#As always I can do naught but shake a fist towards the heavens for this fate given to me

[deviltakesthewaltz]

In celebration of recent events, here is a snippet of a clexa fic I’ve been working on, featuring 4k of yearning!Clexa.

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Golden leaves spiral from the sky the first time they kiss. 

It’s been a soft autumn, and their love bloomed with the times. Lexa’s father is away on business; Clarke’s mother is stitching up war wounds at the infirmary across the way. Like most days lately, they found themselves drifting farther and farther from home, which was a relief for Lexa, ever eager to put distance between herself and the cold, empty manor that had served as a roof over her head for all of her life; Clarke, who had shared many a laugh and comforting embrace in the shelter of her small quaint home full of warmth, nevertheless found herself eager to follow Lexa anywhere, but especially the hallowed orchard. 

It doesn’t belong to either of them. They aren’t certain who owns these acres stretching farther than the eye could see, beyond the shimmering horizons, some measurable distance behind their own homes, but they’re always grateful to capitalize on its relative emptiness. Just through the orchard lay a meadow, with naught but a single oak tree to spread its shade, and it’s always there that they find themselves wandering. Clarke has long lost count of how many afternoons they’ve drowned in the comfort of this tree, the usual sharp edges to her outings with Lexa inexplicably softened when the two of them came to rest at its trunk. It’s been marked with their presence for many years now, a small heart containing their initials they carved in together with the small bowie knife Clarke stole from her father. 

Clarke is never sure if it’s the magic and mysticism of the tree itself, singular and towering, or the familiar and gentle tenor of Lexa’s voice as she reads softly to Clarke from the various books she could never be found without. Just as when they were children, Clarke would slip into slumber with her head tucked into Lexa’s shoulder, and when she wakes she would always spend the first several seconds pretending she hadn’t, if only to remain there just a bit longer, dappled sunshine her blanket, head filled with the sweet scent of her friend’s soft curls just beneath her nose and the sound of Lexa’s heartbeat reverberating in her own aching rib cage. Lexa never seemed to realize when she was awake. She would read on, softly, until Clarke stirred and nuzzled deeper into her embrace, until Lexa’s lips brushed across the top of her head, and her body in its entirety burned with something she could never name.

But she suspects she’s beginning to discover it.

She has felt this way for as long as she can remember, and when she tries to think back, pinpoint an exact moment, she finds it’s as difficult as recognizing the precise instance in time that her young self learned how to breathe. 

She feels as though she’s been built with this yearning, this ache that suffuses every inch of her body, but in times such as these, when they’re tucked into this haven isolated from the world, it’s hard to feel the usual shame about it- particularly when moments alone give way to a different sort of fear when her monstrous appetite spreads its jaws wide and threatens to swallow the both of them whole. She’s not strong enough to resist reaching for her, fingers curling loosely into the wool of Lexa’s dress. The fact that it serves as the only thin barrier between her fingertips and Lexa’s skin is one that tends to haunt her at all times, but admittedly most when it’s late at night.

Lexa tends to have that effect on her.

It was, in fact, only two days ago that their reading led to an epiphany. For years Clarke had swallowed down these strange and confusing feelings, had tried her best to ignore the way her skin lit up with each graze of Lexa’s body, how she seemed to glow even at mere proximity to her. Now the incessant swirling of her stomach felt heavier, fuller, in certain loaded moments where the air felt alive and dangerous, the equivalent of the tension in the sky moments before a storm. She had rattled off excuses for why she oft found her gaze drifting to various features that shouldn’t draw it- the soft swell of Lexa’s lips, the sharp angle of her jaw and elegant stretch of her neck; the defined measure of her collarbones and the subtle shadows splayed over her chest from her corset pushing up her breasts, only ever seen in brief stolen moments when they changed near the other— sometimes even the curve of Lexa’s backside, the shapely line of her ankles beneath her pleated skirts.

She reasons with herself when she realizes she’s staring too hard and for too long. When she swallows and quails beneath the pressure of her own swollen, aching heart, squeezing and suffocating beneath the graceful timbre of Lexa’s voice. When she thinks constantly about the clever way Lexa’s mind works, how she’s so unafraid to speak her mind to Clarke, how she boldly shows her anger in private moments when she raves about her frustrations with her father, the town, the workings of the world. When the very, very few times Lexa has allowed herself to expose the sorrow eating up her heart, Clarke has cried with her, has brushed away her tears and kissed the top of her head and whispered that she is here, she is here, she is here, all for her. When she fantasizes endless scenarios that involve her going much farther than simply holding Lexa’s hands and gifting her the gentle affections any woman would give a friend they loved dearly. When she imagines parting her lips and letting the truth fly free, begging Lexa, confessing she knows not what these feelings are and what they mean, except she knows exactly what they are and why she is overwhelmed with them, and perhaps she is a monster and the universe is corralling her toward certain hell, but if this haven exists— the orchard and this hidden meadow where everything but time and the two of them ceases to exist— then perhaps she is content with this version of heaven. If this is paradise, she’s wholly certain whatever lay beyond it pales in comparison.

Still, when it came to matters of intimacy, she would at times feel that heavy dread in her stomach that accompanied the flutters of warmth. Generally she reasoned with herself, in those weaker moments. This must be an anomaly. An abhorrence. A test of her will. Fight it.

But then it happened. 

Two days ago.

And Clarke’s world would never be the same.

It was a day like any other. They woke, finished their chores in haste, and snuck away with a book tucked beneath Lexa’s arm. Spoke and laughed as they made their way to this spot, to this place that belonged to them, stole their fruit and settled against the tree, swathed in its reprieve, and spent the next hours with only Lexa’s soft voice and the occasional birdsong breaking the silence. 

"Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance."

Clarke had been dozing lightly, drifting in that cherished limbo somewhere between awake and asleep, Lexa’s words guiding her like a safe harbor. 

And then her next words, spoken with uncharacteristic hesitation followed by a gruff clearing of her throat, changed everything.

“She kissed me silently.”

Clarke’s eyes had flown open. She peered down from where her head was propped on Lexa’s shoulder, her heart stuttering in her chest as she focused on the words printed on the paper moments before Lexa said them aloud.

"I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on."

"I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you."

How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!”

Lexa paused when Clarke took an audible, sharp intake of breath, and Clarke cursed herself for a moment because she didn’t want Lexa to stop. But she could feel the weight of her uncertain stare, so she tilted her head, craning back to meet her gaze, and a thrill wracked through her when their eyes met. It was a calm, breezy day, barely a cloud in the sky, but suddenly it felt as though thunder could rumble and lightning strike at any moment.

“What?” Lexa said, voice small.

“She kissed her,” Clarke said dumbly, cursing herself for her lack of wit. Her face warmed, touched with embarrassment. 

Lexa swallowed, green eyes flitting between each of Clarke’s as though searching for something. “Yes.”

Clarke paused, her heart thundering. She struggled to control her breathing. “They...they are both women, are they not?” She may not have paid as much attention to this book as she could have in favor of napping, but she was fairly certain of this. 

Lexa swallowed again, and Clarke was enchanted and besotted by the dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Yes.” 

She kissed her.

Clarke’s gaze drifted, as it was already wont to do, but typically not so openly. Lexa’s lips were full and pink and beautiful, and Clarke had felt their softness on her countless times before, however fleeting. Kisses to the top of her head, to her hand, even on occasion to her cheeks. But never on her mouth. Her body seized and burned with the ache coursing through her at the thought, the need. She realized all at once that Lexa was still staring at her, and panic struck high in her chest; she promptly dipped her head down, hiding her face in the curve of Lexa’s neck, shaking in response to the hitch of breath Lexa gave.

For a long moment they were silent, still, uncertain, until Clarke couldn’t stand the tension in the air any more. 

“Keep reading,” she whispered.

It took another moment, but Lexa did. Cleared her throat first, and quietly read out,  “Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.”

Clarke’s face burned against Lexa’s skin, and Lexa’s wild curls tickled her nose. She couldn’t stop herself from pressing her trembling hand to the one Lexa had clenched in a fist atop her thigh. She could feel Lexa’s whole frame shaking against her, and without thought Clarke tipped her chin up to press what was meant to be a soothing, placating kiss to any part of Lexa she could reach; she landed on the column of Lexa’s throat, and her heart thudded at the fact that she could feel Lexa’s pulse thrumming wildly just beneath her flesh.

Lexa continued to read, her voice rough, lower than Clarke had ever heard it.

“Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. "Darling, darling," she murmured, "I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so."

The words echoed within Clarke, rebounding in the confines of her skull, singing out a chorus in the caverns of her chest. It was instinct, the way she pressed more firmly against Lexa. The way she sought out more of her, nose trailing the arch of her neck and the hard line of her jaw, the hollow high of her cheek, and finally, the soft tip of her nose. All Clarke could hear was the rushing in her ears as she struggled to open her eyes; when she did, all she could see was Lexa, less than an inch away and closer than Clarke had ever been to her, her brow creased with something akin to desperation, her lips parted, rapid breaths puffing warm over Clarke’s lips.

She kissed her.

It was as easy and natural as anything else Clarke had ever done by instinct. As simple as breathing. She didn’t know who closed the gap, but one moment they were both breathing one another in and the next, their mouths were pressed together. Lexa was impossibly soft against her, warm, and Clarke realized all at once that she was wrong about breathing being easy before. She felt as though she had never breathed properly until this moment, which made little sense considering how much difficulty she was having sucking air into her lungs, but she would happily remain here like this, motionless, pressed into Lexa, propping herself up with one hand on Lexa’s knee and the other clenched tightly over Lexa’s fist, their mouths fixed perfectly together.

But all too soon, the need for air won out, and she and Lexa broke apart. They remained close for a while longer, ragged breaths mixing, foreheads resting together, until Clarke managed to force her eyes to open and she found Lexa already watching her with a particularly dark shade of green Clarke had only ever seen on a handful of occasions. She very nearly kissed her again, except then Lexa blinked, and blinked once more, before drawing back and putting space between them. She pulled her arm free from beneath Clarke’s grip as she hauled herself to her feet, bracing against the tree trunk when she swayed uneasily. 

“We, um. We.” She cleared her throat, shaking her head as though to clear it. “We should probably head back, it— it will be dark soon.” The sun had yet to even set, but Clarke couldn’t find her voice. “We can, um. We can read more tomorrow.” She blinked; her face had gone from red to pale, drained of all color, and uneasiness curdled in the pit of Clarke’s stomach. She’s not quite sure what happened, except she’s squirming beneath the uncomfortable sensation that something that felt so right should have felt wrong, and there was perhaps wrong with Clarke for not knowing that. “If you...if you still want to, that is.”

The uncertain implication behind those words coupled with the terror in Lexa’s face as she said them had Clarke propelling to her feet. “Of course I want to.” She tilts her head, mouth suddenly dry as fear trickles through her— fear that they had ruined and destroyed everything. “Do you?”

“Of course,” Lexa said quickly, and it provided enough relief Clarke felt weak in the knees. 

The relief was short-lived, however. They remained standing in silence thick enough one could not so much as cut it with a knife, and the longer they stood there, looking anywhere but at the other, the more Clarke burned. She shifted her weight on her legs, dazedly noting she’d never been lost under such tumultuous emotions, a verifiable maelstrom that crashed into her with all the strength and ferocity of ships wrecking into the rocks at Polaris Cove.

“We…” Clarke’s voice trailed away as dizziness flooded her again; she could scarcely believe what just happened. Despite the anxiety that was itching at the bottom of her spine, there was an exhilarating thrill thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird in her chest. She looked at her friend in an entirely new light, and realized the light wasn’t actually new at all. 

“Naught happened,” said Lexa quickly, and Clarke blinked, jarred and taken aback. Her denial brought Clarke back to the ground with an abrupt jolt, for she had been at risk of surely floating right up off her toes and sailing clear into the very sky itself.

“Lexa…” she began helplessly, but Lexa shook her head at once. 

“Don’t.”

“We kissed.” Saying the words aloud was frightening, but this was Lexa; this was her dearest friend, the person she trusted most in this whole entire world. A girl who was always so fearless, whom Clarke had once watched stand tall and proud against her father, jaw set and eyes blazing, despite the imminent belting she would undoubtedly receive as punishment for her failure to complete her chores in favor of accompanying Clarke and her mother to town. A girl Clarke had once spent a tense afternoon huddled in the kitchen with, tending to her bloody, bruised knuckles after a tussle with John Murphy, a low-born boy who had tried one too many times to pester Clarke by attempting to lift her skirts to display her shins for all the world to see—and another belting from her father lay waiting for her then, too, which was perhaps why she seemed so reluctant to leave Clarke’s care, watching her quietly as she’d bandaged her up with the clumsy hands of a child, and thanking her with a blush when Clarke gently kissed her knuckles to urge them to heal. 

For as long as she’d ever known her, back when they were wee babes and Lexa’s wild mane of hair was nearly as big as her entire scrawny body, Lexa had been bold. So larger than life in her fierce spirit and unyielding confidence.

Yet now she stood before Clarke looking so shaky and willowy she appeared in danger of being knocked over by even the gentlest of breezes, and her eyes were filled with more trepidation than Clarke could ever have imagined her capable of feeling. 

And Clarke was tempted for a moment, by guilt and her own fear, to follow Lexa’s initiative and let it go. 

But her lips tingled and everything about that kiss was magic, and she knew if they didn’t discuss it now then they never would. And if there were one thing Clarke was known for, it was her mettlesome relentlessness. 

“Stop.”

“We kissed,” Clarke persisted. Her entire body bloomed with warmth at the mere words. “It just happened, I can still feel you on my lips— how can you deny it?”

“Clarke, stop.” Clarke’s heart twisted into a hard, painful little knot, and she had never known such devastation as watching Lexa shake her head in dismissal. “You don’t—you don’t have to say anything. I understand.” There was a split second of blinding pain as those two little words sank in. Lexa understood? She understood but she didn’t feel the same way, she was rejecting— whatever this is? But then Lexa continued, “You were just…caught up in the book.” Clarke blinked, not connecting the words until Lexa lifted the thing in her hands, gave it this small, pitiful gesturing wave.

Lexa froze when Clarke gave an angry scoff before marching over to her and snatching the book right out of her hand. Lexa cried out in protest when Clarke promptly flung it away; it hit the tree trunk and fell with a final thud to the ground. 

“The book, the book! I don’t care about the book! That wasn’t— that wasn’t why I kissed you.”

Lexa looked at her, struck dumb, her exquisite countenance a mixture of dread and heartbreaking hope that seemed so unfamiliar on her features yet the longer Clarke looked at it, the more she realized how often Lexa wore it when looking at her.

“I kissed you because every part of me has ached to for as long as I can remember,” Clarke said, voice hushed, her heart thrashing wildly and her hands trembling violently at her sides, desperate to reach for Lexa, who stood there shell-shocked. “I—I don’t know how this is possible, or what it means. All I know is that you are my favourite person, and the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, and I can’t take my eyes off you for fear you’ll disappear as I’ve imagined you up because you are so...you are so precious and perfect to me.” She swallowed hard and Lexa echoed it, green eyes wide and glossy and filled with fear and awe that Clarke was sure was reflected in her own. “And all I may do is pray that you can understand even a margin of all this I’m telling you. That you—that perhaps you kissed me back, and your own reasoning had little to do with the book as well.”

Silence, save for her heart pounding. Lexa took a shaky breath and exhaled it, once, twice, before swallowing again, and whispering, “I feel as if I can no longer remember a time when I did not want to kiss you.”

Warmth bled through the shock that stilled Clarke’s body, the relentless, fervish hope that wracked her spine. There was a time to worry about what all this meant, Clarke knew. A time to be struck with terror at how cruel life is, to love someone in the dark, forbidden, stuck in a world where they could be killed for it. 

But right then, they stood in their meadow, the orchard just behind them. It was sunny and warm, a gentle breeze ruffling their hair. Lexa’s cheeks were pretty and pink and Clarke’s heart was so swollen she was sure it could burst. 

Lexa took a deep breath, her eyes shining with that hope again, and Clarke felt it spread its own wings ever wider in her chest. “May I kiss you again?” asked Lexa, voice soft but hopeful.

Clarke bit her lip to curb her beaming smile, already tilting her face up expectantly. Just before their lips met, she paused, and Lexa’s brow knit in concern, previously half mast eyes lifting in renewed alarm. “For future reference, you can assume the answer to that question is always an unequivocal yes, so as to avoid wasting any unnecessary time asking me that, and skip right to the kissing.”

Lexa’s lips quirked in Clarke’s favorite crooked smile. “Is that truly preferable, my lady?”

“It truly is, my lady.”

Lexa’s eyes lowered again, dark, focused on Clarke’s mouth, and Clarke couldn’t help the way her own gaze drifted to lips she now knew were every bit as soft as they looked. “Then it will be done. As you know, I follow no one’s orders but your own.”

“Lexa.”

“Yes?”

“Please kiss me already.”

“As you wish.”

When their lips met again, it felt like coming home. Clarke shivered under the onslaught of emotions rushing through her, leaving her weak-kneed and trembling. And just when she thought it couldn’t get any better than this, Lexa’s mouth opened beneath her own. 

Their tongues didn’t yet meet—Clarke was too shy to broach that far forward, and Lexa must have felt the same. But Clarke could still smell the fruit from the orchard on her breath, knew she would taste of it, burned to find out. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Clarke had no idea what she was doing, but she seemed to be faring fairly well all things considered. She moved on instinct, her hands clutching Lexa’s forearms, fingers twisting into the fabric and gripping, pulling despite the fact that it was nigh impossible for them to be any closer than they were, hips aligned, breasts and stomachs flat together, so close she could feel the wild beat of Lexa’s heart keeping time against her own.

Their lips moved with a whisper of movement, languid and soft and slow. Though a part of Clarke was roaring, aching and urging her to drive recklessly forward, to tangle her hands into Lexa’s rich curls and kiss her with abandon, another part of her purred, content to remain here in this perfect bubble she never, ever wanted to leave. The gentle breeze stirred golden leaves from the tree and they floated down all around them; the birds sang a beautiful tune that wrapped around her heart. Lexa’s lips were soft and warm and Clarke had never known something so perfect could exist.

By the time they parted for air and Clarke opened her eyes again, the world around them was considerably darker. The sun was inching lower over the horizon, and the sky behind them, towards home, was as dark as the pupils focused on Clarke. Lexa’s eyes were wide and dark and luminous, and her hands no longer shook so violently as they squeezed around Clarke’s own. They stared at one another for a second longer before they each split into breathless, giddy grins, delirious with one another.

“You’re so beautiful,” Lexa whispered, and if Clarke did not blush at the words she most certainly did when Lexa reached up to tuck a curl of Clarke’s hair behind her ear. “There’s so much I want to tell you. So many thoughts I’ve kept to myself all this time.”

“I have the same plight but I fear there are not enough hours in the day,” confessed Clarke, grinning more broadly when Lexa gave a breathless laugh. She joined in a moment later, their sweet laughter echoing around the meadow, before they finally sobered, eyes shut and foreheads tipped together, gentle smiles curving their lips.

She could stay here forever. Truly, Clarke would be happy to. To forget about the lives that wait for them outside of this place, full of endless responsibilities Clarke didn’t even want to think about facing. One day she and Lexa both would move on from their duties of caring for their fathers and instead care for their eventual husbands and children. The thought moved Clarke to nausea, but she swiftly pushed it out of her mind. That is then, and this is now— and right now, Lexa was in her arms. 

But the day was ending, dusk was approaching, and Clarke couldn’t bear it if Lexa was punished for being late. 

“We need to return home,” Clarke sighed, wrenching the words free. 

Lexa’s face crumpled with devastation, hanging her head and shutting her eyes as though she’d never heard such terrible news. Clarke hid her smile by kissing her again, chastely, resisting the urge to sink into it. 

“You know we do. Your father already fears I am too much trouble for you, and you arriving home late again won’t help matters.”

Lexa still hadn’t opened her eyes, but her lips quirked as she tipped her forehead against Clarke’s, arms wrapping around her shoulders. “You are trouble for me, Clarke Griffin.”

Clarke hummed, loving the feel of being in Lexa’s arms. Loving the way it feels to have Lexa in her own, as she winds her arms around Lexa’s slim waist. “As if you don’t go looking for it on your own.”

“I would always go looking for you.” 

The sincerity broke the teasing, and Clarke expelled a shaky sigh, her heart fluttering, tightening her arms to hold Lexa close. Lexa returned the embrace, the both of them burying their faces in one another’s neck and hair, breathing each other in. 

And then, as all things do, their time had to come to an end.

Lexa gathered her book and took the hand Clarke held out for her. They made the whole journey back, some twenty minute walk, with their fingers entwined, walking in a comfortable silence filled with shy smiles and furtive glances.

By the time they emerged from the woods, the sun was nearly completely gone, dousing the world in shadows. They dropped one another’s hands and their smiles slipped away when they neared their houses. Titus’s carriage was pulled up the drive, and the house windows glowed from the lit lanterns.

Clarke’s heart sank as she turned to see Lexa’s grim face.

“We can lie. I can fake an injury, a limp, and we’ll say you helped me—”

“You know that doesn’t matter, Clarke.” Lexa’s shoulders were rigid and stiff, even as she sighed. “It’s nothing new. I’ll be fine.” 

Clarke opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say anything, Lexa turned to fully face her, and Clarke’s mind went blank beneath Lexa’s full attention. She found it difficult to meet her eyes when her own kept dropping to Lexa’s full lips. 

Lexa clearly noticed, if the way a corner of them quirked up was any indication.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said seriously, her voice low. She glanced over her shoulder, ensuring no one was around, before grasping Clarke’s hand and lifting it to her lips. Clarke smothered a quiet gasp, her heart thudding ever faster, and wished for nothing more than to push Lexa back against the wooden fence they stood beside and kiss her senseless. “We can go to the meadow and finish Carmilla, if you’d like.”

“Always,” Clarke answered, gaze still fixed on those damning lips. “Or,” she added, voice slipping into a lower octave, one that has Lexa’s grip on her hand automatically tightening, “perhaps we could find something else to do.”

She would happily have almost all of her company with Lexa be spent kissing, if she had it her way. By the brightening of Lexa’s eyes and consequent smile, she felt the same way, and that more than anything had elation soaring within Clarke. She half wondered if the moment Lexa stepped away, she truly would just float off into the sky.

“Goodnight, my lady,” whispered Lexa as she stepped back.

“Goodnight, Lexa.”

Clarke’s arm remained extended though she stayed standing where she was, loathe to lose contact with Lexa, but Lexa’s slender fingers moved across her palm, down her own fingers, and then skimmed over her fingertips, until there was naught but air and Clarke had no choice but to lamely drop her arm, watching, speechless and enamored, as Lexa walked backwards a few steps, maintaining intense eye contact before giving her one last soft smile and turning to enter her house. 

[gauntie-o-dimm]

Andrew Milton | Toxic

You’re just a hostage in the Pinkerton’s plan, the Van Der Linde gang will certainly come looking for you. Andrew Milton will never be lured into your little pleasure trap. At least, that’s what he likes to think.

Word count: 2900+ Warnings: Smut, swearing, choking, hate sex

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Your head was practically drumming in pain as you regained consciousness. Every beat of your heart seemed to slam into your skull, crushing your brains. The side of your face felt warm and sticky.

Slowly, you managed to open your eyes, taking in your surroundings. Immediately, you noticed your own discomfort, body slouched against the wall in an awfully unnatural position, cold stone practically digging into your spine. You tried to shift, soon met by the sound of jingling chains that bound your wrists above you, chafing your skin with every movement.

You gritted your teeth as memories rushed back to you. The deal, the perfect plan to fetch the money from Blackwater, and then, a trap. You had been knocked out by something undeniably hard - the handle of a gun, perhaps? The darkness that had followed was in that case far from welcoming.

And now, you were taken prisoner, as it appeared. Would Dutch come looking for you? Hell, if he didn’t, Arthur most certainly would. Still, you had no idea what had happened otherwise than the failure of the plan, Dutch’s plan. One of his fucking magnificent plans. You rolled your eyes in annoyance.

The creaking of hinges made the hairs of your neck stand on end. You hadn’t even noticed the door in the corner of the room, the frame now revealing a man that you had never despised as much now.

“Mr Milton.” you mockingly greeted, voice dripping with venom. Said man entered the room, stepping closer and now you saw two other men that had joined him. They carried rifles and on their hips, revolvers. If you were to escape, you had no chance of survival.

“Miss (L/n), if I recall correctly. Or (Y/n), but that would take away all of the professionalism.”

“What the fuck happened? And what do you want from me?”

Milton chuckled, shaking his head. “Dutch van der Linde will certainly come searching for his little damsel in distress. I know what you mean to those bastards. It’s just a matter of time before we can pump ‘em full of lead on our own grounds.”

“They’re not as stupid as you are.” you taunted as he approached, his eyes boring into yours coldly, as if he was trying to see right into your soul. The gesture made shivers run down your spine. “Really, detective. I am thoroughly offended that you think that Dutch van der Linde is stupid enough to get me out of here.”

An icy stare was all you got, Andrew Milton unfazed by your words. He waved his hand to his men to leave the room, and they closed the door behind them. “Listen, Miss (Y/n).” he began, cracking his knuckles while he stepped in front of you, noses nearly touching. He reeked of cigarettes and cologne - you were embarrassed to admit to yourself that he smelled quite nice - wait, what were you even thinking? This man would kill you without a second thought while you pondered over the pleasantness of his scent - that was something that you really didn’t want.

“Dutch van der Linde is coming to save you and there is nothing you can do to stop him. Once he’s dead, well... I will most certainly enjoy killing you, after.”

“Why don’t you just kill me right now?” you questioned, eyes narrowing as you studied his face. Despite being a son of a bitch, you had to admit that the man carried a certain charm, something intimidating in a way that you had never seen before. It caused you to clench your thighs together, much to your dismay.

“Well, Miss (Y/n).” he muttered, his gloved hand touching the side of your face, an immediate sting searing through your head. “Word like that goes out way too fast. The whole trouble we went through will be for naught if Dutch called wind of your unfortunate death.” As you flinched away from his prodding into your wound, he tutted. “That’s a nasty wound you got there, Miss (Y/n). Too bad it will make a permanent scar on that pretty face of yours.”

A confident grin spread over your face. “You callin’ me pretty, huh? And you keep referencing to me as Miss (Y/n), not just (Y/n). If I didn’t know you this heartless, I’d say you have a thing for me.”

A humorless smile spread over his chapped lips, his face moving closer to yours. “And what if I did, huh? It isn’t like you can stop me from doing whatever I want to you.”

You grinned a little, leaning in closer to his face, as if you were about to kiss him. “Mr Milton, I had no idea you were able to feel things like that!”

The first strike he hit across your face was nearly painless, but the second slap he delivered was right upon your wound, causing you to hiss in pain and the previous thudding of your head to temporarily continue.

“You like it rough, huh?” you said with a chuckle, “When was the last time you fucked something else than your own fist?”

He sucked in his pockmarked cheeks, looking at your with eyes full of fury. “Oh, I am going to enjoy torturing you, (Y/n).” You widened your eyes in fake surprise, bottom lip pouting in a way to mock him. “No Miss this time? That’s no fun.” you murmured, “But I had never expected an asshole like yourself to be into that kind of stuff. Tell me, does it make your prick hard if you treat women like that?”

“You better shut the fuck up.”

“Make me.” you mused, well aware of the sexual tension that sentence held. You had seen your fair share of men in your life and you recognized the twisting face of Andrew Milton to contain confusion, anger, but all the more interesting: lust.

And thus you batted your eyelashes - if you were going to hang in here for a while longer, you might as well have some fun, and the whole idea of a man like Andrew Milton himself mustering such things towards you, well... It didn’t relieve you of the aching in the pit of your stomach.

“You are an odd lady, Miss (Y/n).” Milton spoke, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, his eyes flickering to your lips for a moment. “First you call me miss, now you call me a lady... Really, what am I to you, Mr Milton?” You were able to bring up your leg enough to softly run your bare foot along the side of his calf, enough to make the man in question let out a groan of frustration.

He shot forward, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. You whistled through your teeth in an attempt to humor him, but you would lie if you’d say that the entire scene taking place didn’t turn you on - you were soon imagining yourself against the wall, his body against you until you were both sweaty and at a loss for words.

“You are...” Milton paused, studying your face from up close. Something stirred in his expression, something way calmer than you had ever seen him become. “You are a devil with the face of an angel, a bloody villain with eyes like heaven... Your soul is as dark as the desire you spark within me.”

You withheld with every fiber in your being from laughing pitifully, knowing that the man was serious - Milton always was. You and the gang had learned the hard way that this man was not to be messed with - but the last thing he said drummed within your skull like the headache that had been there for quite some time now.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the Pinkerton agent mistook it for something else - before you could comprehend what was going on, his tongue had already slipped past your lips, the taste of tobacco and whisky soon mixed with your saliva, the urge to fight soon dying down, the wish to kiss him back starting to grow immediately.

What you were doing was wrong, that you knew. But how could something wrong feel so damn good. Andrew’s hands were soon around your cheeks, tilting your face so he could delve in deeper and he tasted you with a hunger that made you realize that this man had been a long way from being loved, touch-starved to put it in other terms. The soft moan that escaped you was not helping to calm him down, either.

Whatever went through Andrew Miltons head was unknown to you, apart from that you were probably doing something right to turn him on - he nudged your legs apart with his knee and immediately put some pressure on the aching, searing hot spot in between. You whimpered against him, not only from the friction, but also from the lack of oxygen you soon began to feel. The man kissed you with such fury that he completely disregarded of your need to breathe.

And with every passing second, the thought of what you were doing faded away in a pool of pleasure. For a moment, you completely forgot you were imprisoned by this man, but the jangle of the chains as you tried to move your hands pulled you out of this blissful state. For the first time since he pressed his face to yours, Milton pulled back, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips as he did so.

“Unshackle me?” you said with a pout, gaze momentarily falling to his groin, that was obviously growing in his pants. His lustful eyes flickered to anger again, as if he just now realized what was going on. He gathered himself, taking in fiery breaths, brows knitting together in that same strict way they often rested upon you, or Dutch, or anyone from the gang for that matter. He radiated hate and fury.

“You fucking demon. You put a spell on me, didn’t you? Trying to glamour me, mend me to your will?”

“I think you’ve been reading too many fairy tales, Mr Milton.” you said with a smirk. “If I was a demon, you’d be long dead. For what it’s worth, I wish I was a demon right now, so I could take that handsome head of yours off your shoulders.”

As if he hadn’t struck you enough, he slammed the back of his hand against your cheek again, his teeth gritting as he eyed your unfazed reaction. “You fucking bitch! I should kill you right now!” You cocked an eyebrow.

“Then I suggest you go right ahead. But who is going to take care of little Andrew Jr, then?” You eyed at his erection. Milton was seething, face beet red and you could’ve sworn you saw a vein throb in his neck. Hm, how would he react if you pressed your lips against it?

Words seemed to fail the Pinkerton agent for once. “That’s what I thought, detective.” you murmured, pulling the man from his state of confusion. Milton spat: “You are only allowed to refer to me by my last name.”

“Or what?” you taunted, “Are you going to punish me?”

With a groan, he smashed his lips onto yours again, teeth clashing together in the roughness of the kiss, but you didn’t mind at all. He was quick to pull your pants to your ankles, leaving you butt-naked, shivering against the coldness of the prison tiles. You were able to shimmy one foot out of the trousers - that would be enough for now, anyways.

A gloved hand made its way in between your thighs and made you shiver as he gathered some of your sinful excitement on the rough material. Your confident posture was fickle now, knees soon bucking at the friction. “Look at you.” Milton darkly murmured, “Such a needy whore.” He pressed painfully against your clit, but you regained your composure and braced yourself against his fiddling. You wouldn’t fall to him, you told yourself.

But it would be a scene full of lies and deceit, you figured as Milton pushed you up against the wall, the shackles around your wrists causing the skin to break. There would be no love behind the thrusts he would make into you, there would be no sweet whispers or an afterglow. You didn’t give a fuck about it, either. All you needed was to ease the desire of your painfully aroused core, and a piece of Andrew Milton left in you. Who knew what you could do in the future after having such intimacy?

With one hand, Milton undid his belt, and his pants, and they were soon around his ankles, pooling at his boots. You licked your lips at the sight of his erection. Men with big mouths like him usually had tiny pricks, but you figured Milton was an exception. Sure, you’ve had seen bigger, but you swallowed in anticipation nevertheless.

He made no time for assuring, nor for small talk or foreplay, soon nudging the head of his cock in between your labia, coating his length with your slick. You were surprised at the sound that left his lips as soon as he pushed into you, rolling his hips in till the hilt until you felt the dark curls on his lower abdomen brush the sensitive bud hidden between your folds. You chewed the inside of your cheek at the scratch.

Your bodies fit together quite nicely, you ironically thought. The cold feeling of the wall behind you alongside the heat that came from the detectives body left you wanting more in no time. Tiny beads of sweat covered Milton’s forehead as he held you against the hard surface, pumping in and out of you with rapid speed.

The least thing you had expected him to do was to wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze, causing you to gasp; or at least try to. The chains that bound you jangled as you tried moving your arms, slight panic washing over you as you realized that this man could literally fuck you until you were dead right here and now with no direct consequence.

The fear in your eyes seemed to egg the man on, encouraging him to only pound harder. The slap of skin against skin echoed, but he didn’t seem to mind, only grunting and panting until he opened his stupid mouth to speak.

“You’re looking so obedient right now, like a fucking dog. Fuck, the way you clench around me. I can snap your neck right now.”

You spat in his face, saliva dribbling down your chin. “Fuck you.” you sneered in between gasps for air, your vision becoming blurry.

“You are, right Miss (Y/n)? I wonder what Dutch would do if he found out about this. I would have so much fun seeing you all turned against each other.”

You struggled to breathe even more and you began to see stars. Lips turning blue, just like the spots in your neck where he was squeezing. The chains were noisy in the harshness of his thrusts and you pondered if anyone would come check up on this whole scene before you would slip into unconsciousness.

“It would be a sight to see, witness Mr van der Linde put a bullet in your skull like the treacherous bastard he is, betraying his own family, and then, I can kill him as well. Two birds with one stone... But to see that--”

He released your throat, causing you to heave for oxygen, lungs burning at the sensation of fresh air.

“--I need you alive.”

His now-free hand chose to tug your bare leg over his hip instead, allowing him to ride himself into you at another angle. This nearly caused you to lose your mind once again, but in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Whom was really controlling whom, you wondered.

And in the building of tension and unexpressed emotion, you felt an orgasm begin to form in the pit of your stomach. It began at your lower abdomen, soon spreading to lower regions. You just hoped Milton would be merciful enough to let you reach it.

But would you be able to lie to yourself? Milton was ruthless, unable to feel empathy, or anything for that matter.

Unannounced, he thrust his hips upwards in one final jolt, his length throbbing inside of you as you felt him spill himself into your depths. He grunted through gritted teeth, and as soon as his high was over - short but intensely - he pulled out of you, releasing your body like you were some kind of animal he had accidentally touched.

You swallowed your whimper at the loss of contact, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Needless to say, you immediately felt filthy, not able to clean yourself off of him. The pleasure that had been pulsating through you faded like a thin layer of snow in the searing sun.

Andrew Milton was still panting as he reached for his trousers, putting them on again, disregarding your climax completely.

“You know, Miss (Y/n).” he stated, looking you firmly in the eye as he hoisted your pants up again, gaze as cold as it had been before, as if he hadn’t just emptied himself within you. “I certainly hope Dutch will wait getting you out of here for another day or what. After all, what harm can it do?”

He tipped his hat, his stupid bowl hat, and turned to leave the room, abandoning you utterly bothered and angry.

“Get the fuck back here, Milton!” you screamed, hatred welling up in your chest like it had been pierced with an iron bar. “Finish what you fucking started!”

It was no use, you knew. Maybe, just maybe, next time...

[thehoneyjournal]

Legend Lore #7: Herehand

Your vision fades to black, like so many times before, your senses muffled for a brief moment before your view clears, revealing a stunning plain with a magnificent stone road stretching away towards the horizon. As you look around you, you realize that your perspective rests atop an enormous stone wall, slate grey, with a thin sheet of metal bonded to the outside of the wall, almost woven into the stonework itself, cables of metal reaching through the stones, forming a structure you can feel but not see of enchantments humming within the stone work all the way to the ground below you. You look out over the vista once more, the expanses dotted with small villages and thick forests to either side of the perfectly formed stone road.

You frown. Where are the people? Why is it so quiet? And why is the sky so heavy and grey, and the air so cold? The trees are full of bright green leaves, the grass still rich and thick. You shiver.

You hear the sound of heavy footsteps, and muffled cursing in Dwarvish. A man appears at the top of the wall, continuing to curse as he finally mounts the top of the wall, leaning against it for a moment, breathing heavily. Even for a dwarf, he’s short, and so wide that it seems to be an arcane miracle he could fit up the stairs. He’s clad in a simple leather jerkin and wool pants, his hands stained and tarnished with soot and grime, the likes of which has probably been there for years. His nose is squashed and broken several times over. A thick black beard reaches to his prodigious stomach, immaculately kept. As he brushes past your perspective you catch a whiff of woodsmoke and charcoal, melting metal, the tang so strong it almost makes you retch. He steps forward past you, clambering up onto a small step carved out of the wall, likely there so the smaller races can see over the parapet.

A moment later a second dwarf appears, taller, thinner, and substantially cleaner. Rings adorn his long thin fingers, but his hands are stained much like his companions are. A long-hooked nose protrudes over a fine brown beard and relatively small mouth. He joins his companion at the wall, looking over the vista silently for a moment before breaking the silence, looking at his shorter, rounder companion.

“Looks like snow.”

The black bearded dwarf looks up at his companion, his rough voice rumbling up from deep in his belly.

“That supposed to be a joke?”

“A little. We don’t have much time. Thought I’d try to…. Lighten the mood, a little.”

“Ach, Sindri. We’ve had centuries together, and you still never learned. Your jokes always come at the worst times.”

A silence emerges between the two, stretching on for what seems like minutes. The one called Sindri’s voice emerges after a moment, almost flute like, melodic, like singing, as he asks a question.

“How do dwarves greet each other?”

You watch the shorter one’s hands clench for a moment as his breathing quickens.

“Not now Sindri. Bloody not now. Our home empty, our children gone. The only one of them left is a sea goddess with more vinegar than sense trying to take on a madman who we still don’t even know the name of on account of his memory magic he’s so fond of. Keep blocking every message spell we try to send to her. So, let’s just stop the bloody comedy show, eh?”

Another silence, shorter this time. Sindri speaks.

“Small world, isn’t it?”

You watch as the shorter one turns to Sindri, clenching his fist, grabbing the front of Sindri’s shirt so quickly you barely see him move, raising a fist. Sindri doesn’t move. After a moment you realize that the black bearded dwarf’s eyes are full of tears, and he lowers his hand settling with a “whumpf” on the stone step, turned partially away from Sindri, who lowers himself down next to his round companion. After a moment the shorter dwarf’s voice emerges, nearly breaking under the weight of his emotions.

“Did we fail them, Sindri?”

Sindri leans back for a moment, looking up at the cloud filled, grey sky.

“You know, brother, we’re sitting here at the end of days. A marauding army led by a demon has stopped the last god in Midgard from returning home, Odin has locked himself in Asgard and imprisoned that damn wolf, and the rest of the gods are dead or vanished. And you want to know something?”

“What?”

“I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. This realm has never known such peace as what we helped bring it for the last 600 years. Civilization, art, music, poetry, the tales they will tell of these people and what they could do! These things flourished with our aid, and that is a most noble cause to dedicate one’s life too. We knew the gods at their most vulnerable. We crafted them weapons that shook the heavens and rewrote the laws of nature themselves. But most importantly, my dear friend, I’d do it all again if it meant that I sat here, at the end of the days, with you. Because there’s no one I’d rather greet Ragnarök with at my side.”

The shorter dwarf’s shoulders begin to shake, thick tears flowing from his eyes into his beard. Sindri reaches a hand out, rubbing the shorter man’s back between his shoulder blades as the man’s tears eventually subside. Eventually Sindri’s voice floats out into the air once more.

“We didn’t fail them, Brok. It just happened faster than we ever could have prepared for. There’s an end to all things, even the gods, and Odin’s known it for centuries. Perhaps our mistake was preparing for it in the first place instead of accepting our fates. Hard to do when the Hanged One won’t share his knowledge with the rest.”

Brok sniffs, wiping his hand across his eyes and nose.

“Are you ready, Sindri? One last act before we go. One last thing good thing to put into this world. What incantation did you choose?”

Sindri smiles, a sad, wistful smile.

“The song mother sang us to sleep with when we were young.”

Brok nods, his eyes welling once more. The two brothers interlock their fingers, turning to the southwest, their voice crooning out over the trees, Brok’s basso rumble melding nicely with Sindri’s tenor.

“The darkness is naught to fear,

For it is whence we came.

From under mountains deep and far,

And will return again.”

“Close your heart to fear, dear child,

Keep always at your back.

You brother, Brok, and Sindri too,

To aid in what you lack.”

The song ends, the brothers remaining standing, hands clasped, as an enormous rumbling takes hold of the wall. Light crawls through the metal strands woven into the stonework beneath your feet, flashing and moving like neural impulses.

After about 20 seconds the rumbling stops. As you watch a metal man appears at the staircase top, walking over to the wall, standing at attention, sword and shield affixed to its arm, a crossbow strapped to it’s back, a quiver slung low on a hip with bolts. It deftly moves along the wall, snapping to face outwards over the plain. As you watch, and look further along the wall, you see dozens of these soldiers appearing silently at multiple staircases that lead to the top of the wall.

Brok and Sindri step back, making space for the metal men continuing to arrive. Brok speaks, his voice more even now.

“It’s done. They’ll defend what we couldn’t. No minds to BREAK HERE, EH SHADOW LORD?”

His voice rises to a fevered shout as he turns to the southwest, a rude hand gesture sent sailing towards Geldorcraft. Sindri grins, chuckling quietly to himself.

“Brok, I have to say, as final words go, those aren’t bad. What say we see what’s waiting for us after this world?”

Brok nods, smiling back up at his brother.

“Sindri, I couldn’t agree more.”

The two clasp hands once more, turning and sitting down again against the wall, their breathing beginning to slow. You watch as their hair begins to whiten, their hands to become spotted with age. After a moment Brok cracks an eye.

“Sindri?”

“Yes, my friend?”

“It’s snowing.”

Thick, fat flakes of snow have begun to fall, coating everything silently, including the soldiers on the wall, the snowflakes hissing slightly as they rapidly melt and steam on the armor.

Brok and Sindri laugh, sticking their tongues out, catching the flakes, making small piles of snow after a few minutes and dumping them down each other’s shirts before finally subsiding. Sindri clasps the back of Brok’s neck, looking him in the eyes.

“I love you, brother. You’ve been my best friend throughout our existence. Here’s to family.”

Brok nods, fixing Sindri with equal intensity.

“I love you too, Sindri.”

The two lean back against the wall, and as you watch they continue to age, before suddenly and simultaneously turning to snow. You look up and notice immediately after they do so two ravens flying away deeper into the city, cawing the whole while they leave.

And the snow falls. And the metal men stand watch.