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bellatrixobsessed1 · 2 years

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Dragon Skin

Summary: Azula discovers that she has dragon blood when her skin begins turning blue.

It is a small splotch on her right hand, one that she mistakes for a smear of paint. It very well could have been a smear of paint, except that it doesn’t rub away when she runs her finger over it. It doesn’t wash away no matter how much soap she scrubs into it. And it is only getting bigger, spreading out like ink in water.

Azula wears gloves now, golden in color and as lavish as her robes. But the gloves end at her wrists and the blue is creeping up her arm. She clutches her afflicted hand to her chest and winces–her stomach is queasy.

What’s wrong with her?

Why is this happening to her?

Everyone already thought that she was a monster, they are only just getting over that and now she is becoming a monster of some sort or another. And in the most literal sense this time around.

She tears off the glove and begins another round of useless scrubbing. She rubs until her blue skin breaks.

She still bleeds red.

She places her back against the wall and slumps to the floor. Perhaps she should just light her hand a blaze. It might hurt horrifically, it might come out blistered, blacked, and ugly but at least burns are normal. At least they aren’t freakish. They are extremely common in the Fire Nation, really she can’t name one person who doesn’t have at least one small burn from some bending related accident or crime.

She holds her strange hand up in front of her face, the blue stains have reached her elbow. She closes her eyes and inhales. Exales. Inhales…

She does so five times over and lights a fire in her left hand. Is flicks and licks in the same shade as her skin.

She hovers her shaking hand over that flame, anxious tears streaming down her face. The heat is intense and she hasn’t yet plunged her hand into it. She takes another deep exhale and…

She loses her nerve.

The fire dies in her hand and she flops fully to the floor as the adrenaline vaccats her. She lies there, body trembling, tears flowing. Her blue fingers brush against the carpet fibers. Tears drip from her nose and leave wet circles.

By the next afternoon the blue has reached her neck. It has also claimed her right side and breast and parts of her belly and lower back. She buries herself in layers and high collared dresses. She masks her dread beneath a bravado of cockiness. Beneath, she feels like an abomination, some freakish creature caught between human and beast.

“Are you alright, Azula?” Tylee asks.

“I’m fine.” She replies stiffly.

The acrobat knows her well enough to know that this is absolutely not true. To know that she is stressed and anxious and on edge. She is almost certain that everyone is aware. She gets snappy and cold when she is afraid.

They just can’t place what is bothering her so very much.

And she thinks of sharing.

Thinks of just tearing off the gloves, thrusting her hand into the Avatar’s face, and demanding answers. Instead she holds her hand to her chest, feeling the burn of blue beneath.

.oOo.

It has been a while since he has seen Azula. A strange thing considering that she hasn’t left the palace. He has seen her in the library on several occasions–in fact this is where Sokka has the most run-ins with her.

The last he’d seen of the princess she had been almost frantically tearing up the library. He is worried that she is in one of her states, although she is rather adamant that, that had been a one off thing. A fluke brought on by particularly intense amounts of stress.

Before he knows it, he finds himself standing before her bedroom door. She doesn’t answer him but he can hear her walking. And he lets her know as much. He talks and talks until finally she cracks the door open. Just ever so slightly. “What do you want, Sokka?”

“I want to make sure that you’re okay.” He says quietly.

“I’m fine.” And the door begins to close. Against his better judgment, he jams his foot in the door. “Sokka, go away.”

“You haven’t left your bedroom in days.”

“That isn’t your problem, now is it.”

“Well, see, I’m a happy guy. I don’t have any problems of my own so, I’ll make this my problem.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re not getting off that easily.” He pries the door open just enough to squeeze himself through. Of course he manages to face plant at Azula’s feet in the attempt. He expects to hear that dainty little snicker. Expects to look up and see a smug smirk.

She has her back to him when he rises.

He rests a hand on her shoulder, intent on turning her around to face him. “Azula?” Her body goes rigid and he attempts to turn her around but she holds her posture firm. “Azula, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. Leave me alone.”

“I can tell that this isn’t nothing.” He can see it in her stance. It is both timid and cagey. She has all of this space and she is giving off an air of someone trapped within tiny confines. “I’d like to help you.”

“You can’t.” She replies quietly.

“That’s what you said the last time and look; you have friends and new hobbies and…”

“And I’m going to lose all of it.” She whispers. “Just like the last time.”

“Why do you think that?” Without thinking, he pulls her into a hug.

“Sokka, leave me alone.”

“Do you really want to be alone, Azula?” He asks. “Because every other time you’ve said that you ended up caving and demanding that someone go and comfort you.” Really it was more of a begging but he knows that she hates it when he says so. Her silence is answer enough. He sighs. Since she won’t turn around and face him, he opts to walk in front of her.

She cringes and her head dips. Her hair falls into her face and she makes no move to brush it aside. But he does and she cringes when he has it back over her shoulder. She doesn’t look him in the eyes–no, hers are downcast and fixed on the floor.

And he understands very well, what is troubling her. Her eyes squeeze shut and she grits her teeth, he knows that look. He intertwines their fingers.

.oOo.

Azula finds herself feeling quite dizzy; he doesn’t leave her. It doesn’t make sense but he is still in the room with her. Not just in the room with her but scooping her up and carrying her to her bed. He carefully lays her down and begins rubbing her back.

“What’s happening to me, Sokka?”

“I–I’m not sure.”

“I’ve looked through everything.” She mumbles. “There’s nothing in the library…” She clutches the excess fabric of her pillow. “I don’t know what I did. I–I don’t think that I did anything. I never dabbled with spirit vines.”

“Spirit vines?”

She nods. “All of the scrolls I’ve read indicated adverse reactions to interacting with sprit vines. But I’ve never…” she swallows. “I haven’t even been anywhere with spirit vines.” Unless juice or sap or some other sort of spirit vine extract has been slipped into her drinks or meals.

“Have you asked Aang?”

“I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Why not?” He sputters.

“Would you be comfortable trotting merrily down the hall with blue skin?!” She snaps. “People already think that I’m a monster.”

Sokka pats the back of her calf. “Nobody thinks that, Azula. You’re the only one who says that.”

“Well they will think so now.”

“I don’t think so.” He smiles.

Azula rolls onto her back and rubs her hands, her strange blue hands, over her face, holds them over her eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me, Sokka.”

“I’m not!” I swears. “I think that it’s kind of neat actually. Blue looks good on you, it’s always been your color. It’s like a trademark”

“The color of my fire. The trademark of my fire. Not me.” Her hands muffle her voice.

He shrugs. “Well I think that it looks nice.”

“You have wrong opinions.”

Sokka laughs. “If you say so.”

.oOo.

Azula gives another shaky sigh and she lets him take her hands. Finally she looks up.

And finally he sees those eyes.

Dragon eyes.

There is still something in them, a spark, a something that is unmistakably Azula. His lips part and he is speechless just long enough for her to grow uncomfortable and distraught again. Until he mumbles, “Azula, I think that I know what’s happening to you.”

“And what’s that?” She asks in a near whisper.

“Aang’s new Avatar mission involves dragons.”

“What’s that got to do with me, Sokka.” She sits herself up and sighs.

“Everything!” He says a bit too loudly, a touch too suddenly. He apologizes at her flinch. “So, there’s this rumor about dragons coming back. About people who were dragons in a past life.”

“Well I’m not a dragon in this life.”

“Not yet.” He shrugs. He doesn’t know what to make of her expression at the suggestion. There is a degree of intrigue within that look of terror. A dash of excitement underneath that anxiety.

“I–I want to be a human being, Sokka.”

“That’s not what you said last month.” He shrugs. “You said that you wished that you were a dragon so that you could just fly away when people tried to hold you down.”

“I didn’t think…”

He pulls her into a hug. “Look, human or dragon or something in between, you still have me. You still have all of us.” He kisses the top of her head. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She mumbles into his shirt.

“Now are we going to show you off to everyone else yet or do you still need a moment?”

“I suppose that we should just get it over with.”

Sokka grins and gives her a good pat on the back. “That’s the spirit! Trust me, everything will work out just fine.”

#sokkla saturdays 2022 #Sokkla Saturday #Azula #Sokka #Sokkla #Avatar The Last Airbender #Fanfiction

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clevermird · 8 months

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At first, she doesn’t recognize him. He’s tall, much taller than the archon, and solid muscle, with long black hair pulled into a messy tail. Like nearly everyone else she’s met in Commorragh, his skin is without color and the humorless line of his mouth is echoed in his dark eyes.

This must be Lord Vrash, Jian realizes. Even outside of the armor, he has the same bearing. She presses back into her bed, fear gripping her, before she forces herself to relax. He is almost certainly not here to kill her. And even if he were, she would face her death like a warrior, not a cringing slave. “What do you want?” she asks.

He lowers his head in a nod that she realizes actually contains some level of respect as he walks to her bedside. “I came to look in on your recovery, as it has come to my attention that you feel you were unfairly treated. And considering how our last session went, I felt it appropriate to audit my behavior as a teacher.” He looks her over clinically. Jian finds her eyes drawn to his chest, left bare by the loose, pleated pants and open-front robe he wears. Innumerable scars crisscross the skin, some merely thin lines, others jagged, twisted ridges that must have come from horrific injuries.

I think this is the only scene in the entirety of Silver, Ash, and Bone that Bealfor isn't wearing his armor. My personal take is that Ayslinn "informed" him that under no circumstances was he to show up to Jian's hospital room in his full incubus getup, but he normally hangs out in the buff if he's not armored, so this was the compromise.

Very proud of how the hair turned out in this one and also featuring the insignia for the Kabal of the Ashen Rose for the first time!

Lord Bealfor Vrash is an incubus klaivex and one of the characters in Silver, Ash, and Bone, my Warhammer 40k drukhari-focused fanfic. He serves as the archon's head bodyguard and is a continued source of grouchiness and snark.

#mird's art #warhammer 40k #drukhari #drukhari incubus #silver ash and bone

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usagimen · 9 months

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@grievice : "You don't have to hide them around me. The scars are just part of who you are, and I like all of what I see."

Tattered, in ribbons the flesh dangled, she touched her cheek && bore a snarl. A rabbit hearted girl, thunderous her heart would pound, like a war drum that refused to succumb. Deity, there was forewarning in the word alone, your first solo assignment - how exciting. As the summer slipped through her grasp, the shattering of her heart bore itself into several shards, each she wished to grasp && reclaim, haphazardly fixing them with gold. Every God needs their altar, a sacrificial lamb to please upon it, bled in an illumination of crimson, for second it appears like wine gathering in her palms, soaking the bindings. Godhood was merely girlhood, the suffering, sin && virtue, to be flayed without a moment of hesitation, the executioner && wayward daughter. Emerging, she holds the corpse of what was innocent && pure, crystalline tears that fall onto the soft white of her blouse, everything aches.

That is rebirth, sacrifice && tribulation, Goddess! Stronger than steel, unbending like iron, the shatter of storms - Goddess of the Feast who sups on the flesh of the divine. Glory was given in momentary sums, she flees without warning, the rabbit wishes to find a burrow && rebuke her newfound status. She’s dead, the rumors echoe, but hasn’t she always been? Between the cups of coffee && deep obsidian brews, there was a happiness that blossomed in her chest. From the withered cavern where her heart once reigned; sunflowers began to crawl towards the skies.

Rightfully, she wishes to howl in indignation, he should have never bothered to retrieve her. The age where they clambered together && her awestricken gaze was warmed with admiration now remained buried. Between her fingers the wooden stamp rolls, why keep something that cannot be? In serpentine tongues, voices murmurs, cursed to seek the endless horizons, cursed to be ripped from the daylight that bore the love of the wise moon, bride of winter, bride of shadows, isn’t fate a horrific thing? Her mind is a torrent of restless seas, colliding && clashing. “Huh….?” foolishly, she plays ignorant to Naoya's remarks. The typical tactic when she was corned, when her cruelty was drawn out, when she could not hide from the scathing of his gaze. “They make me nostalgic” with an idle shrug of her shoulders, melancholy begins to fill her, listless she tugs upon the warmth of her robes holding them in place. Beautiful, he utters it feverishly when her skin is set ablaze, tenderness that rips the seams apart && stitches them together again.

Love is agonizing, yearning that consumes the essence of her soul, she often regales the two star crossed lovers, tendrils of red held in hands akin to bouquet, waiting to be tossed. In another life, was she brave enough to discard the relic that has brought her agony? A name that bore no benevolence, an outlier who wept - if there was no blessing bestowed upon her, could he still love her? Beautiful, once more it rings within her mind, he would love her in full. “It’s rather difficult to constantly sum the energy up to hide such marks, expensive makeup does less, when I see each blemish - they remind me of failure” how could she be anything but meager? A Kobayashi was a blade, one that intervene when need be. Equalizing those who believed they were righteous && bringing forth balance, harmony, prideful smiles in their candlelit features declared. How could that be? When Sayuri was left behind && used for political gain, thrust into a land not of her own. She sets the seal down, “In fantasies, I think of that day where our union was made by the elders, in that instance, I should have swallowed my pride” reject everything, the God of Reverly’s gift, the name she was born to wear, the one gifted to her in hopes that generation worth of feuds could end.

“You were surprised when I refused to wear the title Zen’in, everyone else was horrified” she laughs, merrily with her calloused grasp clasping together. Home was not across the streams where beautiful beings whispered pleasantries, it was not amongst the hydrangeas && chrysanthemums, it was in a den of wolves that flashed their teeth. Who knew she was neither a rabbit or celestial being, but the beloved of Death himself, a bride unlike any other, monstrous && cherished. “It remains a fixture that I cannot escape, even now I still use the seal like an entitled wife that refuses to part with the decadence of her social standing - it’s tragic, isn’t it?” in one quick movement, she tugs upon him, just like in girlhood when her frame shook && she could not utter, I’m scared.

“This was not my desire, I rather be a bride of the abyssal shadows than a deity to be worshiped - take me home, where the song of our ancestral land sings to me once more, where I am safe && we are together again”

#––– ❛ answered ask 【 broken seals. 】#grievice #gore ///#gore ts #// idk this became unhinged the moment she realized y'know #// naoya's mother was right: the kobayashi's can be disgraceful enough few us have strayed #// sayuri vc: I'm over my past life #// also sayuri: steals a zenin seal / mauls everyone for playful cloud / misses drinking with her father-in-law #// ma'AM JUST GET FORMALLY MARRIED ???

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drwcn · 3 years

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I loved your fem lwj take on things. How would thibgs go if WWX was the lady? Other than ppl assuming she stood up for the Wens bcs she jad feelings for WN ( and that Yuan was hers)

Heyyy friend, I think I’ve seen a couple of girl!wwx fics floating around in ao3 so i certainly won’t be the first :P.

Also I completely misread your ask initially, I thought you were asking me what I think would happen if A-Yuan was WWX’s kid, and I was like oh?? But then I realize wait... I can make it worse.

Today, I decided that my mortal soul doesn’t matter, so here we go. Let’s see how accursed I can make this idea:

[1]

It started with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin had set out for the Burial Mount with the explicit goal of throttling speaking with Wei Wuxian, but what greeted him at the entrance of the “Demon Subduing Palace” — more of a cave than anything really — was not his martial sister, but Wen Ning. Well, what had once been Wen Ning.

Black veins ran across his pale, ashen face, down his equally ashen neck , and into the major veins beneath his clavicles covered by the collars of his black threadbare robes. Lifeless eyes, white as his skin, stared into a void the living could not see. There were talismans littering his body, and Jiang Cheng knew that when he spoke to this fierce corpse, he was not speaking to the young Wen boy, but to his mistress who controlled him with her demonic cultivation.

Wei Wuxian refused to face him. Refused him explanation. Refused him closure.

“Er-jie!” Jiang Cheng screamed into the stony expressionless face of Wen Qionglin. “If you continue to protect them, then I can’t protect you!!”

There was no response.

Suddenly, just as Jiang Cheng was about to kick and fight his way into the cave, Wen Ning thrusted out his right fist, and in his grasp was a piece of purple silk. Jiang Cheng unfolded the silk, vaguely recognizing that it had been cut from someone’s robe, and saw what was wrapped within was a slip of parchment.

割袍断义*, the paper read. Tell the world that I, Wei Wuxian, first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang has forever defected (Note: 割袍断义- to rip one's robe as a sign of repudiating a sworn brotherhood (idiom)).

With this, there was nothing left to say. Hurt and furious, Jiang Wanyin threw the piece of parchment onto the dirt ground, grinded his heel down on it, and left the Burial Mount without ever having drawn Sandu.

Inside the cave, Wen Qing held Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Why won’t you just tell him? He’s your brother; he can help you, you can —”

Wei Wuxian’s mile long stare seemed to be gazing at something — someone — very far away. Slowly, she placed her other palm over her belly, which horrifically was already starting to round out. “Nobody can help me now, Qing-jie.”

“I can,” said Wen Qing, blunt as ever. “I can make it go away, if you want.”

“No.” A droplet of tear escaped pass long lashes. “No.”

[2]

It continued with Jiang Cheng.

On a snowy night, the first winter after Wei Wuxian escaped with the Wen remnants to the Burial Mount, Jiang Cheng was rudely awakened from his slumber by a less-than-stealthy intruder breaking and entering into his bed chamber.

Zidian whipped through the air, lighting the room with her eerie violet glow, before the intruder could think to take one more step. It was a man, judging from his silhouette colliding against the wall and the pained groan he made in response. The very next second, the tail of Zidian coiled tightly around his neck and dragged him across the floor towards beneath Jiang Cheng’s waiting foot.

The Sect Master of Yunmeng Jiang summoned Sandu, ready to deliver the final strike, but just as his blade sailed towards the intruder’s chest, a pale arm jutted upwards, blocking Sandu’s descent and revealing a pale hand holding a … a...

Even in the dark, Jiang Cheng immediately recognized the mahogany comb.

“Jiang — ! Zongzhu —!” The man croaked out urgently, throat still stomped on by Jiang Cheng’s foot. It was - it was Wen Ning?!

Jiang Cheng looked him over. He was pale, yes, but his eyes appeared human. His hair was brushed and haphazardly done up in a farmer’s top knot. He was wearing farmer’s clothing too, probably more inconspicuous for travel than his Ghost General getup.

“Jiang-zongzhu! P—please!!”

No, impossible.

“Wei — Wei-guniang—”

Jiang Cheng lifted his foot and dragged Wen Ning up in a split second. “What’s wrong with Wei Wuxian?!” Wen Ning coughed and shook his head desperately. “No time to explain. My sister asked me to fetch you. Please, you have to come! Wei-guniang’s life is in danger! If you won’t come, I’ll...I’ll have to go to Gusu, and I don’t know if - if -”

Jiang Cheng followed Wen Ning.

For speed, they travelled by sword, but even so, dawn was breaking by the time they arrived. The crowd of Burial Mount’s villagers huddling anxiously outside of the Demon Subduing Palace parted for them upon their arrival. Jiang Cheng took a moment to gather himself and square his shoulders. Whatever it was; he was ready.

He was wrong. None of the dozens of scenario he had agonized over on the flight here could have prepared him for what awaited him inside.

Wen Qing, pale and drenched in sweat, was near complete spiritual collapse, and without Wen Qing’s spiritual energy sustaining her, the single tenuous thread by which Wei Wuxian’s life hung on would have undoubtedly snapped under the toil and devastation her body had been put through.

There was so much blood, so, so much blood everywhere, and amidst the blood, there was a baby.

Fuck.

Jiang Cheng transfused his sister half of his total spiritual reserve over the course of a day, while an exhausted but unrelenting Wen Qing worked diligently under blood-soaked sheets.

Then at dusk, when the storm finally passed, Jiang Cheng sat at the mouth of the cave with a tiny, perfect little human — a girl, a niece! — in his arms and cursed Lan Wangji’s name.

Wen Qing was extremely clear with them: 孩子要是留在这里，养不活。

If the newborn was left to be raised at the Burial Mount, she would not live. And so, because parting was inevitable from the start, Wei Wuxian adamantly refused to hold or nurse the child. Her child.

I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to let her go. Those dark eyes burned with more than just the delirium of her childbed fever. For once, Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to argue.

Thus, he took his niece home and named her Jiang Yan 江曕. The name was not his doing. His foolish, misguided, stubborn sister had stroked her daughter’s soft, baby cheek and whispered it to her as a farewell gift.

Yan - to be bathed in daylight. In the end, when given a choice, Wei Wuxian still opted for her child to walk on broad sunny road.

It made Jiang Cheng wonder why, then, she would choose the dark twisted path for herself instead.

[3]

It ended with Jiang Cheng.

The truth was simple: Jiang Wanyin killed his shijie Wei Wuxian. He did. He meant to.

He killed her. But that did not mean he wanted her dead.

In one day, he had lost both of his sisters, leaving two orphans in their wake. Jiang Cheng could not ignore the cruel irony of their fate: one’s father murdered by his aunt, and other’s mother murdered by her uncle.

This was the kind of tragedy fairytales were made of, and if there were anything left in him to shed tears over it, he would. Standing amongst Nevernight’s carnage, he could not dredge up even a single drop of tear.

Jiang Cheng didn’t know how he could return home to Lotus Pier to face that cherub face, always so happy, so sweet, so utterly untainted by the world. She had her mother’s smile. Yan'er was starting to learn how to speak. Her first words were da-da.

Da-da. Die-die. Father.

He was standing beside her father now.

Lan Wangji. Devastated. Destroyed. …Deceived.

Jiang Cheng hated him so much, so fucking much that for one insane second, he thought about telling Lan Wangji the truth just to see what would happen. Maybe he would run Jiang Cheng through with his Bichen - that would be a relief now, wouldn’t it? - or maybe he would jump after Wei Wuxian.

Truly, if he knew, he would. Jump, that is. Jiang Cheng was almost entirely sure. Oh the utter melodrama that would inspire indeed!

But then...

Wei Ying birthed you a daughter, a lovely, perfect, blessed little girl, and she carried that secret to her grave. I may be damned by my actions, but you, who have done nothing for her and taken everything, why should you deserve something as sacred as the truth?

Jiang Cheng turned away.

He was acutely aware that one day Jiang Yan may very well be the literal death of him. After all — 杀母之仇不共戴天 — one cannot tolerate living under the same sky as the murderer of one’s mother.

Be that as it may, he would raise Jiang Yan well, just as he promised. Unlike his sister, he would not break his word. Jiang Yan was of Lotus Pier, of Yunmeng, like her mother and grandfather before her. That for him, was enough.

Jiang Cheng clutched Sandu and gripped Zidian. Whatever his fate, he already made peace with it, and the rest was inconsequential.

One day, he may die, but today he lives, and so as long as he lives, Jiang Yan and all of Yunmeng Jiang will be protected . So as long as he lives, they will flourish.

[...and in between]

On the streets of Yiling, Lan Wangji tilted his head inquisitively at Wei Wuxian and the little boy at her side and asked, “This child, he...”

In response, Wei Wuxian patted her chest in a self-declarative kind of way and announced, “Oh this child, I birthed him!”

He stared at her in shell-shocked silence, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of but that’s impossible — that was just once — even if — the boy is too old to be —

“怎么，蓝湛，不要我们娘儿俩了？” What, Lan Zhan, you don’t want the child and I?

“Wei— Wei Ying—”

Then of course, she had laughed, and Lan Wangji thought no more of it.

Just a joke. A silly joke.

In time, he would come to realize his mistake.

~~~

[A/N]: I’m not even a little bit sorry.

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angryschnauzer · 3 years

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Blackwater Lake - Chapter 2

Summary: There’s a little town high in the mountains where everyone has a secret, and every family has something that makes them unique. In Blackwater Lake those that are outcast by nature come together.

Characters/Pairing: Vampire!Walter Marshall x Female Reader

Warnings (for this chapter); Talk of PTSD, Reader is ex police, Possible home invasion, NSFW sexy times, protected sex.

Previous Parts: Werewolf!Sy: Moonlight on the Sand Castle Under The Stars. Werewolf!Sy, Vampire!Walter: Chapter 1

This will be a series of stand alone stories/2 parters, which will revolve around the residents of the town, with some recurring characters. The ‘reader’ for each story will be a ‘new’ reader, so its not the same woman being with all the male characters.

I do not run a tag list, but please follow @angryschnauzerwrites and put that blog onto notifications. You’ll then get an alert every time i post something new.

Chapter 2

Walter had managed to recover from the shock of seeing his best friend and his wife being able to make their eyes glow, and as unbelievable as it sounded, had accepted their explanations of how they’d been turned into Werewolves. Much like his own knowledge of Vampirism before he had been turned himself, he quickly understood that what the media made these quirks of nature to be and what they actually were had been greatly exaggerated.

Sy had stayed up into the early hours of the morning with him, sharing the better part of a bottle of bourbon as he’d described how it affected their family, and how his wife only turned when her period coincided with a full moon, and how they dealt with childcare during the times that they would turn.

Walter woke with a start, the soft mountain light pouring in the windows and for a moment he was confused, not recognising his surroundings until he remembered spending the rest of the night on Sy’s couch. His mouth felt like something had crawled inside and died, and he swore in that moment not to share hard liquor with someone that could howl at the moon. Finding some painkillers high in a kitchen cabinet he crushed two between his teeth before drinking straight from the tap. Standing tall he moved his neck, trying to get the kinks and knots out of his muscles when a pair of fluffy slippered feet appeared in the doorway. Looking up Walter poorly suppressed a laugh as he saw Sy wearing a pair of sheepskin moccasins and what was obviously his wife’s robe;

“Reginald, you look stunning” Walter muttered as he watched his friend shuffle into the kitchen

Sy held up his finger and waggled it, wincing at the sunlight pouring in the window;

“Don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t call me that, the only people that call me that are the preacher or my Ma, and unless you’re planning on marrying me or making me biscuits...”

Walter laughed, leaning against the counter as Sy filled the coffee pot as if he was on autopilot, before reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out a baby bottle with the previous day’s expressing date on. Setting the bottle to warm in a bowl of water he handed Walter a tin of coffee;

“Fill that up, i’m gonna go get Luna”

A few minutes later he reappeared holding his little girl in his arms, wrapped in a soft blanket covered in moons and stars. Grabbing the bottle before settling at the kitchen table, he popped the lid off and shook the bottle, before lifting it and shaking a few drops onto his tongue, laughing when he saw Walters eyes go a little wide;

“Better straight from the source but Mama is sleepin’ so its me in Mama’s robe” he explained with a grin on his face. Walter placed a mug of steaming black coffee in front of Sy; “Thanks man… hey, in the fridge there’s a pint of pigs blood from Walkers Meats… ya’know, if you need it”

“Why have you got pigs blood?”

“The missus was gonna make some Scottish thing, some sorta sausage, but if you need it, we can always get another… in fact she’s gonna be too tired to use it before it spoils, what with the full moon and all...”

Sy turned his attention to his tiny daughter feeding in his arms, giving Walter the sense of privacy to do what he needed to do. As Luna finished her bottle Sy held her to his shoulder, rubbing her back until she let out a burp he would have been proud of himself, only looking up when he heard Walter also let out a low belch;

“You need me to rub your back too Walt?”

“Fuck off Sy” the vampire said lightheartedly, a sense of relief in his mind now that the guy that had become one of his best friends knew his secret.

Pulling the last crate of bottles off the back of the pickup you thanked the guy from the craft brewery and waved him off, taking a deep breath before slowly climbing the fire escape at the back of the bar that led into the storeroom. It had been a long shift already, starting at 10am you’d opened up and started the ovens, restocked the bar as the cleaners had come through and cleaned the place top to bottom. Your boss was always decent to his staff, paying a good wage and having the cleaning crew come in during the closed daytime hours rather than in the early hours of the morning.

Working around them as they did their job, you restocked the caddy’s on the tables with silverware, napkins, and condiments, before returning to the bar and checking on the ice machine.

“Hey we’re all done now” one of the cleaners said as you looked up.

“That’s great, thanks. You guys always make this place look good”

Chatting with them you walked them through the storeroom - something your boss always insisted on that any non bar staff had to be escorted through - before one reached for the wooden rail on the fire escape. Something made you stop talking and before you could stop yourself, one hand was pushing one of the guys back into the storeroom, the other was grabbing the shirt that was already standing outside. Just as you did the rail slipped away, as if in slow motion, the three of you looking in fear as the heavy wood crashed twenty feet below onto the empty kegs that were stored beneath.

Speechless you stood there, fingers still curled around the shirt of one, hand splayed across the chest of the other;

“Fuck” you whispered quietly, not to anyone in particular.

“You could say that…”

Having made sure both cleaning guys were ok, if a little shaken up, you made them leave by the front door then considered your options. Dialling the boss you weren’t surprised to hear it ring out before going to voicemail. He had strict downtime rules, and was more than likely out on his ranch land taking care of his horses. Knowing he trusted you to make the right judgement, you scrolled through your numbers and dialled Marshall’s Property Maintenance;

“Marshall’s, what can i do for you?”

“Hi, i’m calling from Big G’s Sports Bar? We’ve just had the handrail fall off our fire escape. Wondering if you’ve got space to fix it this afternoon?”

There was a pause before you heard a long exhale of breath;

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in twenty minutes”

“Thanks Walter”

Hanging up you smiled. You’d worked with Walter when you’d been on the police force, you’d been a patrol cop that would assist with crime scene control and you’d been first on the scene for countless horrific acts of violence. One final call had given you PTSD so bad you’d resigned, finding a home in the small town of Blackwater Lake and a steady job at Big G’s Sports Bar. Your boss was the big quiet type, liked to spend more time out on his ranch with his horse, having enough trust in you to run the day to day operations of the bar as his assistant manager.

It had been well past 9pm when Walter finished the repairs. Your boss had come in and helped him out when he’d got your text, leaving you in charge of the first few hours of opening. When the two men reappeared through the storeroom you smiled at them, getting ready for the evening handover before grabbing your coat and clocking off.

A few minutes later as you hopped off the last step of the fire escape onto the dandelion scattered gravel - your boss liked to let them grow - you smiled at Walter as he was loading his tools into his truck;

“Hey, thanks for today. Really saved our bacon… without the fire escape we wouldn’t be up to code so couldn’t have opened”

“S’ok. Glad you called” Walter admitted; “It’s been a while…”

Scuffing the gravel with your boot you swallowed the lump that was in your throat;

“How have you been? Since… ya know…”

“Alive. Wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t of been for you and your partner”

“We did what was needed… not every day you see va…” you stopped yourself, you still hadn’t completely come to terms with what you’d seen; “V...vagrants doing that… I’m just glad we got there in time…”

There was a moment of awkward silence before Walter rounded the truck and stood in front of you;

“Do you need a ride home? Your boss mentioned that you walk to work and you stayed late where he was helping me get this fixed”

“Thanks, that’d be nice”

Over the next few nights Walter would appear at the bar early evening, usually under the pretense of checking the work on the fire escape or dropping off the bill to the office, and you quickly clocked that he would always be leaving just as your shift was ending to conveniently give you a ride home. Not that you minded, the weather had turned unseasonably cool after the warmth of the parade weekend, so the casual conversation as he drove you home in the warmth of his giant truck was a good way to end the day.

As he rolled into the parking lot behind your apartment complex you wondered if you should invite him in for a coffee, but weren’t sure if you were reading his intentions correctly. Gnawing on your lip you reached into your pocket for your keys, smiling at Walter as he pulled the truck to a stop;

“There we go, home sweet home. Have a good night”

“You too Walter”

Stepping out you smiled and gave him a little wave, knowing he waited until you had gotten into your building.

Watching you go Walter cursed himself. When Rachel had left he’d been in the dumps even more than usual, but over the last few days he’d taken a shine to you. He was pretty sure you had clued onto the fact that he had always turned up around the time of your shift finishing, but when he’d found out from Geralt that your car had died and you couldn’t afford to repair it, he didn’t like the thought of you walking home alone. Sure Blackwater Lake was a sleepy little town, but keeping in mind what lurked in the woods - both natural and supernatural - he felt better knowing you’d gotten home. He had been sure you were going to invite him in for coffee tonight, but he’d gotten butterflies in his stomach and had blurted out a farewell before you’d had the chance.

Looking up at your apartment he let out a sigh.

Then… then something caught his eye. You hadn’t been in the building long enough for the shadow to be you, knowing you stopped to grab your mail each time you entered the building. Killing the engine he reached to the glove compartment for his gun - he still had a concealed carry permit - and raced to the building.

Juggling your mail and your purse, you held the letters in your mouth as you searched for the right key on your set when suddenly the sound of thundering footsteps made you spin around, your jaw dropping when you saw Walter appear from the staircase and running to your side. His hand was on your arm and he was pulling you to the side of your door before holding you to his chest;

“There’s someone in your apartment”

“What? No, i locked everything before i left… and there’s no sign of any damage to the door…”

Letting you go he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled for the sheriff, but as you listened in you could hear the volunteer dispatcher explain that both the Sheriff and the two deputies were out on the highway dealing with an 18 wheeler logging truck that had spun off on a bend. Walter cursed under his breath and hung up;

“Do you still carry?”

“No… not since…”

“Ok. Unlock the door and stay behind me”

The next minute seemed to last both seconds and hours, following Walter through your apartment until he silently pushed the bedroom door open with his gun;

“Freeze!”

The shape in the darkness didn’t move, and when you peered over Walters extended arm and you realised what he was looking at, you let out a sigh and flipped the lightswitch, the ‘threat’ suddenly illuminated and Walters shoulders dropping;

“Oh…”

Your spare uniform shirt was hanging on the frame to the window where you’d hung it earlier in the day so the sunshine would dry it. You let out a deep breath and laughed, resting your forehead against Walters shoulder;

“It’s just my uniform…” you hadn’t realised your voice was shaking until Walter turned and wrapped his arms around you

“I’m sorry i scared you”

Burying your face in the warmth of his sweater, your voice was muffled as you spoke;

“Its ok. I’d rather you have seen the mess in my apartment and saved me from an intruder than the alternative…” you smiled weakly at him, and it was then that the tension in the room was like static before a storm. Like the first lightning strike, when Walters lips touched yours it was as if electricity coursed through your veins, the kiss hungry and needy, contact between two touch starved people needing that connection. Your fingers curled in threads of his knitwear, pulling yourself closer as his arms wrapped around you and his hands splayed out over your ass, squeezing handfuls of flesh so he could pull you flush against his body. The kiss deepend and his tongue sought entrance between your lips which you eagerly granted. He tasted of coffee and peanut butter chocolate, and when he pulled away you were both gasping for breath.

“So, vampires do need oxygen then?”

“How do you…? How are you not scared?”

“Because i was there when it happened. And I've seen you hundreds of times since. I’ve seen you in the mirror, I've seen you outside in the sunshine, i’ve literally served you garlic bread…” you paused; “And i didn’t need to invite you in. Whatever myths are linked to your condition, i know the Walter behind them, i know the quiet and controlled Walter that assesses a situation and ensures everyone is safe…” you paused; “Because I know i’m safe with you”

Walter opened his mouth to speak, but the lump in his throat caught the words. Closing his eyes he rested his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath as you gently held his face in your palms, your thumbs softly caressing the skin of his cheeks where his beard ended. You pressed your lips to his, and this kiss was different, this kiss was full of passion, of acceptance and the growing need that was blooming.

Clothes were scattered as fingers and lips found each new patch of exposed skin, running your fingernails down his massive chest as you both fell to the bed, your fingers curling in the coarse hair that covered his chest before clutching at his belt as his teeth sharply ran over the line of your collarbone and you let out a gasp;

“More…”

“I… I’m not going to bite you…”

“I don’t want you to, but my neck is super sensitive, it's like my biggest turn on…”

At that moment Walter could feel the change, his eyes paling and his fangs growing more prominent as you watched from below him, but what he wasn’t expected was the groans that escaped your throat and the way your body shook;

“Did you just…?” he cocked an eyebrow, he already knew you’d just cum, but he wanted you to admit it.

“Yes, fuck yes, now i need more…”

With a growl he ducked his head down and peppered sharp kisses over your neck, hands working on each others jeans before you were able to kick them off. Your hands ducked into Walters pants and you grasped at his hard length, hot in your palm through his underwear;

“Oh fuck, you’re big…”

“Don’t worry, i’ll go slow… do you… do you have protection?”

“In the drawer”

He reluctantly pulled himself off the bed, and you propped yourself up on your elbows as he searched out the condoms, pulling the box out and swinging something else from his fingertips;

“These aren’t regulation edition”

The pink fluffy handcuffs had been a present a long time ago, and had somehow moved apartments with you;

“Next time…” you reached and grabbed them from him, tossing them aside before grabbing the box and a small foil packet, ripping it open with your teeth as Walter quickly shed himself of his boots and jeans, his dark boxers discarded as you reached for him and smoothed the latex over his fat dick.

He smoothed his hands down your legs, before tugging you down the bed and flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up until your ass was in the air. The rough brush of his beard against your soft inner thighs was quickly soothed by his tongue swiping a firm lick through your soaked folds. He took hold of your hips and you felt him move into position, the firm nudge at your entrance before with a low groan he speared you with the slow stretch of his girth.

“You feel so fucking good… so tight…”

Your fingers curled into the bedsheets and your jaw hung open, the sheer pleasure that was coursing through your veins felt like an elixir as Walter hammered into your tight velvet channel. The carnal slap of flesh on flesh resonating around the room, only joined by the breathless pants escaping your lips and the grunts Walter would let slip as he sought pleasure in your body with his own. He splayed his fingers over your back, running the palm of his hand up your spine until he was able to cup your neck and pull you up, flush with his heated body. His sharp teeth scraped over your neck, his beard rough against the etched skin;

“Look in the mirror. See how amazing you look”

Focusing your attention on the dresser mirror that stood in the corner, you watched as Walter continued to slowly rock his hips, fucking you slow and hard from behind. But it was his eyes that drew your attention, icy pools of white with deep obsidian pupils piercing the tundra, and the flash of danger from his sharp teeth at your neck, just catching on the skin as he spoke;

“You’re so fucking beautiful, dunno what i did to deserve you… will you cum for me?” he slid his hand down your stomach and in the patch of curls at the apex of your thighs, seeking out the sensitive pearl of your clit and rubbing the pad of his finger over it in firm circles; “Will you cum for me?” he repeated, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust of his hips.

“Yes… Walter, please…”

“What do you need…”

“My neck, please…”

Walter knew he couldn’t bite you, there were so many unknowns he’d never explored, but he closed his eyes and focused his energies on bringing you to completion. Thrusting his hips in time to the movement of his hand, whilst sucking a hickey onto your neck, knowing his teeth were rubbing against the skin but not breaking it. The triple stimuli sent you over the edge, your head rolling back onto his shoulder and your mouth open in a silent scream as you came so hard you saw stars, shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body as your walls gripped Walter tight, before with one final thrust you heard him growl as he came hard.

He held you for the longest time, your heart racing in your chest as echoes of your orgasm ricocheted through your body. As Walter started to soften you felt him hold the condom at the base of his shaft as he pulled out gently;

“Err… bathroom?”

“Just through there” you nodded to the door off of the bedroom as you fell to the bed, laying back with a smile on your face.

A few moments later he reappeared with a warm washcloth, first soothing your neck before tenderly attending to the mess between your thighs. After putting it back in the bathroom he appeared at the side of the bed, reaching for his jeans when you caught his wrist and pulled him onto the bed;

“You don’t need to go”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to overstay my welcome…”

“Look, unless you’re going to turn into a bat or something, you’re fine… we can talk, order some takeout…”

Wrapping his arm around your shoulders, you snuggled to his chest as he smiled sleepily;

“That sounds good. Can i take you out on a proper date at some point?”

“That’d be nice. Though our options are slim in this town, its only Sue’s Coffee Shop or Big-G’s Bar… unless you want to get a take-out pizza and sit outside on the kerb”

“I’ll cook, come to my place? What are you doing Friday night?”

“I’m off, but…”

“But?”

You felt your cheeks flushing with heat;

“I’m due on by the end of the week…”

“Oh. OH…” You looked up at Walter and saw a flush over his cheeks and his blue eyes glinting with excitement and a smirk on his lips.

“Oh… you’re into that?”

“You’re… not? Because i just want to say, i would happily give oral to my girl on her period even pre-vamp status…now its just…”

“A snack?”

He let out a low belly laugh;

“Yeah, you could say that”

Curling up to Walter’s chest you felt a sense of calm you hadn’t experienced for a very long time, the conversation flowing easily and long into the night, before you both fell asleep in each other's arms.

#walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #walter marshall smut #Vampire!Walter #henry cavill

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outofangband · 4 years

Text

little bird

OK so I had this hidden in my drafts for awhile but several people asked to see this. Regarding the creation of my little bird headcanons.

the original is over a year old (never published though) so I have to do some major editing because my writing back then wasn’t great. unfortunately it probably won’t be my best work in terms of writing but it should be very horrific!

Maedhros in Angband.

Warnings: rape, sedation/forced drugging, mention of medical abuse, brief choking, general themes of imprisonment and restraint.

(note at the end about use of Quenya and language in general)

masterlist of stories, masterlist

I’m hiding now!!!!

Melkor hadn’t necessarily been looking for an opportunity to play with the Fëanorian but of course he never exactly needed an excuse; He had entered his Lieutenant’s chambers to retrieve one of his schematics and immediately spotted the elf laying still on Mairon’s grand, perfectly made bed. The familiar twinges of combined lust and rage sparked in his eyes as he surveyed the son of his old enemy.

Melkor remembered vaguely that his prisoner had been given the lhong water the evening before for some offense or another, thus explaining the almost eerie lack of movement. Maitimo’s defiance had risen to a peak lately and he had caused injuries to several guards and servants. The Dark Lord had himself caused more severe injury to him than was perhaps prudent in the long term. As a result, He had consented to his lieutenant’s request to borrow the Noldo, presumably for various exercises and tests of procedures and substances (Melkor was still awaiting the latest report).

A silver chain around one of his ankles connected to the bedpost, clearly for decoration as the elf could not sit up, much less attempt an escape. Maitimo was dressed in a thin sleeping gown that fell to just above his knees. Neither Mairon nor Melkor cared much for the elf's modesty of course, so he assumed it was also for aesthetic purposes. The Dark Lord had given specific instructions regarding how his prisoner was to be treated while under his Lieutenant’s care and so there was little obvious injuries to be seen.

Fascinated, the Vala approached, wondering if the other could sense his presence. As he sat down next to him, Melkor could see the elf’s breathing, causing his chest to rise and fall rapidly despite no other signs of life. The schematics now forgotten, the Vala placed a charred hand over Maedhros’s heart, observing a sharp intake of breath, likely the only reaction he was capable of. Smirking slightly, Melkor lay down on his side, propped on his other hand so his taller form curled around the other’s. Not seeing any need to rush, he moved his hand to the elf’s back stroking slowly up and down his spine over the thin fabric. Maitimo’s breathing increased, coming out in short gaps, his fingers starting to twitch. Moving his other hand down, he lifted up the sleeping gown, tucking it around his neck, revealing the elf’s naked and scarred body before resuming stroking his back, enjoying the feeling of warm skin and the slight, quick movements of Maitimo’s form as he gasped in panicked breath. The past few times Melkor had acted upon this urge, the prisoner’s shock was too severe to register the wider range of implications of such a violation. But now, the tonic he had been prevented escape of either body or mind and Maitimo was now fully awake and alert, feeling the hands of the Dark Foe (the cold, sharpness of the uninjured one and the rough, almost warmth of the burnt one), his father’s greatest enemy, the reason for much of his grief, on his bare skin.

Melkor shifted slightly so he could pull the other closer to him. He had already started to loosen his jeweled belt before placing that hand on the elf’s shoulder. Maitimo’s breathing was so irregular, it came out in little whistling noises.

“My little bird,” Melkor crooned against the crook of Maitimo’s neck.

He placed an almost gentle kiss upon the elf’s shoulder, looking over his face. Maitimo was blinking repeatedly, his mouth slightly opened as he continued to gasp. Ruffling his short red hair, Melkor sat up for a moment and reached over to the nightstand where he knew his lieutenant kept various supplies. He looked over the labels for several bottles before choosing an herbal scented oil. He then lay back down next to the elf after parting his dark robes and allowing his breeches to slip down to his knees. Beginning to kiss Maedhros’s neck, he reached over him so he could see the Vala undo the top of the small glass bottle and pour a few drops onto his fingers. He placed one under the elf’s nose, smearing it across his cheek.

Behind Maedhros’s back, he dipped more fingers into the oil, seeing from the corner of his eyes that the other was crying. His blinking had increased and the sheets underneath him were wet with tears. The way Maedhros’s weeping caused his breathing to become even more rapid brought the first stirrings of desire to the Corrupted Vala’s body.

As usual such sensations brought with it pangs of rage at the reminder of the unnatural permanence of this physical form. Fingers now covered in the warm, scented oil, Melkor once more trailed his hand down the elf’s back, pausing as he reached the area just above his thighs to feel Maedhros’s panic course through his body. Sighing, he held the still body closer to him as he slipped a first finger inside. Maedhros yelped softly but could manage no other reaction. Even as a second one was added, he could only gasp in horror and shock, and wait for it to be over. Melkor kept this position for over three minutes as he used his other hand to create oiled streaks over himself. He did not want Maedhros to bleed too much, knowing that Mairon would be angered if the sheets were permanently destroyed. Finally removing the two fingers, he placed his hands once again on Maedhros’s shoulders, stroking lightly over the bruises there as he pressed up against the other, now fully aroused

The elf’s terror was clearer than before, his breathing once again so off rhythm his gasps came out sharp and high pitched. Melkor ignored this and pressed down on the elf’s shoulders as he entered his body, giving the other little time to adjust, even if he could have.

Once in a more comfortable position, Melkor moved his hands down to rest on either side of Maedhros’s hips so he can more easily adjust and move him as he desired. The Vala kisses his back, under his neck and over his ribs gently; Maitimo’s fingers twitch again and the tips curl around whatever folds of the sheet he can manage to hold onto. Melkor can feel small shudders run through his left side, indicating maybe that the poison was wearing off. He thrust again, rocking Maitimo against him, intrigued by the near convulsive movements. A strangled gasp combined with another yelp of pain made the Vala press his lips against the elf’s pulse for a moment. It was quick and irregular but with no sign of fading, he didn’t see any particular reason to stop. Besides, Mairon would be back soon and had the tools to heal his prisoner if necessary.

Indeed, he could already feel the Maia’s presence drawing towards the chambers as He continued, resisting the temptation to restrict Maitimo’s breathing further. Another time.

Mairon entered in time to see his Master reach his completion, biting the elf’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood as his body straightened out. Maitimo was shaking violently, every other minute or so his limbs would jerk out in almost seizure like movements.

“My sweet little bird” Melkor murmured, fond of this new term of endearment as the Maia, torn between amusement and irritation sat next to his master and prisoner, waiting somewhat impatiently for the Vala to remove himself from Maedhros and get up. He finally tapped he other’s shoulder as Melkor continued the touch the elf, now mercifully in a state closer to unconsciousness. Sighing, he got up to face his lieutenant, an unapologetic look of pleasure still on his face.

Mairon predictably gestured to the small pool of blood between Maedhros’s legs, dripping onto the sheets.

“I will have them washed,” said Melkor boredly, “But he is mine regardless.” Mairon glared at him already beginning the process of cleaning the fabric with a small wave of his hand.

“He is yours but this room is not” the Maia murmured, letting his eyes roam over the prisoner’s body, presumably for any hidden injuries.

“So be it,” said Melkor indulgently, before remembering what he had initially entered the room for and cursing softly.

Author’s note: lhong water is something I invented. Lhong is the Quenya word for heavy so that’s probably how Maedhros knows it instead of like, the actual name? There are many words in Quenya for small bird or little bird but it’s possible Melkor is using either his own language or the Valarin one.

Oh feel free to see this headcanon here too! It deals with a graphic question someone had about the technicalities.

Second Author’s note: hiding now goodbye

#Maedhros #Melkor #Morgoth #Mairon #The Silmarillion #Sauron #In the Iron Hell #short writings #blind you be morgoth bauglir #the hidden hours #subtle be my blade

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oloreaa · 4 years

Text

Vencuyanir Ch. 7 - The Imperials

Summary: They are handed over to the Imperials

Words: 5.8k

Warnings: canon-typical violence, distress, angst, separation from their children, (implied) prostitution, non-explicit mentions of sexual harassment/assault (but nothing happens), getting drugged

Notes: Thank you SO much @over300books for looking over this, you´re the absolute BEST!! I cannot state how grateful I am for you

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When Elana came to herself after a while, it was with the mother of all headaches. Groaning as she tried to prop herself up, clutching the edge of the sink, she did her best to become a bit more coherent.

Washing her face with the ice cold water in the sink, she flinched at the sting in her eyes. Looking up into the small mirror cabinet, she winced at the puffiness of her eyes, how prominent the bruises under them were. Her dark hair was a mess, tangled with knots and flyaway hairs sticking up. She loosened her braid, trying to comb it through with her fingers and get some resemblance of order. She did not bother braiding it neatly against her scalp again. Pressing ice cold fingers against her face, she was able to de-puff it a bit, making herself a bit more presentable. Elana wished that she had some of her old stuff that she had left on Arvala-7 back, something to give her a bit of comfort, to help her feel more put together.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she had to blink several times to stop the tears that threatened to well up again. She felt so useless, so weak in the face of what was to come.

Suddenly, something flickered across their bond. Bean was searching for her. He was pushing pictures at her of him in the cockpit, the glint of the beskar helmet from his point of view, and the blue streaks of hyperspace. The left seat behind the pilot's was empty.

Elana blinked, and was seeing herself in the mirror again. Staring at the reflection, still looking tired and scared but not as wrecked as a few minutes earlier, she sighed deeply.

Time to go.

Smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt, dusting off her pants and adjusting the belt, she did her best to loosen her body, stretching some, waking herself up a bit. Retying the laces on her leather boots and combing her hands through her hair again, she opened the door of the fresher. Peeking out cautiously, the cargo bay was the same as the night before, just missing the pram and the Mandalorian.

Looking at the ladder that went up into the cockpit, she grasped the rungs and pulled herself up. Getting into the cockpit, she saw the blue swirls of hyperspace through the viewport, cruelly beautiful for what was lying behind it.

Elana moved quietly and walked to the right co-pilot seat and looked into Bean’s pram. He looked up at her, ears perking up and he smiled brightly, cooing at her. The helmet of the Mandalorian did not move an inch.

"Morning, honey," she whispered to Bean as she stroked his ear, marvelling again at the softness of his skin. She could not help but smile, wrinkling her nose at him as she squatted down to be at the same height as him.

She distantly noticed that the bounty hunter had turned his head, and was now watching them. Elana ignored him, and took Bean into her arms. It was unfair how cute he was. He tried to grab at her hand, patting at her clumsily, eyes wide and full of love. Briefly pressing her forehead to the little one's, brows drawn together, she then placed a kiss on his fuzzy head.

"Today's a big day," she told him, a slight tremble in her voice, "You have to behave all day, all right? You‘ve got to listen to what I say, mhm?"

Bean cooed at her, patting at her cheeks.

"Dropping out of hyperspace in a minute," the warning of the Mandalorian shattered the moment. Elana just nodded, and resisted the urge to glare at him as she carefully put Bean back into the pram.

Getting to her seat and sitting down gingerly, she stared into the tunnel of blue and white swirls, and watched them leave hyperspace.

The planet in front of them was dark grey, with red veins bleeding through the surface, grey clouds swirling in the atmosphere. It looked as foreboding as she would have expected, and some part deep in her scoffed at the almost theatrical suspense that started to build up.

Nails biting into her palms painfully, Elana clenched her hands so tight she was surprised the skin did not break. She looked at the planet in front of them, growing larger by the second.

So, this is it.

That was Nevarro.

That was where the Mandalorian would hand them over to the clients.

Elana did not know exactly what the Imperials wanted Bean for, but every scenario she came up with was more horrific than the last. They could possibly turn him into a weapon with the abilities he possessed, and if he was not capable of reaching the expectations they had set, simply get rid of him. Elana could see Bean trying to climb out of his pram, and gave a start before watching him carefully.

Meanwhile, a hologram message was opened by the Mandalorian, the static fuzzing the blue-tinted figure that appeared. It was of an older, dark skinned human, wearing a coat that looked expensive, a big smile on his face, visible even from where she was sitting.

"Mando!" He greeted, "I received your transmission. Wonderful news." The Mandalorian's helmet turned towards it more, giving the pre-recorded message his full attention.

"Upon your return, deliver the quarry directly to the client. I have no idea if he wants to eat it or hang it on his wall but he's very antsy. Safe passage. You know where to find me."

While listening to the man speak, her fists clenched so hard that her nails left deep indentations in her palm, the sharp pain of it making her inhale sharply.

The Mandalorian turned around at the noise, and gave her a once-over. She glared into space, not even giving him the satisfaction of seeing her look back.

"He won't eat the asset," he tried to assure her, but the undercurrent of uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. Elana ignored the bounty hunter, and glanced at Bean.

Bean was unscrewing the silver knob of the lever on the right of the Mandalorian, and started to chew on it. Shiny! he was thinking, delighted with the way it reflected the light.

Good Bean, she sent to him, smiling grimly, the pettiness in her overwhelming.

But the Mandalorian caught sight of what the baby was doing, and extracted the silver knob from him.

Elana noticed how gentle he was with Bean, but what did that matter? Was being nice to a child that he was going to be delivering to death somehow a redeeming quality?

"It's not a toy," he told him, placing the silver knob on the headboard before picking Bean up by the nape of the oversized robes he wore and carefully placing him back into the pram. Bean whined at the loss, and looked to her, eyes pleading and lower lip trembling. She could feel over the bond how much he liked that silver ball.

"He said no, honey," she answered, leaning towards the small child. His ears drooped, and he pouted, completely adorable.

The ship angled itself differently and began the descent into the planet's atmosphere, the dropping altitude mirroring the sinking feeling in Elana's chest.

It took another hour, the Razor Crest battling against the air resistance of Nevarro, and Elana took Bean into the hull, unwilling to spend more time in the presence of the Mandalorian than necessary.

The little green child was sitting on her lap, playing with the end of her hair. She carefully brushed out the strands, gently undoing any knots while humming a song to calm Bean. He was starting to feed off her anxiety, becoming more fussy by the minute.

Pinning her hair up, figuring that loose hair and flyaways would not help her in any case, Elana tried to control her shaky hands.

She felt her control over the situation slipping through her fingers like quicksand, and the more desperately she reached for it, the quicker the quiet moments before the storm seemed to pass.

The ship landed with a thud. Her chest felt like it was caving in, hollow and numb and a deep panic started to spread. Bean patted at her thighs, looking up at her. Elana tried to give him a smile, but knew deep down that it was so wobbly that even Bean would know that something was wrong.

Shortly afterwards, the Mandalorian dropped down from the cockpit, almost completely silent. His helmet tilted towards her, and he gave a jerk of his head.

"Time to go," he told her.

"Are you really gonna do this?" Elana asked, her whole body trembling.

"Yes." His voice was flat, without any kind of emotion.

"Can we make a deal?" Desperation filled her voice, tasting sour, "Please, is there anything I can do?" She felt her body shake, but gathering all her courage, she looked him straight into the visor.

"Don't try it." His voice was cold, and he simply tilted his head.

Swallowing down her humiliation, she jutted her jaw. "I would let you do anything to me," she whispered, feeling hot tears burn behind her eyes as she fought to keep her eyes on his helmet, "Anything, as long as you don't hand him over."

He was silent, and she tasted blood on her tongue, having bit down too hard, ears rushing, feeling faint. She readied herself for his answer, determined not to cry.

"No deal," he said quietly, not moving an inch. Even though her heart dropped with relief, the last offer she could have made him was now out of the question.

Elana could not keep the bite out of her voice when she snapped at him. "Mandalorian, I beg you," she tried to ignore how dangerously choked up she was beginning to sound, "Bean is just a child, please, don't."

Bean babbled at her, feeling her anger and fear through their bond, and tugged at her shirt.

The Mandalorian stepped closer and loomed over her, simply tilting his visor down. "No deal," he repeated, voice firm.

She shrank back, fear and disgust building up in her in equal measure.

"You have no honour," she said, desperately trying not to cry, "You have no honour if you hand Bean over."

"Are you done?" His voice was as cold as ice.

"Not in the slightest," she hissed, lip curled in a snarl as her entire body burned, white hot anger coursing through her.

He simply looked her in her face, beskar helmet menacing. "I don't care."

"You know that you killed him, right?" Elana spat, tears in her eyes, "Bean's death will be on you."

He said nothing, just pushed a button on his vambrace, lowering the ramp of the Razor Crest, before harshly cuffing her already injured wrists together. She did not hide her wince at the rough treatment, but stared at the ground, unwilling to give the Mandalorian even more satisfaction at seeing her in pain, humiliation and despair cresting over her like a tidal wave.

Seething silently, she stepped after him.

The sunlight from outside was blinding, and she had to squint as they descended, the ramp folding itself up behind them while the Mandalorian set off, taking a sharp turn to the left. Elana kept up, but it was a difficult thing as his gait was quick and purposeful. On their right another ship was landing, the wind that resulted from it whipping in Elana's face, and a distressed coo from Bean made her look over. His eyes were big and worried, his ears flapping in the wind. He knew that something was wrong.

Trailing after the Mandalorian, she took in the sights of Nevarro. The diffused light through the covered sky and the bare rock on the ground gave the place a cold feeling, not eased by the grey housings and stone structures around them.

The air smelled of sulfur and ash, dried magma, making her suppress a gag. It was surprisingly cool for a lava planet, the breeze cold enough to make goosebumps rise on her skin.

There were some colourful bursts of orange and red stall coverings, but the contrast washed out the rest even more. Dust was in the air, smoke and steam rising from the houses, swirling up by the masses of people in the town itself. A big main street was framed by a stone pillar gate, weathered and missing pieces, towering above them, about ten times taller than Elana herself.

The people in the main square were from everywhere; she could see Jawas, Twi'leks, different droids, Humans, Kiffar, and countless other species. Noises filled the air, different stalls showcasing various wares, droid chatter, yelling by vendors, conversations between different individuals, all overlapping to a symphony of sounds that did nothing to calm Elana in the slightest. Bean made a loud noise, turning his head towards the Mandalorian and giving him a questioning look. Elana clenched her jaw as he did not even turn his head towards the child, but kept on walking straight ahead, the cold light of the sun reflecting off his helmet and pauldron.

Bean's ears lowered, an undercurrent of fear thrumming through the bond, too many new sights and noises all at once, and no comfort was to be taken from the Mandalorian.

She tried her best to send back some reassurance but she was as scared as he was. And he knew that, could feel it, his fear wrapping around her heart, as hers did around his.

Taking a few turns away from the main street, they arrived at a staircase that descended into a sketchy looking alley. The tall walls of the buildings around them made it feel like they were caged in, nowhere to go. Elana wanted to start to beg, make offers, trying anything if it meant that he would change his mind. But there was no negotiating with him, he proved that.

"Please," she choked out, looking at him imploringly, but he ignored her.

The Mandalorian knocked on a door on the right of them, and a sensor droid shot out of the hatch next to it, a big singular red eyeball knob, gargling a language she could not understand. The little one jumped and made a scared noise, and Elana instinctively put herself in front of him, shielding her Bean.

Holding out the fob in his right hand, the Mandalorian let the sensor droid scan it, and after a short exclamation, the droid folded back into the building again.

Bean garbled a questioning noise, looking towards the Mandalorian, and then to her, and she held out her hand, tracing his ear carefully in reassurance.

Then, stormtroopers stepped out, and Elana's heart skipped a beat. Their white armour was battered, rust starting to creep onto the white paint, adding to the grotesque look the stormtroopers were already sporting. The Mandalorian turned to look at them, and visibly hesitated. Elana's heart was beating so fast in her chest she started to feel slightly faint, her breath becoming quick, panic visible on her face. Bean was whining low in fear, so quiet only she could hear it, due to her laser focus on him.

This is it.

They entered the building.

The stormtroopers led them in, one in front, and one in the back. They were caging the Mandalorian, Bean and her between them. The door closed.

Elana closed her eyes, taking in a deep shuddering breath as she set one foot in front of the other.

No way back.

One of them yanked at the pram, startling the child, who squeaked in protest. Elana gave a start but before she could say anything, the Mandalorian cut in, voice tense.

"Easy with that," he said, earning a scoff from the stormtrooper.

"You take it easy," he mocked, amusement in his voice.

Elana looked to the ground, trying to keep her cool. Her heart beat fast in her chest, her throat felt as it was being choked, blood rushing in her ears. She was terrified.

When the door swished open, revealing a large room, the beeping of a tracking fob filled the air.

The room was as desolate as Nevarro itself, a grey, unadorned duracrete warehouse with loose crates strewn around, some windows with closed blinds in the back, a big table and three chairs smack in the middle of it. There were two men, one an old man, dressed in dark, expensive garments and a signet of the Empire hanging around his throat. The other, younger, had dark hair and a beard, wearing glasses as well as a white uniform with dark pants.

The Imperial was approaching fast, a manic look in his eyes and glee on his face.

"Yes," he said, coming closer, approaching fast, "Yes, yes, yes."

They both peered into the pram.

"Yes," the old man hissed, looking at Bean.

The younger man scanned the child with a red blinking device, Bean whimpering against the bright light, and he was positively giddy as he announced that Bean was healthy. Then, he turned to Elana, and a look of confusion was on his face.

"Who is this, Mandalorian?" he asked, and scanned her as well.

The red light hurt her eyes, but she did not flinch as she stared at the ground.

"Its caretaker," the Mandalorian replied, making a gesture to the pram. The man hummed, and nodded after he completed the scan.

"She is healthy as well," he said, before offering a friendly smile, "We will have good use for her." Elana could not help the shiver that ran down her back when those words were issued, and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Now it was settled. Before, she did not know for certain how her fate will be. Now, it was with the Imperials. She refused to panic even more, it would not help her in the slightest.

"Your reputation was not unwarranted," the old man said, sounding smug, watery eyes sliding over her before fixing on the Mandalorian.

"How many fobs did you give out?" the bounty hunter asked, voice tense, and Elana resisted the urge to sneak a look at him, but stared hard at the ground instead, shoulders set back and back straight.

The Imperial exhaled, and his Core World accent was pronounced as he said: "This asset was of extreme importance to me. I had to ensure its delivery."

His head turned in their direction, and she could almost feel how his gaze swept over her and Bean.

"But to the winner-," he announced as he tossed the fob onto his desk. The Imperial lifted a grey camtono with little difficulty from beneath the desk, and placed the payment for Bean on the surface with a hard thud, "go the spoils."

Pressing a few buttons, the camtono opened with a hiss. The Mandalorian gave a start, and began to walk towards it, Bean and her forgotten.

Elana lifted her gaze, and froze when she took in the stacked ingots that were inside. Was that some kind of precious metal? Why was that a payment?

But as the Mandalorian approached the table and inspected the ingots, the reflection of them in the light made her heart skip.

Beskar. Those were beskar ingots.

It was a huge sum, Elana realized, and the way the Mandalorian had tried to keep them safe suddenly made more sense. A lot more sense.

He was going to get a reward that would make him the richest man in the parsec, of course he would not risk them getting hurt, of course he would want to ensure that he would get the full reward.

Bean and her lives were being traded away for a stack of beskar.

Rage started to boil in her, but she kept her mouth shut, biting hard enough on her tongue that she tasted blood.

He was going to give the most beautiful child away to the Empire for riches.

"Such a large bounty for such a small package," the old Imperial said, a smile on his face, and when Elana met his gaze, his smile became mocking. Her nails dug into her palm, and the skin broke once again, warm blood seeping out the indentions in her trembling palm.

The dark haired man pressed a button, and Bean's pram started to float towards him, and Elana instinctively took a step after Bean. With a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, the man gestured for her to follow him, and she did.

She had no other choice.

With a final look back, she stared at the Mandalorian, feeling numb. He stared back, visor trained on her.

"I hope you rot," Elana whispered, tears gathering in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. The bounty hunter stood, so still she thought him a statue.

Turning away, legs feeling like lead, she went after the pram, following it as it floated into the next room, away from the Mandalorian.

Bean was sitting sideways, little claws on the edge of his pod as he cooed loudly, calling out to the Mandalorian, voice reflecting his fear. Her nails digged into her skin even more, the sharp sting almost making her gasp. Elana could not bear the sight, would not turn around to the man who had effectively killed them. She could not. If she looked back, she would cry.

Bean's ears lowered when no answer came, and he scrambled into the back of his pram as the door shut behind them with a hiss.

Elana closed her eyes and bit down hard on her bottom lip, feeling the prick of tears as she took a deep breath.

The man smiled at her as she opened her eyes again, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Take a seat, please," he said, gesturing to a small table with two chairs standing next to it. There was a metal carafe and two glasses positioned on it, as well as a clipboard with some documents. She did as he said, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pants, ignoring the two stormtroopers in the corner of the room.

"Terribly sorry about the inconvenience, Miss," he said, "I am Dr. Pershing. If I may ask, what is your name?"

She looked at him warily. "What will you do with the information?" Elana asked, voice quiet, eyes never leaving the dark haired man.

Pershing shuffled slightly, "We will not do anything with it, per se, but it will make things easier, you understand?" Even if he was not threatening in the slightest and did not feel dangerous at all, he unnerved her. Why would he bother being friendly? Was that just who he was, or did he have some higher plan? Was he trying to gain her trust?

"Elana Lissiri," she stated, observing his reaction. There was no recognition in his eyes.

A good sign, she thought to herself.

"All right, Miss Lissiri, you are the Asset's caretaker, as I understand it?"

"Yes. What are your plans for him?" With every word, her voice became steadier, and she was now fixing the doctor with an icy glare. Bean was observing them with big eyes, deathly silent. The anger in her started to swell again, because Bean was scared. And she would not stand for it. Now, she was the only thing standing between the Imperials and her child, and she would die before letting anything happen to him.

"Oh, nothing like you fear, I assure you," he said, "Just a few tests we need to make, nothing big, and nothing dangerous."

He fixed her with an earnest look, and she must have still looked skeptical enough for Pershing to start talking again.

"To be entirely honest, Miss Lissiri, I abhorred the way we had to retrieve you, but it was necessary to get you to Nevarro as fast as we could."

"Why?" she snapped, not caring at all that she was impolite, "Why send bounty hunters after him?"

Dr. Pershing looked very uncomfortable, his eyes flickering around the room, not meeting her gaze.

"It was the fastest way, and the most secure one," he tried to say, but Elana pressed on. "Do you know how many times he," she pointed to Bean, whose ears lowered in response, "has been in mortal danger?" Elana started to get truly angry, and her hands clenched into fists once more. Not even caring that the skin was now bloody and painful to the touch, she shook in her seat, all the built up fear cresting over her like waves on a shore.

"That Mandalorian dragged us through conditions that could have easily killed him! He risked dehydration and starvation, not having enough protection from the heat, from the cold-", at these words, she had to take in a deep breath to control the sob that threatened to escape her throat.

She tried to start again, noticing Pershing's concerned look, and somehow, that was too much. Bringing up all the danger they had been through since the cursed Mandalorian had killed all the Niktos in the encampment made her realise how many times she could have lost Bean. How many times she had been in danger as well, how many times the only thing that kept her whole was decided by the bounty hunter who had brought them here. How he could have easily hurt her, hurt Bean. And now she would definitely lose Bean to the Imperials because of him.

She tried to fight it with all her might, but Elana started to cry again, tears welling up and rolling down her cheeks. Burying her face in her hands, she muffled her sobs as Pershing reached out hesitantly and patted her shoulder. Elana had half a mind to shrug him off but the other part of her was simply too distraught to think coherent thoughts.

"I'm sorry that you had to go through that, but be assured, we will not harm the two of you."

Lie.

It shot through her like a lightning bolt, everything in her screaming against it.

Elana looked up and into Dr. Pershing's eyes.

He may say that but he does not believe it himself, the warning told her.

He smiled at her, and cleared his throat. "We need to do certain check ups on both of you to ensure that you are both functional," he said, "May I start with you?"

What could she do? Say no? Not likely. So she nodded, and stood up.

The man started collecting some different measuring tools, and started the check up. A flashlight was held into her eyes, and her hearing and reflexes were quickly inspected. The doctor was a complete professional, but still, her skin crawled every time he had to touch her physically in some way.

Bean was looking at her with curiosity and concern in equal measures, and she did her best to send some reassuring thoughts across the bond. But it had no use. Bean knew that something was wrong, he knew that she was scared, which made him even more scared as well. After she had been deemed fit enough for Imperial standards in addition to the scan they had given, it was Bean's turn.

He whined every time Dr. Pershing touched him, checking his ears, his eyes, looking at his claws and teeth.

Bean tried to bite him but the doctor was faster, and from the impatient huff he gave Elana knew that if she was not there, hovering over his shoulder and watching like a hawk, he would have punished the child one way or another. "Shush, baby," he murmured every few moments, as if that would calm him down.

Bean frowned, his mouth downturned, and scooted away from the man, towards the back of the pram, but to no avail, the doctor simply grabbed him and pulled him out.

"Hey," she protested, stepping forward, but one of the stormtroopers grabbed her arm, keeping her in place.

"Dispose of the pod, please," Dr. Pershing said to one of the stormtroopers, and with a nod, the pram trailed behind the man as he left the room.

Bean was struggling in his grasp, little legs kicking and arms flailing, and Dr. Pershing had to adjust him several times.

"Careful, please," Elana pleaded, already taking a step towards them, but the doctor moved towards a device with a huge droid floating above, laying Bean down on the slab beneath it. The small one wriggled and tried to turn on his belly, but with one well placed palm on his body, Dr. Pershing stopped his efforts. He turned his head to Elana, struggling to move towards Bean despite the grip of the stormtrooper on her, desperation on her face.

"I'm sorry, but you cannot be in the room for this procedure," Pershing said with what looked like genuine regret in his eyes, and pressed a button.

"Wait, why?" She asked, in half a mind to tear herself away from the stormtrooper, take the doctor by his uniform and shake him, any pain and punishment be damned. Another door behind her opened, and two different stormtroopers came in.

"Please take Miss Lissiri to operation room two," he requested, and the stormtroopers stepped closer to Elana.

Heart beating fast in her chest, she looked at them frantically. "What are you going to do to him?" Elana asked, an undercurrent of panic in her voice. The stormtrooper already holding her passed her over, and the other ones grabbed her arms, and she started to struggle against them. "Let me go!"

Bean cried out, his hands reaching towards her from his spot. A high whine came out of his mouth, and Elana knew that he was close to crying.

They started to pull her backwards, and Elana dragged her legs, trying to stay on the spot, giving all her strength. "What are you going to do?"

Doctor Pershing just pushed his glasses up his nose, and folded his hands in front of him.

The tug on her body became stronger, and she started to kick and twist her body, "Don't hurt him," she pleaded, arms at an uncomfortable angle behind her as she leaned forward, legs scrambling for purchase against the ground, "Please, don't hurt him!"

Bean shrieked loudly, eyes clenched shut, and she felt a tug, enabling her to get a few steps closer to him before the stormtroopers caught her again.

They dragged her out of the door, and there was nothing she could do as they gained a good hold on her, the struggle not even helping much anymore. Bean started crying, she could hear and feel it across the bond. He was scared, so scared.

"Bean!" she screamed his name, kicking out and thrashing like a wild animal, "Bean!"

The crying became louder, and there was a loud crash, like everything in that room had been pushed at the same time, a wave coming from Bean, before it cut off. The bond between them suddenly dimmed, his side becoming fuzzy and unclear. The last thing that came through it was him wanting to be in her arms.

"Bean!"

Dropping to her knees, desperately trying to crawl forwards, to get back into the room, the two stormtroopers grunting at how hard she was resisting.

"Bean!"

"Shut up," one of them told Elana while yanking her back.

"Let me go, please, I have to get to him," she pleaded, tears blurring her view, "Please, please."

They successfully got her down the hallway, into another dark room, and with a lot of effort, heaved her onto a table of sorts.

Elana trashed against them, shouting herself hoarse. "Let me go!" She repeated again and again, giving all her strength to escape, but they were too strong and strapped her down onto the table. She twisted, the straps digging into her skin, and Elana knew that if she survived until tomorrow her entire body would be covered in bruises. The stormtroopers’ chests were heaving when they stepped back, Elana finally secured on the desk.

"Wonder if that Mando had such difficulties with her," she could hear them say.

"Y'know, he probably liked pinning her down. Enjoyed some struggling."

They laughed, the sinister sound making her skin crawl.

She tried to move some more, wriggling desperately, but to no avail.

"Stop that, stupid bitch," the other one snarled at her, pushing her onto the table roughly by her shoulder, making the back of her head connect harshly with the table surface.

Blinking at the sudden dizziness, she gasped, clenching her eyes shut at the pain.

The door suddenly swished open, and Dr. Pershing came into sight.

"What have you done with him?" Elana yelled at him, voice thick, tears in her eyes.

He did not answer, simply gave a thin smile before going over to a cabinet at the side, taking out a syringe filled with a clear fluid.

"I sincerely regret the circumstances, Miss Lissiri, I truly do," he said, before shrugging slightly, "But since you're so... unwilling to cooperate, maybe this will help."

Elana thrashed against the straps, trying to get away from the syringe in his hands. Panicked sounds were leaving her without her consent, high and pitiful noises that she did not know she was capable of making.

"No, don't, please," she begged, eyes starting to burn with unshed tears, "Just tell me what you did to him, I'll cooperate, please." Choking back a sob, she watched as the man lined the syringe up with her forearm.

"Please, don't, please."

When he injected her, it burned.

Elana seized up, a scream building in her throat, though nothing but a whimper escaped.

The world turned blurry. She did not know if it was because of her tears or whatever was now inside her body.

The blood rushing in her ears was deafening.

Her heart beat so fast she felt faint.

"She'll be calm for a few hours," she heard Dr. Pershing say, but it was as if it came through a cotton wall, "Behave yourselves."

Elana's eyes slipped shut.

The world turned dark.

……………

Thank you for reading!!

#the mandalorian #pedro pascal #din djarin #din djarin x oc #baby yoda #vencuyanir #oloreaa writes

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misssophiachase · 4 years

Text

All You Never Say - Part 4a

Mr Mikael and Mrs Esther Mikaelson and Dr Grayson and Mrs Miranda Pierce request the pleasure of your presence at the wedding of their children:

The Hon Elijah Edward Mikaelson and Dr Katherine Elena Pierce

On the twenty-third of June, twenty-twenty one, 1400h at Ely Cathedral followed by a reception at Mikaelson Manor, Ely Cambridgeshire

Dress: White Tie

23rd June 2021, Mikaelson Manor, Ely Cambridgeshire - 8:47am

“What do you mean the beagle ate the wedding cake?” Caroline hissed, shutting the door behind her so as not to alarm the bride on her big day.

“Well, I can detail the stages of destruction, but yes, the Mikaelson's beloved pet dog decided to taste test the cake early, long story short.” Caroline was certain that the housekeeper’s use of “the Mikaelson’s beloved pet dog” was clearly by design.

Caroline was all for adorable dogs, especially those that were photogenic for the wedding album like Tully, but not those who scoffed the cake before the ceremony had even begun. Especially given that extra amount of fondant and extra tier which cost the earth.

But given the way Tully looked at her with those imploring, brown eyes and the telling evidence of frosting smeared across her chops, she was close to calling it a day.

Who needed cake anyway? It was worth way too many calories and most people would be so drunk that far into the festivities it wouldn’t even matter, right?

“So, I see you’ve met our cute but pressing problem.”

Caroline turned to see the best man in all his glory. And by that she meant those unkempt curls, sly grin and a fitted, tank top that should be illegal given those arms on display.

Was this their thing? Just running into each other partially clothed. She looked down at her ensemble self-consciously glad for the shorts, t-shirt and the Maid of Honour monogrammed robe that she greedily pulled across her chest.

“Our problem?”

“Because a problem shared is a problem halved right, wedding buddy?”

“Wedding buddy? Oh, you mean the same guy who wanted to document the lost ring for speech fodder?”

“It was a joke but clearly you don’t know what that means, grouchy.”

“Oh, like that time you let your dog, albeit cute, eat the wedding cake before the ceremony. I only hope the Bride and Groom figurines are still firmly intact at least?”

“Well, their passing was most definitely mourned,” Klaus noted. Caroline was trying to be mad, but he was doing that thing where he looked cute so as to avoid her wrath. Bastard.

“So, what you’re telling me is that we have no cake or cake topper and the wedding is due to start in 5 hours?"

“I mean there’s some cake left, albeit a mess, but if the guests want to eat it off the floor...”

“Yeah, I can see the Prime Minister doing that. You are not helping, Mikaelson. Look, I’ll call the baker, they must have a back-up cake on hand, otherwise why are we paying them such an exorbitant amount? I mean it’s a cake, like it’s hard to bake one of those,” she rambled, the reality of the situation making a sudden and ugly appearance.

“Okay, I didn’t want to tell you this because you are clearly already upset but the baker has no wedding themed alternatives,” Klaus explained, shooing away both the guilty canine and her loyal housekeeper in the process, no doubt by design. This was not the news Caroline wanted to hear and clearly he knew it.

“What?"

“You are not going to lose it, not on my watch, Forbes.”

“I am not losing it,” she hissed, finally finding her voice. “But she is your dog and that makes you responsible for my mood.”

“She is a Mikaelson, I mean expensive taste comes with the territory,” Klaus replied. Caroline, meanwhile, felt the brief spell he had over her lift.

“Can you please stop offering up annoying commentary? We have an emergency, one that needs to be rectified STAT.”

“What I didn’t get to say was that the baker has two other cakes on hand.” Caroline’s ears pricked up, maybe all wasn’t lost.

“I’m listening,” she murmured.

Klaus pulled his cell from his pocket and swiped through his phone. “These are the options.”

He leaned in closer so she could see the photos but in the process his arm grazed hers and she was momentarily blindsided and not focused on the pressing emergency. It reminded her so much of two years ago, when she’d felt his arm encircle her waist and pull her towards him.

Caroline told herself he must have been dreaming at the time but that didn’t take away from how it had felt. It felt good, really good.

“Alright, love?” She looked up into his blue eyes, only deciding too late that it was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

“I’m just shocked by...” she paused, her eyes hurriedly flickering to his cell screen. “Congratulations on your Retirement, Bernie?”

“I’m sure we can change a few letters around or something,” she gave him a look which plainly said it wasn’t going to happen. “Right, here’s the other one."

“Happy 6th Birthday to our Unicorn Princess? Don’t think Kat would mind being called a unicorn princess at all but not sure about Elijah...”

“Well, what suggestions do you have, Forbes?”

He had a point, there were none that forthcoming but then it hit her.

“The bomboniere.” Caroline was surprised she thought of it given she was so caught off guard by his close proximity and the unfolding situation.

“The what?”

“I don’t have time to explain wedding terminology right now, I have a bride to reassure that everything is peachy. Just meet me in the kitchen in twenty minutes and put some clothes on while you’re at it.”

“Only if you do,” he smirked. Caroline didn’t wait before slamming the door in his smug face.

There were so many things to reconcile with Klaus Mikaleson and not just her feelings. Last night they’d shared more than a sandwich in the kitchen and two years ago...well that was another story.

Perch, Los Angeles CA - 14 February (two and a bit years earlier)

Caroline felt like she’d finally hit rock bottom.

Not because it was Valentine’s Day.

Or that she was single.

That wasn’t the worst part of her predicament. She was currently...well, before she could lament her situation a bell rang out, breaking Caroline from her regretful thoughts. She didn’t have time to bid Phil the Chiropractor farewell because a burly looking brunette appeared immediately in his place.

“Tyler.” Apparently there was no need for an actual greeting or for Caroline to ask his name in the first place. I suppose they only had two minutes so he was getting straight to the point. Caroline couldn’t blame him given how painful this whole thing was.

Caroline was going to kill them. First Bonnie, who wanted their apartment to herself tonight so she could cook a romantic dinner for current boyfriend Jeremy. Clearly he hadn’t been present at her most horrific of food failures given they were still dating.

They’d been living together since Bonnie relocated to Los Angeles nine months earlier and Caroline was enjoying rooming with her best friend again after so long. Then she got a boyfriend, even if he looked twelve, and Caroline was relegated back to her usual existence. It wasn’t like Caroline wanted or needed a boyfriend because her schedule was busy enough.

Which took her to the second person she had to blame. Lexi. Her colleague and friend, who decided they should spend the evening speed dating so Bonnie could “get it on with her boyfriend” as she put it. Caroline figured the fact she’d already signed them up weeks earlier and only asked right before a deposition hearing were the main reasons why she had no choice but to agree.

Now, here she was, pretending to be interested in Tyler and shooting deliberate looks in Lexi’s direction who seemed unaffected given the way she was attempting to read her guy’s palm. Smooth.

“I don’t think I got your name?”

“Huh?” She looked into his warm, brown eyes feeling guilty she’d been blatantly ignoring him.

“Your name?” Before she could reply, she heard a very familiar voice call out her name.

Then he appeared in all his gorgeous goodness, his ability to wear a suit had not waned since they’d seen each other last at a mutual friend’s engagement party. Why he was here of all places, she had no idea.

“Caroline, sweetheart.” Sweetheart?

“Do you know this guy?” Tyler asked, the confusion obvious. She didn’t blame him.

“Of course she knows me, I’m only her boyfriend.”

Her what now? Caroline was too shocked to speak let alone reprimand him for being a presumptuous idiot.

“You have a boyfriend? Then why are you here?”

“I’d like to know the same thing, mate,” Klaus agreed, his hands crossed over his chest. Caroline was madly trying to crawl under the table just so everyone would stop looking at her like she was some two-timing girlfriend.

Lexi meanwhile seemed to be enjoying the entertainment from afar, raising her champagne glass in salute, even if she had no idea what was happening. Caroline wasn’t enjoying it at all. She wanted to scream at him for being such an ass but at the same time a rescue from this situation was an equally enticing prospect.

“I…”

Before she could find the words, he found them for her.

“It’s my fault, sweet cheeks,” he implored, pushing past Tyler and placing his hands in hers. Caroline was trying to ignore the electricity it generated but also the horrible pet name he’d bestowed. Like he couldn’t have come up with something normal? “I neglected you and for that I am so sorry but just know that I will love you, always and forever.”

Was he kidding? Next thing he’d be pulling out a cracker jack bracelet or resembling any one of the romantic leads in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation. Caroline made a note to tease him about his taste in movies and television later.

However it seemed their audience didn’t mind one bit. Women and men nearby were more interested in fawning over the scene playing out than resuming speed dating. Even their organiser seemed transfixed.

She hated him, especially for interrupting her night and being the smug pain-in-the-ass she knew so well but she needed to get out of there fast and he was her ticket.

“Honey bear,” she cooed, noting the slight twitch in his jaw. Caroline knew he was trying to withhold his signature smirk. But why did he have to smell so good withholding it? His hands were still firmly intertwined with hers too. “You took me for granted, so why should I forgive you?”

Now he was trying to contain an eye roll, only someone who’d known him for that long could tell. And she was loving every moment especially if he was going to crash her speed date and embarrass her in the process.

“And for that I am eternally sorry, baby cakes.” Caroline had to really try not to dry reach. “But you are the one for me. We are destined to be together forever, like soulmates.”

As much as she wanted to draw this out and force him to eat those horrible and predictable platitudes, this show needed to end. Now. Given Tyler’s defeated expression she knew it wouldn’t be too difficult to transition to the bar and to a much-needed straight vodka on the rocks.

“You were an imbecile, Mario, but I’m willing to consider a reconciliation if you stop being an asshat and promise to worship me forever.”

Before she could relish in her response and the slight tugging at the edges of his crimson lips, he’d pulled her up and moved them towards the direction of the bar. No doubt because her demands were slightly out of the question and he was starting to feel embarrassed himself. Served him right really. Given half of the people were entranced by their conversation and the rest were clearly dubious she decided it was good timing to high tail it out of there.

“Worship you forever, someone clearly has tickets on themselves,” he muttered, gesturing to the barman. “And who is Mario? I so do not look like a Mario.”

“Says the man child named Mario who called me sweet cheeks and baby cakes."

“I was clearly being sarcastic,” he shot back, gesturing for a shot. “What was honey bear all about then?”

“You barrelled into my life uninvited, and last time I checked you don’t live here.”

“I'm in town for business and was having dinner with colleagues. Had I known it was going to be dinner and a show I might have arrived sooner.” Caroline chose not to respond immediately, just drank her vodka in one, long gulp. “Someone is thirsty.”

“I need to drink to deal with you.”

“Says the girl speed dating,” he whistled. “I mean you can be difficult and kind of abrasive, Forbes, but I never thought you’d speed date in a million years.”

“I am only doing this for Bonnie because she wanted the apartment to herself to cook for her date and then my friend Lexi signed me up without telling me,” she rambled.

“She’ll have another vodka,” he gestured to the barman. “So, I take it this boyfriend hasn’t sampled Bennett’s cooking yet? I just hope you left the fire extinguisher in plain view.”

“That’s what you took from all of this?’"

“I feel like if I delve too deeply I’ll be too immersed in all the Rebekah type drama and we both know that is not my thing.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your best wishes to your sister,” she growled. “So, why involve yourself and embarrass me like that in front of total strangers? Let me guess, you’ve got no one to play with and were bored?”

“Don’t underestimate my ability to find a playmate, love.” The way he drawled “playmate” was making places below feel like they hadn’t in a long time. So much so that she didn’t even try to bite back. “Anyway, I thought it would be fun,” he teased, his left dimple making an unwanted appearance at that exact moment. “And I could tell you you needed rescuing.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress you need to save, Mikaelson,” she argued.

“Says the girl who looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here,” he shot back. “So, you’re welcome.”

“Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!” The patrons began to chant and tap their glasses, Caroline only just realising they seemed to have an audience of very interested speed daters watching their every move.

“I’m going to need more vodka,” she muttered, “But not here.”

Roosevelt Hotel, Beverly Hills - 2 hours later

“So, this is where you bring all your playmates?” It was the first thing that came to mind when Caroline spied the king size bed taking pride of place in his suite. They’d spent an hour at 25 degrees, the hotel’s poolside bar and were now in his suite.

Inexplicably.

Okay, maybe not so inexplicably.

Caroline wasn’t one to go to a guy’s hotel room - especially this particular one - but between the vodka buzz and the fact Lexi had picked up and Bonnie was enjoying her night in their apartment there wasn’t much choice about where to go.

The vodka had helped loosen her usual inhibitions and, although she’d never say it aloud, Caroline was enjoying his company. Although, if anyone asked about this temporary bout of insanity she’d blame the alcohol.

“ Says the woman who was questioning the existence of said playmates only a few hours earlier.”

“So, you won’t mind if I do this?” She stated, not bothering to ask his permission as she discarded her heels and jumped onto the perfectly made bed. He stopped what he was doing momentarily, his eyes transfixed on her short, black dress and bouncing, blonde waves.

“I’m going to have to tip the maid extra now,” his voice was low, husky almost.

“Maybe she deserves it,” Caroline shot back.

He didn’t respond immediately, just shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. She was watching him do it like it was in slow motion. Then he rolled up his shirt sleeves. Who knew forearms could be so...appealing?

Caroline was starting to think that she was entering some sort of alternate universe she needed to escape, if only just to keep her sanity and self respect. I mean he was Klaus Mikaelson and she wasn’t one of his “playmates.” Not by a long shot.

“Drink?”

“Water, please,” she replied immediately, he cocked an eyebrow as if to say she was no fun. “I’m a cheap drunk, what can I say? And who knows what else I might trash in this place under the influence?”

He seemed to accept her response, busying himself with drink preparation. “So, why exactly did you go speed dating in the first place?” He asked, filling a tall glass with ice cubes.

“I told you,” she panted, finally tiring of the activity and making herself comfortable on the expansive bed. “Bonnie…”

“I heard that version,” he pressed. “But I want the real one.”

He passed her the water and made himself comfortable on the bed, his aftershave combining with the dizziness and messing with her overall composure.

“It’s Valentine’s Day, and maybe you don’t understand, but spending it alone can kind of suck,” she confessed. “Especially when your roomie kicks you out of the house.”

“I just hope you kick Bennett out on Halloween as payback.”

“You like Halloween?”

“You have no idea, love,” he chuckled. “No rose petals or corny ballads, just blood, guts and general mayhem.”

“Noted.”

“It’s just this ridiculous Hallmark Holiday,” Klaus offered, stretching out further and grazing her legs in the process. “It creates unrealistic expectations.”

“So, it’s Hallmark’s fault?”

“Hallmark is the tip of the iceberg,” he explained. “Every candy company, every florist, every jeweller and don’t even get me started on those terrible things they call romantic comedies.”

“You don’t like romantic comedies?”

“I try to steer clear for my own sanity, Caroline.”

“Not tonight,” she murmured, an idea suddenly coming to mind. “If I’m forced to stay in this mediocre hotel with you then...”

It was a lie and they both knew it but suddenly the less tipsy version of herself felt like she needed an excuse to stay the night with her best friend’s brother in such close quarters.

“I demand a movie marathon.”

“Terminator, Rambo, Rocky?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day, Mikaelson,” she shot back. “And I happen to know there is a marathon on television tonight.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me?”

“I’m deathly serious,” she answered. “But before we start, I’m going to need some popcorn and a shirt.”

“You want my shirt?”

“Not the shirt you’re wearing, lover boy, don’t get so excited. But I can’t sleep in this dress.”

His eyes seemed to linger a little too long on her body and Caroline was trying to do everything in her power to remain calm. Luckily he broke the silence not too long after.

“I’ll get you a shirt, but I’m not going to enjoy these movies at all, understand? I am only watching these ridiculous excuses of cinema because you’ve taken my television hostage?”

2 hours later…

“So, the apparent “virgin who can’t drive” ends up with the step brother? I mean I’m not surprised given the poor and predictable plot but is this kind of union legal in the state of California?”

“For the fiftieth time, he’s not related,” she growled, throwing a few popcorn kernels in his direction. This is about Cher realising that material things in life aren’t everything.”

"Whatever you say, Forbes. Although, tell me after this movie ended she ditched the mansion, the jeep, the designer plaid and knee sock combination outfits and moved to the Valley?”

He was annoying but also eerily observant.

“Yes, I mean maybe? People with money can change.”

“They’ve clearly never met Mikael or Esther.”

He said it quietly but Caroline couldn’t mistake the pain in his voice. She knew about his difficult past but they’d never been close enough to discuss it and given they were lying in the same bed it didn’t seem like the best time to open that pandora’s box.

“Do I have a great choice for you next,” she promised, her eyes sparkling, hoping to lift the mood.

2 hours later…

“Are you crying?”

“No, for the last time I have allergies, Caroline.”

“Inside?”

“The pollen level was high today and the doors in these rooms are forever opening and closing. Maybe the maid doesn’t deserve such a big tip after all.”

Maybe it was cruel, but it was on television and there was no stopping the effects of the Notebook on even the most emotionless male.

2 hours later…

“I thought I’d seen everything,” he scoffed, stretching out tiredly. “She paid a guy to be her wedding date?”

“Not just anyone, he’s hot.”

“He’s an escort.”

“I think it adds to his overall appeal. He knows how to treat a woman because of his experience.”

“And how many escorts have you met?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Wow, if you ever show up to a wedding with a stranger, I’ll be asking for their credentials,” he joked. “Wait, you think he’s attractive?”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“Each to their own I suppose, but that aside, the whole premise is just unrealistic.”

“It is a movie.”

“Yeah, a romantic comedy,” he shot back. “Case closed. Now, can we please sleep already? I think I deserve it after that marathon effort.”

“Fine,” she conceded, leaning across to turn off the lamp. “I have to say your shirt is very comfortable.”

“It should be," he replied, snuggling into the covers. “That’s my lucky Ramones t-shirt.”

As her head hit the pillow, Caroline was wondering why he gave her that particular shirt to wear. She couldn’t deny just how good the worn fabric felt against her bare skin and how the faint hint of his aftershave consumed her senses.

Sleep was immediate.

When she woke up the next morning and felt his arm encircle her waist and pull her towards him Caroline relished in the feeling. She assumed life would go back to normal but for now she was happy to live in the moment. It was probably better that way.

Read on AO3 HERE

#klaroline fanfiction #klaroline fanfic #all you never say #klaroline #misssophiachase

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bipercabeth · 4 years

Note

👀 anything + "does it still hurt to think about?"

(happy birthday alyssa i love u!!!)

this is a bellarke fic so let’s pretend it’s on my sideblog and call it a day. s7 compliant until 7x10. then i do what i want.

It all happens so fast.

Bellamy comes back, ragged and worse for wear but alive. He and Echo meet an abrupt, messy end Clarke doesn’t catch the details of. And somehow, inexplicably, Clarke ends up alone with Bellamy in Octavia’s quarters while the others recuperate.

Part of her longs to be with them—making plans, gathering information, maybe trying MCAP to crack Bellamy’s stubborn memories—but loyalty and guilt keep her rooted in place. It’s stupid to think she could’ve prevented Bellamy from being taken in the first place, but still. She should’ve been there. She should’ve known sooner.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Bellamy calls from the bathroom.

It earns a laugh in the way only Bellamy can. Laughter has been scarce lately. It always seems to be when they’re apart.

She pushes the door open and leans against the frame, making eye contact with Bellamy in the mirror. He’s frowning, running his fingers through the long beard he grew on Etherea. Clarke wonders how much time he’s lost. At least she knew the number of days she spent in Eden. It’s a cruel trick of the universe to steal more time after everything it’s put them through.

“How’d you know?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I still know you.”

He says it like it’s inevitable. This man has no memory of the past several months to years of his life, but he knows when Clarke Griffin is overthinking based on her silence alone.

“Can I ask you something?”

Clarke smiles. “Anything.”

He turns to her, scissors in hand. “Will you cut my hair?”

She takes in his unruly waves, which are nearly as long as her own. “I don’t know, I kind of like matching.”

“Just take the damn scissors, Princess.”

Clarke’s hand freezes, her fingers ghosting over Bellamy’s. It takes all she has to curb the shock from her face, but she doesn’t manage to suppress her smile. “Been a while since you called me that,” she says lightly. She drags a chair from the corner and motions for him to sit.

She busies herself ruffling his hair. “How short?”

“Like it was before?”

It makes sense, wanting to return to who he was and how he looked before this. It’s not Clarke’s favorite cut, but she can do it. She measures the length out with her fingers. “Here?”

“No, before. On Earth.” His voice is heavy with significance. Clarke learned long ago not to put words in Bellamy’s mouth, but she can almost hear him say with you at the end of that sentence.

She swallows. “I can do that.”

She works in comfortable silence, chopping off the longest parts before shaping up the rest. Bellamy’s gaze burns into her through the mirror, but she can’t bring herself to meet it. Regardless of how fun it would be to make fun of him with half his head shaggy, all Clarke can think about is how he’ll look when she’s done. The Bellamy she imagined for six years in Eden is about to be in front of her. That takes some priority.

Six years of cutting her own and Madi’s hair has made Clarke something of an expert. Before she knows it, Bellamy is halfway back to himself, save the beard.

It’s a bit shorter than before, she thinks as he looks in the mirror. Despite her experience, she hasn’t done a cut like this. A slight miscalculation meant she had to take in the sides a bit more than she’d have liked, but it works for him. She thinks most looks would, even the caveman thing he has going on on the lower half of his face. After all, it’s Bellamy.

Bellamy’s responding grin is somewhat hidden under the beard, but Clarke sees it in his eyes. He tips his head back against her chest as she fusses and fluffs the front with anxious hands. “Looks good, Princess.”

There he goes with that nickname again. This time Clarke can’t hide the way her hands still.

“You haven’t called me that in 131 years.”

Bellamy frowns, as if to protest, but quickly devolves into distress and confusion. “I don’t think that’s right. I think I called you that when I was... wherever I was.”

The amount of baggage to unpack in that statement alone almost shuts Clarke down. She can’t look at him.

Instead she moves to the medicine cabinet, distracting herself with the need to get rid of that horrific beard. “Does it still hurt to think about?”

“When I push too hard, yeah. Sometimes the memories are buried so deep it feels like someone is bashing against my skull. Sometimes I can feel them, even if I don’t know what they mean. I’m just drawn to certain things. I think that means they were important to me there.”

“Like what?”

“You.”

When Clarke’s breath stutters and she looks at Bellamy, she only finds quiet resolve.

“I may not remember it, but there’s no way I was stranded like that and didn’t think about you. And when I came through the Anomaly, that was the one thing that stayed with me. Just you.”

“I know how you feel. After Praimfaya...” Clarke feels her cheeks heat. “Well, you know how I got through it.”

The misery of all the times fate has ripped Bellamy away climbs in Clarke’s chest, propelling her back to the medicine cabinet where she finds shaving cream and a straight razor.

Bellamy’s face changes in an instant, morphing from something wistful and longing to his signature Big Brother face.

“Why is there a razor in my little sister’s room?”

Clarke simply smiles. “Little?”

“I don’t care how long she spent on Penance. She’s my baby sister,” he groans. “Besides. I could still be older.”

He moves to take the razor from Clarke, but she holds it close. “Can I?”

“I can shave myself, Clarke.”

“I know, but—” The misery climbs up her throat, now— “I thought I lost you.”

That softens him. He leans back and offers himself to her. “All yours.”

There isn’t much room for talking after that. Clarke wets his beard and rubs in some shaving cream, thankful for the towel she wrapped around him before she started this whole process. She doesn’t want to see him in the stiff Bardo robes or the parka he made himself on Etherea. Here, in the Henley she recognizes from before he left, he is almost her Bellamy again.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks as she lines up the blade with his sideburn.

“No,” she admits. “But I have steady hands.”

They’re less steady with body heat radiating in the space between Clarke’s body and Bellamy’s, but she won’t tell him that.

The first swipe is a series of careful tugs with her left hand, assisted by her right holding his skin. Each inch reveals constellations of the freckles she so dearly missed.

Clarke watches his face as she tosses the hair and wipes the blade. He meets her with unwavering trust as she brings the blade back to his skin, this time with more confidence. With each pass, the man she loves comes back to her.

Bellamy’s cheekbones are easy, all sharp lines and simple angles. It’s one thing to watch the freckles bloom on his cheeks and another entirely to feel his breath ghost her fingertips as she takes off his mustache. Her fingertip traces the scar on his lip without thought or caution. Her eyes follow.

Next comes the divot in his chin, freed at last. Clarke rests her thumb there to tilt his head back for the final strokes along his neck. He’s all trust in her gentle hands. He always has been. It becomes them, same as love.

Love lives in Clarke’s hands as she holds his neck, feeling his muscles jump with anticipation. They have never let themselves get this close, and now she understands why. Clarke has been so strong for so long, but Bellamy is her undoing.

“All done,” she breathes.

He sits up, but Clarke is frozen in place. Her blade hovers near Bellamy’s throat while her hand cups the other side. A single drop of blood gathers where she nicked his upper lip earlier. She has the ridiculous urge to kiss it away.

“Been a while since I saw you bleed,” is all she can say.

His breath is warm on her lips. “I don’t think it’s been a while since I bled.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to patch you up.”

“You were,” he assures her.

“Bellamy, I...”

“Yeah,” he eases the razor away and lets it clatter to the ground. “Me too.”

The dam breaks, unleashing a flood of emotions Clarke never dreamed she would allow to surface. Bellamy’s hand tangles in her hair, and it’s unclear who pulls the other in first, but that doesn’t matter because his lips are on hers after centuries of waiting. She throws a leg over his lap and straddles him, her caution drowned in the wake of passion.

They part too soon for Clarke’s liking, but Bellamy’s hands stroke her back idly, like he has all the time in the world to touch her, and all that matters is that they get that time. They have seen the world end countless times, but it is reborn with each second Bellamy looks at Clarke like he looked at the sky that first day on Earth: joyful, disbelieving, reverent.

“I never thought I’d get this,” he pants.

“Me?”

“Happiness.” He says it like it’s the same thing.

Clarke kisses him for it, half because he’s sweet and half because she can.

Their love has eclipsed entire planets, even outlasting the one where it was born, but he has always been Earth to her. The final journey home. Joy.

And joy tasted better on Earth.

#TUMBLR ATE THE FIRST PRINCESS LINE AFTER THE READ MORE RIP TO THOSE READING FROM EARLY RBS #this rly got away from me it was supposed to be a DRABBLE #BUT HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALYSSA I AM SORRY ALL I HAVE IS HALF EDITED FIC WHEN U DESERVE THE WORLD BUT I LOVE U!!!!!!!!!!#my fic #my bellarke #alyssa tag #the 100 #bellarke #useralyssa #the 100 fics

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meaninglessblah-writes · 4 years

Note

For the made up title prompts: Flowers for the moon. 😊

201120

Thank you very much for the inspiration, lovely ♥ It definitely ran away from me. For you, what is perhaps a JayTim Reverse Robin AU, even if I didn’t get to cement it as such. Just know the intention was buried somewhere in there.

I had some vague idea about Bruce being a Moon God, and the other Robins being iterations of his form - Damian as the devastating tidal Perigean/Super Moon, Tim as the rare Blood Moon/Lunar Eclipse, Dick as the young Blue Moon. Jason is chosen as their tribute, though I haven’t nailed down exactly what happens to him after the ritual. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy the concept!

"Flowers for the Moon”

The cuffs are heavy on Jason’s wrists, glinting polished silver in the light of the setting sun. They weigh his arms down at his sides, though the only chains he wears are the ones the acolytes had draped over his collarbones and around his palms, kissing the skin of his knuckles between murmured hymns.

Their gentle touches are still as surreal now as they had been when they’d first scooped him up and through the temple’s mahogany doors. A day ago, he had been a street rat scavenging through the slums of Gotham. Today, he was the chosen tribute of the Moon God.

Jason’s not sure how long the adjustment period is supposed to last. He knows these things happen rather quickly. It’s not every day the Moon God demands a tribute from the masses, chooses a charge. It’s not like he’s had cause to prepare for this sort of thing. It’s not like he ever dreamed it would happen to him.

Everything is moving so suddenly; he feels tugged in every direction, swept - quite literally - off his feet. He hasn’t even had time to work out how he feels about this, how he’s expected to feel. Grateful? Angry? Upset? Overjoyed?

The whiplash is enough to have him feeling nauseous, perched on his seat at the centre of the procession of acolytes and holymen, bustled through the crowds gathering on the cusp of dusk.

The same men who had chased him from their doorsteps in the winter months are now gathering to shower him with silver coins as the wagon climbs through the streets, icons of favour and tithing clattering on the wood between his bare feet. Jason tries not to flinch with every ring of metal, the chorus competing above the bleat of his own unsettled heart.

Their small procession makes its way up rough cobbled streets that shift to smooth marble, and then they’re easing to a standstill. Jason’s head is bowed towards his lap, as he’s been instructed. Unable to tear his gaze away from his trembling hands long enough to look up at the temple he knows they’d arrived at. The one that is visible from every corner of the city, no matter how far into the gutter you’ve crawled. The shadow of their allegiance to the Moon God swinging over the streets like a looming sword.

“Come on, boy,” the acolyte says, and then strong hands are tucking beneath his underarms to hoist him out of the wagon. He’s deposited on his own two unsteady feet a moment later, in the shadow of the altar. When Jason’s bare toes touch the white marble, a chill laces up his spine like ice cracking over a spring lake.

The acolyte pauses, shifting fingers through the ethereal streak of white hair at Jason’s crown. A kiss from the Moon God, they had called it. Jason’s not so sure yet that it’s the blessing everyone’s proclaiming it to be.

He’s nudged forward, across the gleaming, glowing tiles that sear the soles of his feet with their cold. When he reaches the base of the obelisk, he draws to a halt, neck craning back to drink it all in, from its sturdy, engraved base all the way to its towering peak where it splits the night’s clouds. It’s made of the same white marble as the floors, and Jason feels horrifically unclean juxtaposed against all these blemishless surfaces.

He’s never been cleaner, he knows. The acolytes of the temple had bathed him in milk and honey, scrubbed the streets’ filth from his skin until it burned, and then left him to soak in their baths. They’d washed his hair too, combed it out until it was soft to the touch - even the new white streak that painted his forehead like a lightning strike across a black storm’s sky.

He’d been painted too; his lips, and his lids, and his cheeks. Brushes trailed down his collarbones and chest to paint white lilies - the effigy of the Moon God - on his warm skin. The paint had been chilled, and whenever he passed beneath the glint of the rising moon, they would shimmer with a translucent light, refractions dancing over every expectant face.

The robe he’d been fitted with is barely decent, nearly sheer enough to bear him to every transfixed gaze as he crosses tentatively over the threshold towards the obelisk. Bouquet of flowers clutched tight to his chest. The petals waver with every tremulous breath that wheezes past his lips.

The acolyte follows him up the steps, an incentivising hand between his shoulder blades that only falls away when his toes touch the dias - and only then to lift to his shoulder to push him down to his knees. The picture of terrified reverence beneath the last rays of the setting sun.

The gold bleeds from the stone as it fades below the line of the horizon, leeching all colour and warmth from their surroundings as Jason kneels and waits. His breath hitches in the ensuing cold, heart thundering in his narrow chest, knuckles as white as the lilies in his palms.

It’s quiet, for a while. There’s an expectancy layered over them all, like a shroud of snow. Unbroken and pure as they await the moon’s rising.

The moment when the Moon God will climb down from his vaporous throne to claim his gift.

Jason realises, suddenly, dizzyingly, that he’s never heard what becomes of the Moon God’s tributes. They’re always spoken of so highly, so reverently. Of how they were chosen. Of how they ascended.

To where, Jason doesn’t know. Hasn’t the slightest idea what becomes of the favoured tributes once the Moon God takes what’s owed to him. Do they even survive the ritual? Does anyone even care? Or do the acolytes simply sweep the lifeless bodies out of the way, dispose of the husks once their deity has had his fill? A sombre sacrifice for the promise of a season’s bountiful crops, a city’s steadfast protection, a council’s yearlong prosperity? A short but necessary candle snuffed to appease a greater shadow.

The petals shred between his fingers when his grip constricts, every muscle braced in terror as he stares directly at the rune carvings he can’t read, kneecaps aching from the unyielding stone. He’s shivering, he knows. Shaking in the darkness as the moon slowly rises into the newborn night.

Jason feels the spectre moreso than sees him. He leaves no shadow on the tile, materialising from the yawning eye of the moon to approach the altar. He feels him in the rise of the hairs on the back of his neck and the stiffness that takes his spine. Feels him in the chill that ruptures through him, dosing him in numbing cold.

Jason gasps, the sound more a choke of air than a breath, willing himself to turn, to look, to run.

He hears footfalls, the sweep of smoke over marble, intangible. The altar blurs before him, smeared across his vision with his tears as terror takes him.

A ghost’s fingers slip across his throat, tilting Jason’s jaw upward to revel in the sight of the Moon God where he stands before him.

The flowers slip between his fingers and splatter to the tile between Jason’s knees.

#meaninglessblah answers #franticvampirereads #Jason Todd #201120

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carewyncromwell · 4 years

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“I know you -- I walked with you once upon a dream... I know you: That look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam...”

~“Once Upon a Dream (cover),” by Lana Del Rey

When he was growing up, Atticus Grimsley @cursebreakerfarrier was something of a teacher’s pet. Thanks to the influence of his father who put such stock in the Grimsley family’s reputation and legacy, Atticus grew up with a hyper-focus on his studies and so ended up having a rather solitary and lonely time at Hogwarts. Therefore when he met Bartholomew “Bat” Varney as an adult, Atticus wasn’t incredibly well-practiced in the art of making or maintaining friendships. Fortunately, despite his and Bat’s obvious differences in attitude and life experience, the two men ended up slowly building a bridge of understanding and camaraderie between them. The big turning point was Atticus agreeing to help Bat track down and capture a vampire who had stolen Bat’s identity and used it to target and murder a wizard just outside Hogsmeade, even if it put Atticus at considerable risk not just with that vampire, but with the Ministry, since Bat was still considered a suspect at the time. After this, Bat finally accepted Atticus into his heart enough to start calling him by the nickname “Grim,” rather than the more detached and nondescript “Professor” -- in essence, seeing Atticus as an individual and allowing himself to “get attached,” even if Bat would no doubt out-live Atticus and mourn him when he died. Bat opened up, showing a genuine warmth and a love of life’s trappings that encouraged a youthful sense of fun out of Atticus he’d never really experienced before.

As the two friends got to know each other better, Atticus -- like Adelia Selwyn @that-ravenpuff-witch before him -- started to notice certain inconsistencies and interesting word choices in his conversations with Bat. Bat was very evasive about how he became a vampire, but he’d also make weird off-the-cuff comments about his condition, like that "his body didn’t truly belong to him.” He could give a full history lecture about the War for American Independence and describe multiple battles in great detail, and yet would immediately go quiet and disinterested as soon as any mention of the Battle of Yorktown propped up. He’d sometimes even compare Atticus to his best friend at school, telling full, exciting stories about their exploits and laughing at the memories, but seemed oddly tight-lipped when Atticus asked him his friend’s name. After a while, the man the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would go to whenever they had a case they had trouble solving found himself way too curious about all this to let it lie, and so set about tackling the mystery of Bat Varney’s past on his own.

Through his investigation, Atticus found out more and more things that just didn’t add up. Bat always seemed pleased whenever Ravenclaw was in the running for the Quidditch Cup, but an enchanted portrait of Bartholomew Varney in his Hogwarts robes that was commissioned by his family featured him wearing a red and gold Gryffindor tie. Bat was well-versed in Muggle society and culture, and yet the Varneys had been a prominent wizarding family who had shares in a large assortment of businesses in Diagon Alley back in the day. Then there was the story Atticus had collected from the merpeople about the three students who had helped save their queen a hundred years ago -- Robert Harker, Cecelia Crouch, and Bartholomew Varney. “Robert” had to be the mysterious best friend that Bat had mentioned, Atticus thought -- after all, he and Bartholomew had gone to war together as if they were Muggles despite both being wizards, so they were clearly incredibly close. But why had Bat never mentioned his other best friend, Cecelia Crouch? Particularly since, according to letters, she and he grew up together, and according to Ministry records, she’d eventually become his wife.

At long, long last, Atticus conjured up a terrible theory -- that Bat, in fact, was not the real Bartholomew Varney. His suspicions were confirmed when he tracked down a shady contact in Knockturn Alley who explained the unforgivable Dark process of creating a vampire, which requires not just a person feeding their subject a potion containing both their own and the caster’s blood, but also the caster cursing the soul of the person upon death to be forcibly chained to a body against their will. Atticus realized that his friend -- the vampire called Bat Varney -- was in truth the soul of Bartholomew Varney’s best friend Robert Harker, chained to the first’s reanimated corpse by Bartholomew’s wife and Robert’s once-friend, Cecelia.

The knowledge shocked Atticus -- he hadn’t known such a thing was even possible, and if it were true, it’d be a horrific thing for anyone to go through. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor took some time to himself to get a handle on what he’d discovered, only to be surprised one evening by the sight of a familiar Irish Wolfhound sitting in his office chair. Bat had noticed Atticus wasn’t in Hogsmeade at all for more than a week after having come to visit nearly every evening prior, so he thought he’d pop up to the castle to see what was going on. So Atticus took the opportunity to tell Bat everything he’d found out.

Whatever reaction Atticus had been expecting, it was not Bat looking hurt.

“Robert?”

“Don’t -- ”

The word came out in an oddly sharp, barking voice. Bat gave a very painful-looking swallow to try to restrain himself, even as his red eyes pulsed with pain.

“ -- don’t call me that.”

Atticus was confused. “What? But...it’s your name, isn’t it? Your real -- ”

“Shut up,” Bat said very harshly.

He turned his back on the professor, his fist absently clenching at his side.

Atticus’s skin prickled with an emotion he couldn’t yet place. It made him suddenly feel like the ground he was on was very unstable.

“Bat, what’s wr -- ?”

“I don’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to talk about this. And yet now you’ve forced my hand and are now trying to make me talk about this. Well, I don’t want to talk about this with you! I know time is different for you than it is for me, but do you truly have no patience at all? Do you truly have so little respect for me, that I wasn’t allowed a choice in whether or not you knew? I...”

The vampire’s eyes were going redder, as was often the case when his heart was beating painfully fast or his lungs were breathing heavily. Although Bat’s voice never got incredibly loud, there was a very low, growl-like aspect -- something oddly raw.

Atticus knew what the emotion he was feeling now was -- it was guilt. Remorse.

“Bat -- ”

“I have to go,” Bat cut him off lowly without skipping a beat or turning around.

And in a blur of motion, he’d become a dog again and darted out the open door.

Bat didn’t reappear in Hogsmeade. Nights went by, and no one Atticus spoke to had seen him. The Honeydukes family even said he hadn’t returned to roost in their attic in the daytime like he always did. And Atticus knew why -- he knew that Bat’s sudden disappearance was all his fault.

In the nights following the argument, insomniac Atticus had even more trouble sleeping than usual. Once he ended up fitfully nodding off in the armchair of his bedchambers around 3 AM -- and there in his dreams, he was confronted by a vision of Robert Harker, looking just as dark-haired and handsome as he did in the enchanted portrait Atticus had found of him and Bartholomew in their army uniforms, signed with Cecelia Crouch-Varney’s name. Robert was smiling just as he did in the picture, and his brown eyes shone with the same sharp, bright gleam Atticus knew so well from Bat’s eyes. He even spoke in Bat’s voice.

Robert Harker bent down over Atticus sitting in the armchair, his handsome face mere inches from his. The proximity immediately startled Atticus, not just because he wasn’t used to people being in his personal bubble, but because Bat in particular so carefully avoided getting too close to him due to his blood lust. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor shakily brought up a hand against the taller man’s chest as if to try to push him back, but his limbs lacked strength.

“W-wha -- what are you -- ?”

“Now, now, Grim...you were looking for me, weren’t you? It feels good to have solved the mystery, doesn’t it -- to know all those terrible things your mysterious associate was keeping under wraps?”

“Th-that...”

“Well, really, how else were you going to find out? I certainly wasn’t going to tell you. Why would I want to revisit the time when one of my dearest friends stabbed me in the back and turned me into a bloodthirsty animal? Made it so I could never be a professor like you, the way you know I wish I could?”

“You’re not an animal, you’re my -- ”

“Your what? Your friend? Oh, now, that is a cute sentiment.”

“What...?”

“You don’t have any friends, Grim, old boy. You never have. What I was, who knows...a pet, perhaps -- someone to talk to, to pass the time -- but a friend? I don’t believe friends go behind each other’s backs and betray their trust. Oh...but I suppose mine already did. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, that you’re just the same...”

“Robert -- Bat, I’m...I didn’t mean to -- ”

“At least now, things can go back to the way they were before. You’re all on your own again. All alone with your books, just like before. Just like you’ve always been...”

The nightmare was really rather short, but it was still enough to make Atticus wake up in a icy cold sweat.

Two weeks later, Atticus caught wind from his students that Bat had returned to Hogsmeade. Despite the anxiety and shame he felt, Atticus dropped everything that night to go find him, catching up with the vampire just outside the Three Broomsticks, not far from where they’d first met. Atticus immediately launched into an extensive apology, as Bat listened with a rather blank, placid expression on his face. It was only when Atticus started getting really emotional that Bat actually reached out and took hold of the man’s shoulder. The vampire immediately had to use his free hand to take out his flask and take a long drink of blood, and then he had to bury his face in his winter scarf and turn his focus onto the closest chimney to try to ignore Atticus’s scent and blood pulsing through his skin and clothes -- but he held Atticus’s shoulder anyway, his voice very low and soft in his throat when he spoke.

“I’ve...already forgiven you, Grim.”

Atticus’s guilt lingered somewhat even after that, but the whole affair ended up strengthening the two men’s relationship even more than before. Since this point, Atticus has become the only person who knows Bat’s real name and will, on occasion, use it in private conversation.

#atticus grimsley #bartholomew varney #cecelia crouch varney #my art #my writing #hphl #hogwarts legacy #guuuuh I love these two and their relationship so much I can't even #also yes robert harker was gorgeous okay #his face claim is josh groban so of course he was LOL #I loved drawing his uniform X3

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sexwithextremeprejudice · 3 years

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Broken Bird(Prologue)

CW REVOLUTIONARY VIOLENCE, ABUSE, BODY MARKING, BLOOD, VIOLENCE AGAINST TRANS PEOPLE.

Summary: A dethroned Monarch realizes the many intense feelings their former subjects bare towards them in the form of horrific mistreatment. If this doesn't bring class consciousness I don't know what will lmao.

The cold, bitter sting of water smashed against their dry skin, sending their senses into overdrive as their eyes snapped open forcefully.

Their eyes struggled to adjust to the walls of the room around them, their vision blurred in and out, barely able to form anything but vague shapes as the torrid light of a torch waved in their face sent cascades of color bouncing across their peripherals. Muffled voices lulled in their ears, the words barely decipherable, harsh whispers in the void.

A harsh grip seized their jaw tightly, digging into their flesh and yanking their head at a rough angle, until their vision straightened and they were staring directly into the eyes of a man emblazoned in shadows

“And here I thought you’d never wake up.” The voice was gruff, sharp like sandpaper, dragging your finger across and bringing back nothing like bone, cruel and hazardous. Only made more apparent as the man’s clutch tightened, nails digging into bone, enough force to break skin as they were forced even closer to the man’s face, close enough to feel his breaths stinging against their face in a vile aroma.

“You almost missed the fun, Your Highness.” His voice oozed malice, barely hidden behind the sarcasm emanating extremely from the words used.

He grinned widely, barred teeth shining in the light of the torch, like a wolf hunting for prey.

. . .

Evelyn felt the tight sting of rope biting into their thin wrists as they hung like a slab of cattle, ready to be butchered.

Now that they were more awake, they could see the room around them better, and moreso, the predicament they were currently in.

They were in the center of a small room, barely larger than a prison cell, and fitting the general decour of one too. Dangling chains hung from crooked, rusted metal binds, bolted to the stone brick wall in spots that left their victims hanging, barely able to touch the ground. It was a similar situation to Evelyn’s current pose: dark ropes braided between each arm, holding them above their head at an irregular and awkward angle, stranded through a metal hook strapped to the ceiling, their feet mere inches away from the wet stone floor, but unable to touch.

Evelyn could barely keep their head up, they were struggling to not let it droop down, their long, blonde hair partially covering their eyes in wide strands, clinging tightly to the spots on their face where they had just been splashed with water, the foul smell of muck emanating from their skin as the dirty droplets of brown water ran past their lips and dripped from their chin. The water mixed with the blood of the scratches that had been left on their face by the man standing in front of them, leaving a painful sting to their skin as the foulness seeped into their cuts.

They could see their clothes, they were still wearing what they had been wearing last, before all their memories faded off into nothingness. Silken robes, engraved in gold accents, with a bright purple coloring and the family crest of their lineage bright on their breast, cranes with crossed beaks and sharp eyes.

This all mattered very little, in a way. What was more important was who was in front of them, why they were here.

A man dressed in brown, dull clothing, filthy to the touch, ragged leather and stitched rawhide clothing, lined with cheap iron plates banged and bashed into shape. A symbol painted across the chest of the makeshift armor, a raised fist, holding a dead bird in its grasp. He was flanked on both sides by men dressed in similar styles, armed with makeshift maces and bearing metal helmets that hid their eyes. It did little to hide their wide smirks as they stared at Evelyn, idly fidgeting with their maces as the man in the center of them stood with torch in hand. He was smiling too, as he had been, a wolf in the dark.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before, Your Highness. Why don’t we get our proper introductions out of the way? Before we can get to the important things.” His voice had this aspect of sugary wording to it, as if he was talking like a good friend, or more accurately, like he was talking to someone to belittle them. He looked older than them by a decade or so, he spoke like he was handling a child.

Evelyn felt their wrists going numb as they tried to raise their head to look at the man in front of them, as they just had when they had been manhandled seconds prior. It felt like their neck was going to give out on them at any second as they tried to speak from their dehydrated throat.

“You know who we are, what does it matter? Just tell us why we’re here.” Their voice was soft, elongated by the lisp of a noble, a voice esteemed by tradition, and edged with anger. Though, they struggled to keep their voice straight and un-pitched due to the massive strain on their neck and the lack of moisture in their system, their mouth tasting only of dryness and blood. The man pushed the torch closer to their face, close enough that Evelyn could feel the flames flickering, the hot fumes emanating from the orange and red glow stinging their sensitive skin that only added to the sensation hell they were currently in.

“Just humor me, Your Highness. I want to set a standard.” His voice mixed with the sizzling of the flames, they formed an aura of malice that was impossible to ignore. Evelyn swallowed the bile in their throat and tried to speak again, to “humor him” as suggested.

“We are Monarch Evelyn the Third, of the Vasseton Family. And we would like to know what is going on here and why we shouldn’t have you all thrown in chains.” Perhaps their words were too sharp for someone in their current pose, and perhaps their voice betrayed too much regal elegance, but they were a monarch and they refused to be pushed around by brutes.

Everyone in the room besides them broke into hostile laughter, the man himself especially. He held the torch even closer to their face, dangerously close to coming into contact with their hair and skin, sending a wave of nausea through them as they felt the sting of the heat.

“You don’t seem to realize what's going on here, do you?” The smugness of his voice only added to Evelyn’s anger, it only added to how badly Evelyn wanted to see him crushed.

“If this is some lackluster attempt at ransom then we hope you know that your transgressions will not go unpunished. Our Kingdom will not bow to barbarism.” They remained steadfast, they were the one in a position of power here, they were certain of it.

And yet, it appeared that this belief was soon to be broken. The man pulled the torch away, leaving lights burned into Evelyn’s eyes as he replaced it with his face, pushed close to theirs, his amusement blatantly apparent as he spoke with chaotic energy:

“You misunderstand, Your Highness. It's Our Kingdom now, not yours.”

It was at that moment, that it all rushed back to them.

The events of the days prior.

It was only in that moment that Evelyn realized how completely fucked they were.

The hours where it all came crashing down, where their own citizens turned on them.

Now, they had nothing.

They were-

“- just a cornered rat. What is the saying about never approaching cornered animals?” The man chuckled hard, and it only grew deeper as he held the torch close enough to their skin that they felt like it was being cooked, they closed their sun deprived eyes and struggled to brace back, away from the touch of the flickering flames.

The three burst into laughter as Evelyn tried to force their legs against the ground, wrestling against the ropes as the intense sensation of fire inches from their skin sent them into a panic.

“Aww, cornered little rat would rather back themselves deeper than fight back.”

Evelyn gasped in pain as the torch was pulled away, and quickly replaced by probing fingers, shoved deep into their mouth, grasping them by the lower teeth and forcing their jaw open as wide as he could get it, and then more so. He spread it so far, Evelyn felt like he was going to rip it off, break it entirely. And yet, he didn’t. Instead, he just kept them exposed. At the cruel gazes of his fellow rebels, and his own judgment.

“We’re gonna do such pretty things to you, my little rat. I can’t wait to see how much force it takes to break this petite frame. We’re gonna show you what happens to monarchs in our kingdom.”

They had little chance to respond, to make any noises of any kind before a chunk of blood soaked cloth was shoved into their mouth, the bitter tang of metallic tasting muck filling every inch of their tongue as another bit of dry cloth was used to keep the rag in place, tied uncomfortably around the back of their head until it felt like it was constricting. Evelyn’s hair was painfully pushed around the edges, and the knot gave their captor a perfect position to grip them from behind the head and rip them from the hook keeping their hands up.

Evelyn hit the stone floor hard, their head cracking against the ground with a loud thud that sent stars bouncing through their vision, every thought they possibly could muster was instantly sent spiraling away as a trickle of fresh blood dripped from the spot where their skin met their headline.

They moaned incoherently into the bundle of cloth filling their mouth, barely able to focus their vision as they felt their numb fingers being stepped over by the man, his dirty boots filling their sight entirely as he tapped the bloodied spot on their head with the tip of his foot.

“Feel free to suckle on all that blood. It's for your benefit, after all. Give you something to keep you busy while we prepare what comes next.”

The sole of the man’s boot raised from the ground, finding its way to rest gently against Evelyn’s temple.

“Goodnight, little rat.”

They had only a moment to process the words before the boot smashed hard against them, cracking their skull against the wet floor as the cold embrace of darkness took them once again.

. . .

While they slept, they dreamed of better times. Ruling and loving, the adoration of the people. All the things that they held close, all the things they never thought would leave them.

It all came spiraling back to reality as the asphyxiating feeling of something constricting their throat pulled them away from the fantasy.

Evelyn’s eyes widened, their senses rushing back to them as they watched a gloved hand jerk them cruelly by a rope bound securely to their thin neck.

Their wrists and ankles are bound together roughly, the cloth digging into their skin even tighter now, like a spit roasted pig over a fire, dragged like cattle to the slaughter.

The only sound Evelyn can muster is a muffled cry of frustration as the revolutionary shoves them against the wall.

The cloth in their mouth stifles any attempts at saying anything sharp, the soldier grips them by the forehead, slamming their skull roughly against the stone bricks, giving them the perfect position to tie the rope around their neck to a metal loop bolted to the wall.

“Misbehave and you’ll get a shorter leash.” They mutter sternly, giving the eight inch strand of rope a firm tug to make sure it remained in place, grinding the coarse cloth against Evelyn’s neck in a searing burn.

Evelyn nods, stifling a pained whimper of discomfort, as if they were even expecting a proper response.

Evelyn’s eyes quickly scan the room around them from their fetal position on the floor. The bricks were clean and well maintained, the walls lacking in any stains, nor windows or visible exits beyond a door bolted with locks and bars. They recognized the brickwork instantly as that of their own castle. And yet, this was a room that was neither recognizable nor familiar to them.

They sat in the light of the lantern hanging from the ceiling for what felt like an hour. There was a large chair in the center of the room that was attached to the ground by bolts, with hand clamps around the wrists and other areas. A table nearby covered in various tools of metal, edged with sharpness and cruelty. Stained with dried blood and who knows what.

Evelyn realizes what this room was just as the bolted door creaked open. They were naive but not that so. Even the young monarch who despised the practice could recognize a dungeon where information was milked from the desolate. And the man who walked in walked in with no fear of what he was entering.

The man was older, face worn by time and resolve. He was wearing weathered noble attire, stained and crisp from age, his face grizzled with patchy grey facial hair and hair that hung down in misshapen clumps of discolored splotches. Cleaner than the rest of the rabble Evelyn has met so far, but still adhering to that baseline level of filth that they had grown expectant of in their captors. A large belt of loose hanging baubles and metal tools hangs from his waist, jangling loudly with every boot heeled step he took into the room. Tools and Items that matched dangerously closely to those of the ones on the table next to the chair.

He trots to the front of them, staring down in judgement, eyes gleaming with malice, and beneath that, a visible degree of pure glee, bellowing from his wide smirk and warm purr in the back of his throat.

“Ah, it's so excellent to see you again, Your Majesty.” He cruelly puts extra focus on that title at the end, making sure the words stung as hard as they could. The man spots the gag holding their mouth shut and is quick to grip at the knot behind their head and unclasps it with indeliberate fingers, messily letting it fall to the floor alongside the cloth holding their feet and hands together.. Evelyn gags, spitting the bundle of cloth from their mouth, drool dripping down their face all the while as they do so, struggling to catch their breath from the putrid aroma in their throat.

He stares at them all the while, and bites his lip sharply.

Evelyn frowns, trying to keep some semblance of dignity even now. They lurch their head forward, trying to ignore the intense pain in their neck, straightening their neck, and grimacing.

“If you seek information or confessions you will find neither with us. We refuse to surrender to such faculties.” They swear in the strongest tone they can muster, one that the man reacts to with extreme amusement, a deep chuckle.

“You don’t recognize me, Your Majesty?” He asks in a condescendingly fake, offended way, he tilts his head to the side, giving Evelyn a better view of his face.

He reeked heavily of booze and filth, that's the only thing Evelyn processes in that moment. Evelyn shakes their head aggressively, making sure it was apparent they had no clue of any kind.

His smile shrinks, he pulls something from his side. A bronze dagger with large serrations cut into the edge.

“Here, allow me to serenade you, then.” He grins wider, giggling loudly. “Let me reintroduce myself.”

Evelyn’s body pricks up into intense dread, they press themselves against the wall defensively, nowhere to go, no ability to run away, their breathing intensifying, worsening, they lower their head protectively, clenching their eyes painfully close.

The man handles them like an object, manhandling them, pulling their sleeve up with little care or deliberation, gripping his large, broad hand around their upper arm, holding it in place, and pressing the tip of the dagger against their pale, sensitive skin.

“Mmm you have noble skin~.” He swoons, tenderly massaging their upper arm harshly as the blade’s tip digs into their arm harder. Evelyn whimpers while he continues on, clenching their teeth in pain, struggling to inhale the breath stuck on their lips. “No calluses, no scars, no marks. So. . . fragile.” He digs it deeper, sawing in, the warm flush of blood running down their arm in wet squirts, he cuts more and more and more. Evelyn can barely handle it, the pain is worse than anything they had ever felt before, worsening, growing even more as he adjusts his grip, and starts cutting in another spot. And another spot. And another spot.

The air smells of their own blood. The smell is crisp, musky, and ever so metallic. Their vision darkens, their skin clammy and sweat ridden, just when the loving embrace of the void feels as if it's going to take them, the man twirls his fingers through their hair and slams their head against the wall as hard as he can muster.

Evelyn groans in pain and a lack of relief, the adrenaline rushing through them again, pulling them back into consciousness, their vision blurring back in, sobbing in agony from the lack of release.

“Ssh, ssh it's alright. You’re alright.” He gently comforts, running his wide, stubby fingers through their hair, shushing their sad, pathetic noises, tears of torment trickling down their sleep deprived eyes. “It's just a little prick, Your Majesty.” He mocks, grabbing their wrist, holding their forearm up to reveal what he had done.

He had carved a word into their arm, blood dripping down the edges of every letter.

RHYS

He grins with bared teeth like a snarling wolf..

“Rhys Archiban The Third. That's the name so lovingly destined to me by my linage. I used to be the Royal Interrogator during the reign of your parents years prior, and I will be overseeing your lovely mental conditioning towards revolutionary consciousness.”

Tears stream down their face more, they barely can process the words that so clearly sealed their fate. What would happen next.

Rhys smiles, and licks his dry tongue down the side of their cheek, lapping up a fresh torrent of tears like the finest of wines, the texture sharp and coarse, it sickened them to the core but almost calmed their shot nerves with its cooling gesture. He twirls his tongue upwards, prodding the tip of his tongue into the corners of their eye itself. It ceased being cooling then, and only sickened.

“I apologize. I simply have always wanted to do that to a Noble.” He snickers, wiping the wetness from the corners of his lips. Evelyn can feel the blood draining from their body, sloshing down to the stone floor, they cough in an inflamed wheeze and struggle to try and hold all the slickness in with their opposite hand, but it just oozes between their fingers without pause. Tears wash small spots of blood as they trickle down their face, they sob in desperation and struggle to try and hold their body together.

Rhys shushes them again like a small child, pulling them as far as the rope around their neck will allow, and slightly more so much to the digress of their abused skin, wrapping their arms around them protectively, cooing like a mother bird.

“You’re not gonna bleed out yet, Your Highness.” He states bluntly, if it was meant to reassure them it did little to do so. It hurt their neck like they were being hung like a drowned rat, but they still leaned forward to use the older man’s shoulder like a shield against the pain surging through them, nuzzling their face into the rough fabric of his jacket like it was the softest pillow of silk.

Rhys keeps an arm wrapped around them, letting Evelyn remain buried into his chest all the while as he used his opposite hand to wrap thick bandages around the cuts on their arm. The pressure of the bandages is overbearing, the torturer wrapping them far too tight, enough that they could feel their circulation waning from the force, and yet, the discomfort still remained far better compared to that of the draining feeling of bleeding out.

The man smiles, running his fingers through their hair again, and using the lavish strands as a grip bar to slam their head against the wall as hard as he could again.

Familiar stars bounce through their vision, they groan and wince, a trickle of fresh blood contouring down their soft chin.

“You’re lovely when you’re concussed” are the words that cruelly leave his lips, and yet, Evelyn barely processes them, as they instead motivate themselves with one such ounce of defiance.

They crook their exhausted head upwards, and spit blood directly into his eyes.

. . .Evelyn doesn’t know when he stops beating them after that. His boots crunched against their skull like a hammer against marble. All they know is that they kept steadfast, and went to bed that night with a 4 inch rope around their neck, new, fresh bruises blooming around the old ones left by the other rope strand. They couldn’t sleep laying down even if the pain wasn’t there to prevent it on its own.

It only got worse.

#torture #royalty kink #revolution #dead dove do not eat #problematic media #nonbinary character #violence #original content #gore cw

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pricemarshfield · 3 years

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what do you truly desire?

A Deckerstar human/romcom AU. Chapter 5/10, read on AO3 here (or the full fic here). Will be rated E eventually, so minors DNI.

Five months later, Lucifer's life is fantastic.

It's not a surprise. His life has always been better than the average person's: plenty of money, some of the world's best alcohol, possibly the most active sex life of anyone in the LA area. Maze's brief trend of being gentle after Chloe had rejected him because of her has long-since ended, so she's back to her normal self: quick-witted and vicious and Lucifer's best friend.

She doesn't tell him anymore stories about her roommate, and he doesn't ask her about Chloe. It's basically the same way they did things before, just with the one tweak. Still, it's not as though he doesn't know when she tiptoes around things. Maze happily starts a story about building a model rocket with her other best friend (Lucifer holds a hand to his chest, mostly-mock-offended) but then clams up when Lucifer asks the friend's name or any other details, or Maze corrects him on some minor detail about LA's liquor laws that only someone who spent a lot of time with a cop would know. (Lucifer doesn't remember what that one was. Maze handles the books.)

Lucifer continues to talk up their customers almost every night, waxing poetic about their most expensive whiskeys, whispering in a handsome man's ear about how good Maze looks mixing cocktails, helping them through the potential sexuality crisis that tends to cause. It's certainly not a traditional lifestyle, but anyone he has a conversation with long enough to actually talk about it tend to say how lucky he is.

Which is right, obviously. He's lucky. What more could he want?

Of course, the life of a club owner doesn't start at opening. He needs a new suit, deep blue for an event someone's paying a truly sinful amount of money to host at Lux, and his tailor won't do house calls. Maze had tried, at one point, to wake him up earlier, if only so that he'd cook her breakfast since she burns everything short-of-but-sometimes-including toast. But he spends over a thousand on just the sheets on his bed, let alone how much he spent on the mattress, and he's damn well going to enjoy it.

(It's not--and this is crucial--it's not moping. He doesn't have anything to mope over, definitely not, his life is absolutely wonderful and he doesn't spend any time thinking of a blonde woman who doesn't swoon at everything he says like anyone he puts any effort in with, the first person he'd been interested in since Eve and the rebellion she represented.)

He's running late for the appointment, due to some truly abysmal traffic and a lack of parking anywhere near the shop, so he's rushing along through the crowd of people that seem to be omnipresent anytime he needs to get somewhere quickly in this city.

"Excuse me, pardon me, I'm actually in a hurry, so--okay, now you're purposefully obstructing everyone here, step to the side if you're going to text--" He turns his head to stare down the offending party, a stern-faced woman with a harsh haircut and horrifically short bangs--when he runs right into someone in the street and gets hot coffee all over his person.

It's not necessarily bad form to swear in public, but the string of words that come out of his mouth certainly cross the line into bad etiquette. It hurts like a motherfucker, and worst of all, the shirt he's wearing is white. Lucifer spares a moment to be thankful--not to a God or anything, just in general--that he's already got an appointment with a tailor.

"Shit!" says the woman he bumped into, and Lucifer turns his head to see Chloe. Because he'd only just managed to mostly put her out of his mind, and the universe is a vicious, punishing thing. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry--"

She's still looking with dismay between his shirt and what's left of her coffee, not at his face, and Lucifer coughs a little. "I didn't take you for a black coffee drinker."

Chloe looks up at him, eyes wide with surprise. "Lucifer? That's--insane, LA is a city of almost 4 million people, what are the chances?"

"Given my luck? Quite high, actually," Lucifer says, and Chloe's expression shutters almost quick enough for Lucifer to miss the flash of hurt across her face. "Because of the coffee! Not--I did like this shirt, but it is good to see you. And I'm near my tailor, anyway."

Chloe still looks a little offended, but she manages a small smile up at him. "You have your own tailor?"

"Well, suits like these don't come off the rack." He holds his arms out, realizes that he's now blocking the crowd and being a huge hypocrite, and lowers them. "Let's step to the side for a second."

"What? Oh, right," Chloe says, and gets out of the way. Someone shoots them a dirty look as they shuffle through to the side. The--chicken and waffles place...interesting--has a bright, tacky red-and-gold awning that gets them a bit of respite from the shade so they can talk.

Chloe digs through her pockets, pulling out receipts and crumpled-up straw wrappers. After glancing at his face, she says, "I'm just trying to find a napkin or something to get the coffee."

Lucifer looks at the reflection of the two of them in the window. His shirt has a giant brown spot in the middle of it that, while it should come out with dry cleaning, is certainly not going to be helped by old napkins. "I'll buy a new shirt while I'm at the tailor. Hopefully it won't need alterations."

Chloe snorts. "'Alterations.'" Her British accent is abysmal and sounds less like him and more like an offensive impression of a character from a cult classic BBC show. "This place looks like a college haunt, you could probably get a USC T-shirt inside until you get home tonight."

Lucifer shudders. "Ugh. Absolutely not."

"What, you're telling me you don't have any cheap clothes that you hold onto just 'cause they're comfortable?"

"A silk robe is comfortable," he grumbles. "Certainly more comfortable than a T-shirt from--" He looks at the door, squinting against the glare of the sun against the 'restaurant' door. "--Classic Southern Cafe of the West Coast."

"I mean, the name leaves something to be desired, but if a place with a name like that's still open then it can't be all bad."

"Or someone with more money than sense decided to throw their life savings at something they were completely unqualified for. Like that cafe in Boston."

Chloe blinks at him. "The cat cafe?"

"You're familiar!" Lucifer says, delighted. "Maze told me about it, she delights in disasters."

"...she told me, too."

Right.

"Okay, look," Chloe says, and Lucifer braces himself for the worst of it. "I'm really sorry about the way I kicked you out." Oh? "I mean...I just--okay, I'm not jealous."

"I hadn't thought you were?" Lucifer says, unsure if he's about to be insulted or what. He's not letting himself be hopeful about anything, though, suffocating the urge to be optimistic about it before it can say whatever it wants to. If this conversation goes well, he'll be pleasantly surprised, and if not, he won't have lost any of the progress he's made over the course of the past few months.

(The most he's hoping for is that he'll be able to talk to her. He enjoys that, more than he does talking with almost anyone else.)

"I just mean...ugh, okay, Maze and I were a thing, okay? Just briefly, barely a month! We didn't really work like that, but we made good friends, and then she was moving out of her old roommate's place and I needed to move out of my mom's old house and it just worked? And it was just--weird, you having slept with her and me also--fuck, sorry, I'm rambling."

She is, which seems pretty unlike her from Lucifer's previous two times that he'd met her, but it's annoyingly endearing anyway. "It's fine, Detective. Don't stop on my account."

Chloe reaches a hand up to rub the back of her neck. "Right. And I just...don't really casually see people, okay? I mean, Maze was an exception. Not in that way, I'm definitely bisexual, just...yeah. And as much as I liked you, I just don't think I have the room for a relationship right now."

Lucifer's heart definitely doesn't drop down into his stomach at that, not at all. "Of course."

"I would like to hang out, though? As friends?" Chloe says. "If you're alright with--"

"I am," Lucifer says, quickly enough that he accidentally interrupts her. She grins up at him, though, so it's good, it's fine. "I...do have to get to this appointment, I need a suit for work--"

"Yeah, of course, sorry to keep you, and sorry again about the coffee! You were right, too, I don't normally like my coffee black, but it's--not important, go get a new suit."

Lucifer nods and smiles, a little awkward, a little unsure, but generally...happier. It's not even as though he was in a bad mood before, but now he's smiling easier, chattier with his tailor, doesn't mind the stain on one of his nicer shirts that's had some time to set in now and might not wash out as easily as he'd like.

Maze has been staring at Lucifer ever since he walked into the bar, wearing a new shirt and a smile. She's been drying the same glass now for almost five minutes, despite how busy it is at the bar and how much Patrick's scrambling to get things done, and it's now just a matter of which one of them will break first: Maze's impatience or Lucifer's love of talking about himself.

Lucifer really does love talking about the things that go well in his life, though, and Maze hasn't even blinked for the last stretch of time. So eventually he heads over with an eyeroll, doesn't miss the victorious smirk on her face, and sits down at the one barstool that's, miraculously, available.

"Spill," Maze says, putting the glass down at last and starting to mix a drink, to Patrick's obvious relief.

"I ran into Chloe," Lucifer says, delighted, and looks to see if Maze will tense up, if she'll show any jealousy that her ex is spending time with him. Decidedly platonic time, but still. He doesn't want a repeat of what happened with Eve. That had been a difficult time for their friendship, and for Lucifer in general, if he's being honest.

She doesn't seem to, not smiling (normal) but nodding in agreement as she looks down at the drink she's pouring. "Cool. Did you go try and find her at the police station or something? Hold up a sign like that dumb movie?"

Lucifer scoffs. "No, of course not, that would have been completely inappropriate, and not in a fun way. Especially given she rejected me." Much as that stings, it's still a novel feeling.

"Good," Maze says, sliding the drink over to a customer who only barely manages to catch it before the glass would've fallen and shattered on the floor and gotten--whatever that drink is, some lurid pink thing, all over her clothes. "So...what? She came to see you at Lux before we opened?"

"No," Lucifer says. "We just ran into each other."

"Jesus, what are the odds," Maze says, grabbing some orange juice from beneath the counter. "You wanna come back here and help out?"

"Of course not," Lucifer says, then walks to the back of the bar to help out anyway. He's not actually good at mixing drinks at all, but he knows where everything is, mostly, grabbing Maze some rum and chopping limes since they're running low. "Are we especially busy today or something? I've never seen the bar this backed up."

"Well, you weren't telling me right away, I had to make a point," Maze says with a quick glare at him. "Apologize to Patrick."

Lucifer doesn't particularly feel like apologizing to Patrick for Maze's behavior, and Patrick seems a bit too busy with pitchers of sangria to do much of anything. There's a lull in their conversation as they get drinks out to the customers as fast as possible without missing any tabs or charges or anything else, but then it slows to something they can talk during.

"Well, I'm glad it worked out, I guess?" Maze says. "Did she, like, rip your shirt off or something? I didn't think Decker had it in her."

"No," Lucifer says. "While I'm not at all opposed, she actually just spilled some coffee--"

Maze laughs. "Holy shit, really? Wow, I didn't realize she was mad at you! I'm normally really good at picking up on anger!"

"It was an accident, Mazikeen, would I be in a good mood if it wasn't?" Lucifer says, annoyed, wiping down the counter with a rag just to get the worst of the condensation and sweat off.

She doesn't respond right away, and when he looks back, she's smiling at him, softer than she normally would. "Hey. I'm glad you're in a good mood about it."

"Okay?" Lucifer says, unused to Maze being nice when she doesn't want something from him. "Why--"

"Which is why I'm gonna tell you right now," Maze interrupts. "That you're my best friend. And that I care about you."

"I--okay? I--"

"And that if you hurt Chloe," Maze says, still smiling, still with that same casual tone. "I will fucking end you. Got that?"

"I haven't even done anything!" Lucifer protests. "Is she getting this same shovel talk? And besides, she's said she's not interested, it's just--friendly."

"Oh," Maze says, relaxing against the counter a little more. "Really? Wouldn't have guessed that. Also...yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, she got the same shovel talk," Maze says with another eyeroll, all trace of her sweet, fake smile gone. "Obviously. You're my best friend."

Lucifer nods, shoulders dropping just a little. It's not that he was worried Maze was picking between him and Chloe, like it's some sort of fight, but it's--nice, to be reassured that she's on his side anyway.

"Also?" Maze says, glare getting worse.

"Also...I care about you too?"

"Thank you!" Maze says in her sweetest, fakest voice of all. "Also, I'm guessing you two didn't exchange numbers again?"

"Shit."

"It's fine, I got you, let me just make sure Chloe's cool with it once I'm home," Maze says. "You're definitely both being stupid as hell, but whatever, at least it'll be fun to watch."

At 1:43am, after they've finished closing up and cleaning and getting everything ready for tomorrow, Lucifer checks his phone for the first time in an hour and sees a text from a number he doesn't recognize.

Hey! It's Chloe. Maze gave me your number, she said you said it was okay

If it's not, I'm sorry and I won't text again

And if you're not Lucifer, I'm sorry and please let me know?

Hello, Detective

She doesn't respond, but it's late enough that she's probably asleep, and frankly, after having to actually work tonight, he's about ready to pass out himself. So he does, gets into the most comfortable sheets he's ever head and is unconscious almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. He misses one more text, from a number he hasn't texted in years.

hey! i'm back in town if you want to meet up! let's partyyyy

#deckerstar #chloe decker #lucifer morningstar #lucifer on netflix #fox lucifer #fic: what do you truly desire?#my fics

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