, the massive pressure inside his skull seemed likely to squeeze his brain out through his ears, and he could only gasp one fingerful of air at a time, in the rare instances when his battered ribs weren’t banging against the solid form beneath him. He was being carried like a sack of flour, jolting along the cobbled street and wishing a spear had found his heart so he could have avoided this agony. But he couldn’t protest and couldn’t struggle, and his only hope of a reprieve was to return to a state of blissful unconsciousness, but the pain was preventing even that now.

Whoever had hold of him was pungent with sweat and cheap rum, and he certainly showed little regard for Killian’s comfort as he lugged him toward the waiting train of convicts. Killian hoped he had more sense than to try and place him on his feet when they arrived; he knew his legs would immediately give out and he’d likely do himself more damage as a result. But no, as woozy as Killian was, he had retained the mental layout of his surroundings and judged by their direction that they were heading for the wagon at the front of the line.

The relief was short-lived as he was dumped carelessly onto the bed of the wagon with nothing to blunt the impact, and the only thing keeping him from crying out in pain was the inability to first fill his lungs with enough breath.

As he shuddered through the worst of it, Killian slitted an eye open and caught a flash of crimson, red as the blood he’d surely been shedding on his dispassionate benefactor, and then the unmistakable glint of gold coins changing hands. By then, the vertigo had scaled back up to “worst of the worst,” and he couldn’t even find the strength to roll onto his side as unproductive retching tore at his insides. The only way he could tell when the wagon started moving was the shockwave resulting from each little rock and pothole, lengthening the eggshell cracks in his skull and magnifying every other bruise, contusion, and gash until every second was laced with infinite anguish.

He never noticed that no guards or chain of prisoners followed along behind them.

#ouat fanfiction #laden of the torn #wish hook #whump #beaten #pain #blood #nausea #chained #prisoner

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