#which is fine too. like if you want to be sanctimonious about it you’re welcome to — just be sanctimonious across the board | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cosleia · 4 years

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What if Millicent wasn't a small cat but something tiger-sized and Pryde poked her with his stick one time too many?

The Deaths of Allegiant General Pryde, Part 6: Dinner

(kylux, preslash. content note: graphic descriptions of an animal mauling and eating a person)

“I understand you have a...pet,” said Allegiant General Enric Pryde, slapping his swagger stick into his palm.

General Armitage Hux’s office on the Steadfast was not large—nothing like his war room and engineering facilities on the Finalizer had been—but it had a desk and a chair and a door, and at this point that was all he could hope for. It did have its merits: Pryde had had to use the call box before entering, and he also had to stand while Armitage remained comfortable in his seat.

Armitage managed not to twitch at the sound of Pryde’s crop striking the leather of his glove. It was an obvious intimidation tactic, and Armitage was not intimidated by sanctimonious peons like Pryde. “Yes,” he said. “It’s my prerogative as ranking general.” He watched Pryde’s face, daring him to claim that his rank was higher. This issue had not yet come to a head, and Armitage was, quite frankly, tired of the chain of command being unclear.

But Pryde ignored the comment, likely because he didn’t want to risk losing the authority he’d so recently gained when Supreme Leader Kylo Ren chose to make Pryde’s flagship his own. What he did say was, “It’s highly irregular. And as this is my ship, I have the right to assess the way this creature is being housed. Every centimetre counts on a starship, General—”

“Millicent lives in my chambers, General,” Armitage put in, a bit crossly. “And I pay for her food out of my own stipend. She will have no impact on the operation of the Steadfast, just as she never interfered with the operation of the Finalizer.”

Pryde raised an eyebrow. “If that’s true, then you shouldn’t mind a brief inspection of your quarters? To validate what you’ve said.”

Armitage had a feeling he’d been outmaneuvered, but he wasn’t sure how. Pryde had the right to enter any area on the Steadfast, including all officers’ chambers. Well, excepting Ren’s, of course, and the rooms Ren kept for his Knights.

Wait. Had Ren also made Armitage’s chambers off limits to Pryde?

A smile twitched its way across Armitage’s face. “You’re more than welcome to come meet Millicent, General,” he said graciously. “I’m sure she’d enjoy the company.”

“I’ll send an audit team,” Pryde sniffed. He tucked his swagger stick beneath his left arm the way he did when he was about to walk away dismissively, and oh, so that’s what he was after. Pryde wanted to spy on Armitage. His ‘audit team’ would almost certainly consist of intelligence officers who would bring with them any number of tiny, easily hidden surveillance devices.

“I’m sorry, General,” Armitage said, “but I can’t allow that. Millicent loves people, but she can be distressed by groups. One person is all I’m willing to subject her to.”

“Yet you claim the creature won’t interfere with the operation of this ship.”

Armitage smiled again. “One person is sufficient to perform an audit. As I said, you are more than welcome to come yourself.”

Pryde always looked like he was glowering, but his face looked especially severe now. “Fine,” he said.

“Of course, I must also be present,” Armitage added. “She won’t take kindly to a stranger I haven’t introduced her to.”

“Fine,” Pryde said again. If he was feeling anything beyond slightly inconvenienced, he was hiding it exceptionally well. “We’ll go now.”

Armitage heard a muffled thump and the clack of Millie’s claws on the durasteel floor as soon as the hatch cycled open. “Come, darling!” he called, though she was almost certainly already on her way. “We have a visitor!”

Millicent emerged from the bedroom at a gallop, a giant blur of orange and black and white, barreling up to Armitage and bounding up on her hind legs to throw her front paws onto his shoulders. He staggered a bit under her weight and laughed as her enormous tongue lapped over his neck and face. “There’s a good girl,” he praised her, putting his arms as far around her as he could get them, stroking down her back, and burying his face in the wonderfully soft fur behind her ear. “Hello. Hello. Did you miss me?”

As usual, the greeting was over in a matter of seconds; Millie pushed off him and dropped back to the floor and circled toward where Pryde was standing. Her hackles weren’t raised, not really, but she was curious, cautious. The muscles in her legs and back were visibly tensed for a pounce, and her tail was flicking slowly back and forth behind her in preparation to counterbalance. She was absolutely magnificent, the perfect hunter, and Armitage indulged in watching her for a moment before turning his attention to Pryde.

The allegiant general stood stock-still by the door, arms straight at his sides. The only parts of him that moved were his eyes as they followed Millie’s prowl back and forth between him and the main living space. “General?” Armitage prompted.

“It’s rather...large,” Pryde said. For once, his voice wasn’t strong and certain. He seemed to remember how to move, pulling his swagger stick out from under his arm and brandishing it in front of him like a knife.

“Yes, she is,” Armitage agreed.

“I expected something...smaller. Where is its cage?”

Armitage blinked, affronted. “I would never put my Millie in a cage. She needs room to move about. It’s in her blood.”

“It’s tame, though?”

“Of course. I trained her myself. It can be difficult with this species, but only if one is not fully committed to the task.”

“Ah,” Pryde said, shifting back a half step as Millie twitched her whiskers at him. “I suppose you are the son of a nerf-herder.”

“Nerfs are docile plant-eaters!” Even someone as witless as Pryde should be able to appreciate how special Millie was, how unique. “Millie is a carnivore. A predator. It’s completely different.” Armitage wrinkled his nose and added, “Also, Millie doesn’t stink.”

Millie, sensing Armitage’s distress, began to growl low in the back of her throat. Pryde took a full step back.

“No, no, it’s all right, Millie,” Armitage told her. “To me.” Millicent loped to Armitage’s side. “Sit,” Armitage said, and Millie lowered her haunches to the floor in her elegant, feline version of parade rest. “Good girl.”

“She does seem to be well trained,” Pryde said, sounding half relieved and half disappointed. “And her presence in your quarters does not affect the operation of the ship. I shall not press the matter.”

“I appreciate your understanding, General,” Armitage said. At this point, Pryde just seemed eager to leave. He’d had no opportunity to plant any bugs; he hadn’t even moved from the doorway. Armitage, with Millicent’s help, had successfully foiled his plot. “Shall we return to the bridge?”

Life-partner did not like the grouchy man he brought home today. Millicent knew that for certain. And Grouchy didn’t seem to like life-partner, either, which meant Grouchy was a threat. They were tolerating each other, though, and that meant Millicent would tolerate Grouchy too...so long as Grouchy didn’t cause any problems.

Some time had passed since then. She had batted her toys around for a while and now she was lying at the foot of their bed. She had just started meticulously grooming herself when she heard the front door cycle open again. It was early for life-partner to return, but he had returned at a strange time already today, so Millie did not worry right away. However, the heavy footfalls she heard next did not belong to life-partner, nor did the scent that shortly came wafting in. Millie leapt off the bed and trotted out to the playroom, lips already curling back in warning.

It was Grouchy. Life-partner was not with him.

Millie bared all her teeth and told Grouchy unequivocally to get out of their home. Her loud, rumbling growl seemed to terrify Grouchy; he froze in place like an ash-rabbit instead of doing what she’d told him. Something he was holding in his left hand fell to the floor with a small clatter.

Millie stepped forward, attempting to startle him, to herd him to the door. Grouchy waved the stick he was carrying in his right hand at her. She paused, cocking her head to the side as she evaluated the weapon. It did not seem to pose any significant threat. “Back,” Grouchy said. “Back, you ugly beast.”

Millie recognized the words. ‘Back,’ of course, was a command. Life-partner used ‘ugly’ whenever he was talking about Dark One, and he loved Dark One almost as much as he loved Millicent, so it must be a compliment. ‘Beast,’ however, was an unpleasant word she had heard as a cub, back before life-partner had chosen her. It meant disrespect.

Millie did not obey the commands of those who did not respect her.

She continued her slow, steady advance. Grouchy let out a high-pitched sound and waved his stick right in her face. This time it actually brushed her whiskers. Millie snapped at it in warning, letting her sharp teeth clack together noisily. “Sit!” Grouchy yelled. “Lie down! Get back! Get away!”

She let out her own yell, again commanding him to leave her home. The roar was so load it rattled the drinking glass life-partner had left on the caf table. Surely that would be enough to get Grouchy to go.

But it wasn’t. Grouchy crouched down, reaching with his free hand for the small item he’d dropped. At the same time, he stopped waving the stick and started thrusting it toward her. This form of attack seemed more dangerous; he might strike her in the eye. One thrust poked her hard in the cheek; she howled, more from surprise than pain, and then she snapped her jaws closed around Grouchy’s wrist to keep him from poking her again.

She’d been polite long enough.

Grouchy screeched and jerked backward, trying and failing to free himself from Millie’s powerful hold, and dropped both the stick and the other thing. Millicent sank her teeth deep into his flesh to secure her grip.

Then she tasted blood.

Life-partner took good care of Millie, providing food and water and a bed and toys and a place to play. But it had been a long time since Millie had hunted prey. A long time since she’d enjoyed the meat of a fresh kill.

She considered. Would life-partner be troubled if she had Grouchy for dinner? Surely his unwelcome intrusion into their home and his refusal to leave broke any sort of truce the two of them had. There might be some other reason life-partner wouldn’t want Millie to eat Grouchy, but now his blood was trickling tantalizingly down her throat and she wanted more.

She deserved this, Millie decided. She had been very good for life-partner, and life-partner loved her. This was her treat.

That settled, she bit Grouchy’s hand off.

Her teeth crunched delightfully straight through the bones and tendons of Grouchy’s arm, and she chomped and smacked her lips and tossed her head until she got the whole hand into her mouth. Millie ground the meat and bones down to delicious pieces between her teeth and swallowed it all triumphantly.

Grouchy was screaming, clutching at his bloody arm, and that only made Millicent want more. She stalked toward him, licking her chops. Should she eat him piece by piece, saving the most savory bits for last? Should she go straight for the delectable organs she knew she’d find within his torso? She could crack him open easily just by leaping on top of him to break his sternum, tearing into his flesh with her claws, ripping out his ribs with her teeth—

He staggered backward until he hit the wall, and then he was scrabbling against it desperately, still screaming. His wounded cries were so sweet and enticing; how could she resist? Millicent lunged and struck him heavily with one paw, sending him flying to the floor faster than he could fall. One of his legs was left sticking out at an odd angle; she stepped on it and felt it break in two beneath her paw.

Now he was sobbing, trying and failing to crawl away. She almost wished they were in an open plain where she could really chase him, follow his wails and hunt him properly, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t have put up much of a fight no matter where he was.

Anyway, in an open plain she might have had to share. Here, this meal was all hers.

He kicked his good leg at her, so Millicent got her mouth around his ankle and gave it a good chomp. It was slightly harder to separate his foot from his body because of the covering over it, but after a few moments of worrying at it, she finally ripped it free. Millicent kept an eye on her prey as she set about tearing open the foot covering to get at the meat. Human feet weren’t especially delicious, but the bones provided a satisfying crunch, and she wanted to enjoy that before moving on to something meatier like the leg.

All Grouchy was doing was whimpering and crying and dragging himself along the ground as best he could without the full use of three limbs. It was slow going. He seemed to be trying to get to the door, but there was no way he’d be able to open it without standing on his hind legs, and Millicent didn’t think he would be able to do that. She took her time, gnawing and slurping at the foot until finally she finished it with a single definitive crunch.

Grouchy had almost made it to the door by the time she was done. It wouldn’t do for life-partner to stumble over him when he got home. Millicent trotted over and grabbed the back of Grouchy’s neck in her jaws and flung him bodily back toward the center of the room. Necks were vulnerable, especially human necks, and Millicent thought she might have broken Grouchy’s; at least that meant he’d hold still while she finished her feast.

It was time to eat his heart, Millicent decided. She’d denied herself long enough. Eagerly, Millie bounded over to Grouchy’s collapsed form, batted him over onto his back with her paw, and cracked open his chest just like she’d planned.

“Where is Allegiant General Pryde?”

Usually Pryde was at Kylo’s side whenever Kylo was outside his chambers. Kylo vacillated between finding it convenient and irritating; having an old Imperial constantly hanging around wasn’t really the same as keeping Hux close. Right now, though, the allegiant general was nowhere to be found, and Kylo had some orders to give him.

“General Hux?” Kylo asked, because Hux was the type to know where everyone was at all times.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” Hux said. A cursory scan of his mind showed he was telling the truth. Surprising. “I haven’t seen him since the middle of cresh shift. He said he had business and left the bridge.”

Kylo felt himself scowling and wished he hadn’t destroyed his mask.

“Can...I help with something, sir?” Hux added.

“Yes,” Kylo said, because he could give orders through Hux just as well as through Pryde. Actually, the allegiant general being absent was a good opportunity. Kylo didn’t feel like he could talk to Hux when Pryde was around. This was ridiculous, of course; he was Supreme Leader and could talk to anybody whenever he wanted. But still, it always felt...awkward. “Your chambers,” Kylo decided, in case Pryde suddenly decided to appear. “Now.”

As they set off together, Hux actually walked abreast of Kylo instead of trailing behind him. It was, Kylo thought, the first time he’d done that in a year. It reminded Kylo of how things had been on the Finalizer, before.

“How is Millicent?” Kylo asked, realizing he hadn’t thought about Hux’s pet in months. He wasn’t even sure she had survived Batuu.

“She’s fine, Supreme Leader,” Hux said. “Healthy and happy.”

It would be nice to see her again. She had always been friendly with Kylo, letting him pet her and scratch below her jowls. She had a deep, throaty purr that was strangely soothing.

He felt a sudden spike of anxiety that things might be different now, that Millicent might not like Kylo anymore. The thought of her rebuffing him was unpleasant. But there was no reason for Millicent to dislike him, was there? Things had—changed, shifted, with Hux, but surely that wouldn’t affect—

Kylo swallowed and pushed those worries down. It didn’t matter if an animal didn’t like him, did it? He was the Supreme Leader. He didn’t need anyone to like him. Not Millicent, not Hux, not anyone.

“Here we are,” Hux said, breaking into Kylo’s maudlin thoughts. Hux activated the airlock hatch to his chambers and started to enter. “Can I offer you a—” Then he broke off, stopping in the doorway, his mouth hanging open for a beat. “Ah. Supreme Leader. Perhaps a different venue—?”

“No,” Kylo said. “We’re already here. I don’t care if you haven’t dusted, or whatever.” He shouldered past Hux.

Then he stopped too. The floor was covered in dried blood, tattered pieces of fabric and leather, and bits of what looked like bone. Millicent lay curled up by the sofa. She looked very pleased with herself; her long tail curled slowly back and forth as she raised her head to look at Kylo. There was blood all around her mouth and all over her paws.

Her stomach was distended.

The smell of blood always gave Kylo something of a rush. It excited him. It was a scent of battle. He licked his lips as he stepped further into Hux’s chambers, scanning the room for evidence of what exactly had happened. It seemed clear enough, though. “Millie,” he said, “did you eat someone?”

Millie licked her own chops in response, as if to say yes.

Hux spoke up then, a nervous thread in his voice. “Supreme Leader, I’m utterly horrified. I’ve no idea how this happened. No one should have been in my chambers. I’m sure she was simply defending herself—”

Kylo raised a hand to shut him up. “It’s fine,” he said. “If Millie did eat someone, they probably deserved it.” He crossed the room to Millicent and buried his hands in her fur. “I missed you,” he crooned to her. To his delight, she rolled onto her back, inviting him to rub her tummy.

“You won’t...punish her?” Hux asked. “No matter who it was?”

“No,” Kylo said shrugging. “Why would I do that? I won’t punish you, either.”

“In that case...” Hux stepped further into the room, stooped over, picked something up, and brought it to Kylo. Kylo glanced up, then did a double take. It was that stick Pryde was always carrying around.

“Oh,” Kylo said with a laugh of realization. “So that’s where he was.”

Hux’s face took on a look of triumph. It was subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it, but Kylo did. It helped that he could also feel the man’s satisfaction rolling out from him like waves in the Force.

“You didn’t like him,” Kylo said. When Hux didn’t answer right away, Kylo added, “I know you didn’t plan this.”

At that, Hux let out a small laugh of surprise. "No, Supreme Leader. I didn’t like him.”

“I didn’t really like him either,” Kylo said. “But he always did what I ordered, so there wasn’t a good reason to kill him.” Kylo shrugged.

“It seems he intended to spy on me,” Hux added, holding up another item that appeared to be a small transmitter.

Kylo scoffed. “Was he so inept that he didn’t think he could serve me without trying to copy my most brilliant general? Fool.” Kylo turned back to Millicent and resumed stroking her fat belly. “You ate well, didn’t you? Guess you don’t need your regular dinner, do you?” Millicent nudged her face against Kylo’s ankle and started purring, and Kylo felt both gratified and content, like everything was the way it was supposed to be.

After a moment, Hux moved around the caf table and sat down on the couch, leaning over to join Kylo in petting Millicent. “Good girl,” Kylo heard him say softly.

Millie didn’t know why life-partner hadn’t taken Dark One as his mate yet. Humans had many strange and inconvenient customs; perhaps a long courtship was one of them. But it was nice to see Dark One again. There was something different about him, something different about the way he and life-partner were behaving around each other...but life-partner still smiled when he thought Dark One wasn’t looking, and Dark One still stared at life-partner like he wanted to mate immediately. It was only a matter of time.

Maybe, Millicent thought as Dark One settled onto the sofa next to life-partner and she climbed up to sprawl across both their laps, it would happen tonight.

The Deaths of Allegiant General Pryde series on AO3

#star wars #kylux #fanfic #my writing #the deaths of allegiant general pryde #gore #fruhallbera #long post

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darth-salem-emperor-of-earth · 4 years

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Well, well, would you look at that? I somehow started this today and managed to complete this oneshot in a day too. Must have been really motivated for this story or at least, to get this prompt finished for the @naruto-fantasy-week event that’s still taking place until the 21st. I have feelings I’d like to dive more into the plot and world I created for this fic because there’s a lot of story ideas brimming with possibilities. :D

Title derives from the lyrics of “Bedroom Hymns” by Florence+the Machine.

There’s a tiny bit of gore from battle mentioned in the beginning of the fic but it’s not explicit.

Summary: When the lesser gods and power-hungry mortals slew several of the Old Gods to gain their strength, the world erupted into chaos and many of the surviving Old Gods went into hiding. The world did not fare better with the newer gods and soon enough, Godkillers were either born or shaped to give humanity a fighting chance. Who would have expected an experienced, antisocial Godkiller was bored enough to escort and protect an young Old God from those who’d either kill or use her to steal and harness her powers? Naruto Fantasy Week, Day 3. Prompt: Old Gods. [Sasori x Sakura]

Text:

Thoughts

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“Take one step towards the gods and they will take ten steps towards you.”

— Joseph Campbell, Mythologist

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Sinking his blade deep into the enemy before him, Sasori gave the weapon one final twist, feeling the man’s flesh stretch and rend even wider and deeper before he abruptly and forcefully yanked out the sword out, blood squirting out of the gaping wound and splashing across his gloves, arms, and face. The man clutched his open gash, uttering nothing save for a few gurgles, and topped over, face first, and a pool of fresh blood soon formed around him.

That’s the last of them.

Wiping the scarlet droplets from his scimitar on the corpse’s tunic, Sasori turned around to look for his employer who chased after several archers who concealed themselves in a brush up on a small hill. She was the one who charged him to help her to escort her to the Pearl Sea, where there supposedly was a ship waiting for her to take her to the fabled ‘Himmelsreiche’ , home of the Old Gods. Or what was left of them.

Sakura was his employer’s name, her brilliant pink hair most likely the contributor to her name. Weeks ago, she approached him with a job, an easy one that consisted of a simple escort mission to bring her to the banks of Pearl Sea and deal with any miscreants who wished her harm. While she didn’t delve more into detail why she might be beset by people who were more than run-of-the-mill brigands, Sasori didn’t need to press the matter. He knew exactly who she was. An Old God, or at least, the surviving offspring of them. His eyes, a mere brown hue, had the gift to see the aura of other beings, human or no, and the auras of gods, Old or lesser, were far more luminescence and stronger than mere humans. Sakura’s aura was red, the same color his vibrant hair, and her essence brimmed with untold, untapped power.

He wondered why she, an Old God, went to him, an infamous Godkiller who never bothered with slaying the Old Gods, for assistance. He had a few theories. On the run from other Godkillers who were either overzealous in their mission to eradicate all gods, be it lesser or the original ones, or they simply desired to use a god’s power for their own devices. Or there was the lesser gods, who were caught between vanquishing the rest of the gold gods, whom they resented for being in power and adored by the masses for so long, and the humans who eventually declared their unearthly rule corrupt and tyrannical and trained many of their own become Godkillers for the express purpose of hunting all the lesser gods down and putting them to justice. A young Old God like Sakura would be just the power boost they need in order to maintain their malign reign over the human population.

But he didn’t care about her story so Sasori never asked. So he took her payment and off they travelled, gaining as much ground as they could in the daylight and when night blanketed the sky with twinkling stars, an illuminating moon, and a sky containing a dark velvet blue hue, they either sought shelter in taverns or camped outside. However, despite their meticulous measures to remain careful and conceal their presence from others, Sakura’s aura was like a beacon to those who wished her harm or to cage her so she’d be easier to subdue and channel her godly powers for their own purpose, for good or ill. Sasori already lost track of how many rival Godkillers (if you could hardly call a couple of green, stupid boys with dreams of glory and a beautiful death, or uppity, sanctimonious men and woman who could fight but never experienced true battle with an experienced, seasoned Godkiller and an Old God was still young but no less dangerous) or lackeys of lesser gods he slew without remorse or hesitation.

Sakura surprised him with her fighting prowess and willingness to hold her own in a battle, having rapid reflexes to swiftly switch from being defensive to taking the offensive. Not all the gods were warriors and despite her appearance radiating almost soft or unsuspecting charm, he learned from their very first battle that she had the strength to produce earthquakes by merely stomping or punching down on the ground long enough to create such colossal damages. She was skilled enough to keep up with him in spars or actual combat and much to his annoyance, saved his life a couple of times, either due to her superhuman strength, the ability to manipulate the earth to her will, or from her uncanny ability to heal almost injury, even if poison was embedded in the muscle or already entered the victim’s bloodstreams.

One day he’ll create a poison not even she, an Old God, could heal.

“The archers won’t trouble us anymore,” Sakura announced grimly, sweat glistening off her wide brow. “There was also a scout observing our movements so I had to take care of him as well. Like the archers, he’s buried six feet under.”

Sasori smirked, recalling the distant screams he heard earlier when he effortlessly sliced off one of the attacker’s head before whirling around to deliver two deep, perfect crisscrossing slashes across the soldier sneaking up behind him. Those horrific yells nearby provoked him to press on, to finish every single last bastard the lesser god Danzo continued to sic on them, time after time. Out of all the lesser gods that issued their own soldiers and trusted allies to hunt down Sakura and capture her, Danzo was the most persistent. He was also the god Sakura loathed the most.

“Efficient. None of them will be able to run back to their master and report about how your powers are growing.” Sasori remarked casually, sheathing his scimitar. He bent over to check the dead men’s belongings for anything of value and managed to uncover several pouches of gold. Sakura turned over two similar small bags of coins as well as a crinkled scroll, the golden seal broken.

“I found this message on the scout before I killed him. It seems both Danzo and Hanzo have joined together for an alliance. And placed an enormous bounty on your head.”

Sasori frowned, thoroughly irked at the notion of eventually having to also deal with avarice or foolish bounty hunters hounding their every waking step in hopes to take down an actual Godkiller. “It sounds like we’ll have to double our pace if we want to make it harder for the two of them to trace us. We should leave this place as soon as possible.”

Sakura nodded her head in agreement. “Just let me bury the bodies first.” Palms facing down, Sakura’s emerald gaze was focused on the ground beneath their feet. Instinctively, Sasori took a step behind her and let her carry on with her work. The earth shifted and pulled itself apart from Sakura’s command, cracks forming into huge, gaping chasms to swallow the five carcasses as well as wiping away any remnants of Sasori’s gruesome battle. Then, the massive holes in the ground smoothly patched themselves up, the earth advancing upward to straighten the land up until soil,rocks, and grass soon littered the area once more. There was not even a speck of blood to hint what just transpired here over ten minutes ago.

“Are you hurt, Sasori?” Sakura queried once she was finished.

He dismissed her concern by turning away and untied the reins of their horses, doing his utmost best to ignore the irritated, unhappy stare she was no doubt sending him. “I’m fine. None of them landed a hit on me.”

“You’re wrong.” Just like that, Sakura was at his side, gripping his arm and pushing the sleeve back, revealing jagged gash no longer than a mouse’s tail. “What do you call that?”

“A scratch. Now, get on the horse so we can resume our travels.”

Ire flashed in Sakura’s eyes, spreading to her visage as her lips twisted into a scowl. “What that is a possible infection. Let me heal you–and that cut on your cheek.”

Disagreeing with her when it came to healing was futile but Sasori continued to protest, although the scolding died in his throat soon after as one of Sakura’s hands rest over the slash on his forearm, a warm, soothing sage green glow flowing from her fingers and palm, almost creating a small dome that isolated his wound before simultaneously disinfecting it and knitting his skin back together. And then almost immediately, the very same hand cupped his cheek, right where the supposed cut was located and the welcoming verdant light returned, bathing Sasori in warmth once more.

Yet it wasn’t the tranquil sensation of Sakura’s curative abilities that caused Sasori’s blood to boil and transform in fire, or delivered tingling, shooting frissions up and down his spine and other areas of his body (which was damn well infuriating), or had every beat of his heart speed up in a rapid crescendo. When he took the escort job, Sasori imagined it was a simple ‘point A to point B’ mission with a little bit of carnage thrown in. The mere prospect of experiencing even a modicum of romantic feelings for his employer would be absolutely ludicrous. And yet here he was, unable to tear his gaze away from Sakura’s concentrated but thoughtful expression, her eyes darting between his healing cut and being caught in his heated stare, if her blushing cheeks were anything to go by.

What seemed like ages, Sakura finally removed her hand from his cheek but there was an air of reluctance as she did so. “Please, be more careful, Sasori. You have already gotten yourself injured several times on my behalf and if any of your wounds became mortal, I wouldn’t be able to heal you.” She glanced away, some locks of her light rose colored hair obscuring her face from him. “I don’t know how I’d react if you were truly gone from this world.”

Cocking his head, Sasori reached out to grasp her chin and pull her head back to face him so their knowing gazes would collide once more and at last, come to terms with the all tension and emotions brimming between them. How long have they ignored the fact there was a spark, a flare of attraction blossoming between them? Far too long, their bodies and hearts would say.

Sasori dipped his head in, saying nothing. His eyes would do all the talking.

In response, Sakura leaned forward, her hands gripping his black cloak for support even as his other arm wrapped itself around her waist. Their noses bumped into each other, awkward and soft. Yet Sakura merely smiled and closed her eyes just as Sasori tilted his head to plant his mouth over that subtle dimple on her check, right before trailing over to claim a kiss from her beckoning lips.

By the time they were back on their horses and riding to the next town, both of their mouths were kiss swollen, Sakura’s neck was already sporting a vivid bite mark red as a peony, and Sasori’s chest was aching from the scratches Sakura left behind when she snaked one of her hands underneath his cloak and shirt to give him a taste of her teasing nature. Sakura was practically glowing at the new development of their relationship while Sasori kept his focus on the horizon, towards the direction of the Pearl Sea, all the while unconsciously brushing his thumb over his bottom lip, recalling the moment where Sakura first nibbled, then sucked on that particular spot during their second to last kiss.

They were going to check into the first inn he saw and once they were settled in, he was going to give Sakura a matching bite mark on the other side of her neck. After all, in the age of gods, waning or no, paying tribute to the god of your choice was necessary to receive any blessings in return. And Sasori recognized quite quickly how much he enjoyed Sakura’s blessings. She was his god and he was her guardian, the protector of her temple. And no Godkiller or lesser god, regardless of their strength or reach, would tear them asunder.

#narutofantasyweek2020 #narutofantasyweek #naruto fantasy week #naruto-fantasy-week #my writing #SasoSaku #Sakura x Sasori #Sasori x Sakura #old gods

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cchellacat · 6 years

Text

Vacation (Part 2 of It’s Not A Cuddle)

Love All The Marvel Ships Challenge

Day Nine ~ Hanging Out With Friends

She stared Steve down as he locked his jaw and gave her that judgmental holier than thou frowny face. God, the guy was such a disapproving stick in the mud sometimes. She bet he shit in red white and blue too, the sanctimonious party pooper. They didn’t come any more Apple Pie than good old Captain America. But Darcy had had enough, this was her home too, technically it was her home first. Not that Rogers had figured that out yet. She knew the others had and she also knew the pool down in security was pushing ten thousand at this point on when he would find out.

“Bucky’s got a long road of recovery ahead, he needs quiet, not your usual brand of disturbance Darcy. I know you’re a good person, that you’ll respect my position in this. Just keep your distance for a while, I think your behaviour is confusing him.”

Darcy mentally counted to ten, then ten again and just for good measure started reciting the periodic table too. She would not lose her temper in a pointless argument with Captain Righteous. Except the other part of her brain, the Stark part was screaming in the back of her head to taser him in the balls.

“Look Steve. I know you mean well, but Bucky’s a big boy, he can use his words just fine. If he doesn’t want me around, he can tell me himself, but I am not abandoning him just because you’re jealous.”

Steve glared down at her while she sneered back.

“I have no interest in you Miss Lewis.”

“I never said you did. I’m not blind and this isn’t 1940 anymore. You’re losing your cool because your BAE has been flirting with me nonstop since I gave him a ‘Welcome Back, Glad You’re Not Brainwashed’, cupcake back in June.”

“I am not jealous Miss Lewis, Bucky is like a brother to me.”

“Sure you aren’t, and the Lannister’s were just siblings too, doesn’t mean they didn’t bang like rabbits.”

Her sarcasm was so thick she could probably cut it with a knife.

Steve went a brilliant shade of puce and stalked away.

Darcy watched him go and wrinkled her nose. This was getting ridiculous; the guy had a massive bug up his butt about Bucky spending so much time with her. What he needed was to pull the stick out of his ass and have some fun. When she really thought about, all of them could use a little down time. When was the last time any of them had had a vacation? Probably not since before the Mandarin had blown up the house in Malibu. Darcy hums to herself as she makes her way down to Tony’s workshop.

“Hey Pop, Peter. What you doing?”

Tony was elbow deep in a piece of machinery and Peter was hanging upside down from the ceiling peering at whatever their dad was pointing out to him with an expression of awe.

“Just some adjustments for the engine we’re putting together”

“Cool, you building a car as some sort of father son bonding exercise?”

Tony and Peter shared an identical look of mischief and Darcy felt the hair on the back of her head rise in warning. That was never good, the last time they had worked on something there had been doppelgangers popping in and out through portals to alternate universes, the clean up on that mess had been a bitch. As always it had landed in her lap to deal with the fall out. On the other hand, it had been really sweet getting to meet her counterpart in another world. In that one she was happily married to one James Buchannan Barnes with a baby on the way. She really hoped it worked out for them, they seemed really happy together.

That world had been running a little ahead time wise though, so she figured her own delectable Mr Barnes and she had plenty of time to get their romance on the way to happily ever after, or at least she had till Captain Cockblock started lurking around every time she managed to get some alone time with him.

There was a clunk and spark from the table the boys were messing with which brought her attention back to the possible trouble the two were no doubt brewing.

“Do I have to call Mom and tell her you guys are “Up To Something” again?”

Twin looks of terror washed across their faces and the curl of satisfaction in Darcy’s gut turned her grin wicked.

“Darcy, light of my life, child of my heart, what can dear old dad do to keep you from ratting me out to Pepper?”

The look of delighted triumph that sprang up told Tony he was going to regret offering almost cart blanch for whatever scheme his daughter had concocted this time.

“Can the new house in Malibu be ready for guests this time next week?”

“Why?”

“I think the Avengers and their various support staff and significant others could really do with a vacation, some family time to recharge after the craptastic year and half we’ve had. I’ll even arrange some cover for a week with Xavier. What do you say, family Va-kay?”

Tony let go a long suffering sigh and gave her ‘The Look’ TM.

“I’m not gonna get out of this am I?”

“Nope.”

“Fine, but if Barton breaks anything it’s coming out of your allowance.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Bucky, are we cuddling again?”

For a long minute he just continues to hold her close, tucked into his arms protectively. She squirms a little till he slackens his hold enough for her to look up and check his eyes. Well that’s good, no Winter Soldier today, but something must have triggered him, he’d been doing much better in the month since she’d dropped Sam in that vat of goo.

“Umm, sorry Darcy.” He shrugs a little and goes to step back but the squishy part of her heart has just been bent out of shape again and she wraps her arms around his waist and buries her nose in his chest.

“No sorry’s allowed Bucky-Bear. We can hug now it’s fine, I like cuddles, remember?” Her playful tone has him slipping his arms around her again and she melts into his embrace.

They stand that way for a few minutes, leaning into each other. It’s the strangest way a guy has ever come onto her in her life, but she’s learning to appreciate these odd moments when Bucky just seems to need an anchor.

For whatever reason, almost as soon as he’s been brought to the Tower, it was Darcy who had been his focus when the world around him got to be too much. Natasha thought it was because Darcy was the least threatening looking person there, Clint was adamant that Darcy just looked like the softest most cuddly woman imaginable and that Barnes was probably a boob man. Tony had got a pinched look on his face and told her that she probably reminded Barnes of the pin ups the guys back in the day would have postcards of, that the familiarity was a comfort. To be honest she could see the merit in all the answers, it was probably a combination of the three. Also, bonus for her because he was an absolute snack. Who wouldn’t want to be wrapped up in the embrace of a six-foot super soldier with muscles like that? Just being around him gave her the shivers, the good kind, and his eyes were a thing of beauty. Anytime he had her caged in his arms she felt safe and warm and was tempted to start purring like a kitten.

The only thing stopping her from moving things forward was Captain “I can do this all day” Rogers. Every time it seemed like Bucky was going to go in for a real, honest to goodness kiss the Captain would show up and she’d be back at square one.

Well, she was going to fix that. She had plans to make, lots of villain level plans that were going to get her laid, damn it. All she needed was the house in Malibu, Sharon Carter and a little favour from Fury.

“What are you plotting, Doll? I can almost hear the wheels turning in you brain.”

“How would you feel about a little sun, some time by the pool and me in a bikini?”

“Sounds like a plan. How are you gonna pull it off?”

“I have my ways.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A week later Darcy settled into the hot tub and was quickly pulled onto Bucky’s knee. One arm held her securely over her waist and the other handed her a drink. She snuggled back and bit her lip as he nuzzled into her neck and placed tiny kisses at the juncture of her shoulder, sweet mother of Thor she could get used to this. Everything had went off without a hitch. Currently Fury had sent Steve and Sharon undercover for a month, a conveniently timed operation in Russia. Without the good Captain to muck up her plans the rest of the Avengers had all headed to Malibu and the new house to take some vacation days.

Everyone looked happy and relaxed. Clint and Laura and the kids were by the pool, the kids getting a swimming lesson from Sam. Laura was snuggled into Clint’s side on the double lounger as the archer read a book.

Peter, MJ and Ned were playing volley ball on the beach a little way down with Tony, Pepper and Happy.

Natasha was lying on a lounger, Bruce happily rubbing lotion into her back, they’d been doing that for a while now and no one was about to mention it or even raise an eyebrow.

Across the hot tub from them, Thor and Jane were enjoying a little cuddle time of their own.

Sipping on her Mojito as Bucky’s fingers skimmed the edge of her bikini bottoms Darcy felt like everything had fallen into place nicely. This was exactly what they had needed. Just a nice relaxing time away from New York, the whole gang getting the chance to hang out together without the usual pressures and stresses of every day Avenging business.

Without Steve to cock block her at every turn Bucky been in had every night since they arrived. With both of them able to relax they had fallen into a nice routine of going to bed early and getting up late. This morning had been especially good, waking up in his arms and exchanging sleepy kisses he had told her he loved her and then he’d shown her just how much with as much enthusiasm as he could.

“We should do this every year Darcy.” Bucky told her she traced her fingers over the plates in his arm.

“What, get Steve sent off for a month?” she throws him a cheeky grin, the responding smile and chuckle and the sweet kiss he plants on her cheek brings a swell of happiness in her heart.

“No, just this, spend time together as a family, just hanging out, having fun. Think everyone needed it, even you Doll. You haven’t pranked anyone once since we got here.”

“Well I did promise Tony not to break anything.”

“And I know you’re more than capable of coming up with ways to inconvenience people without property damage.”

“Tony would disagree, he had to rip out the whole air filtration system at the tower three months ago on account of the number of glitter bombs that I’ve set off.”

“You never did tell me where you had Fury send Steve?”

The feral smile that graces her lips makes his cock twitch.

“Well….. you remember that Sharon’s been working with Interpol on infiltrating a Russian human trafficking ring? I had Fury send her Steve to help out. Right now, he’ll be sitting in a brothel in St Petersburg which is being used as a front for illegal money laundering and weapons distribution. Sharon said she’d send him in as a customer, you know, get him a regular girl and turn an asset for them.”

Bucky choked on his drink then threw his head back and laughed. She giggled right along with him, the thought of Steve stuck in that situation gave her a ridiculous level of satisfaction.

“Doll, I love you, don’t ever change.”

“I love you too soldier.”

He kissed her then, right in front of everyone. The wolf whistle from Clint had her flipping him off while she closed her eyes and sank into Bucky’s warmth.

Best. Vacation. Ever.

@captain-rogers-beard

#Darcy/Bucky #Bucky/Darcy #wintershock #Love All The Marvel Ships #Love All The Marvel Ships Challenge #it's not a cuddle

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elanorjane · 6 years

Text

A Princess in Theory [Chapter 3]

Summary: Raised outside of her country, she’s about to find out that she’s a real-life princess. Political advisor Gold is hired to turn this princess in theory into a real royal - without falling in love with her.

AO3 link

Belle had been on a fair number of small planes in her life, but never anything like this. It was a private charter plane and the fanciest she’d ever seen. Instead of the traditional rows of seats, there were also tables and couches. Everything was white leather and dark wood with the Avonlea insignia tastefully peppered throughout.

She hauled on board a knapsack filled with her most treasured belongings. Her photographs took up little room. With her mother’s tutelage, she’d mastered the art of traveling light a long time ago. When you’re forced to sift through everything in your apartment with a really impatient Scotsman standing right outside the door, it turns out very little holds sentimental value besides the memories. Even less had financial value. She and her mum had always scraped by with odd jobs and household goods bought at second hand stores. Belle had a small suitcase of clothes that Dove had carried on board. Afterward he’d disappeared up front with the crew, leaving her and the mystery man alone.

“Does he fly the plane, too?” she asked, watching Dove disappear behind a door. She plopped down into a soft leather seat and buckled in for takeoff.

Mystery Man took a seat on the other side of the aisle. He seemed more relaxed now that they were on the plane. He even went so far as to give her a half-smile. How generous. “No.”

After a beat it was evident that was all he was going to say to her. He’d been surly and silent ever since she’d confronted him about kissing her. Luckily, her seat was within reach of the liquor cabinet. Alcohol. Despite the safety restraint she was able to reach forward, unlatch the cabinet door, grab a bottle of vodka, a can of cranberry juice, and a glass. Her fingers glanced off the ice bucket so she’d have to drink it at room temperature, but she’d live. She sat back in her seat, satisfied with herself, and poured the two liquids into the glass. As she took a large gulp she felt eyes on her.

She looked across the aisle. He’d watched her entire performance in complete silence. How can someone’s face be completely passive yet totally judgmental at the same time?

“I’m a nervous flier,” she deadpanned. In actuality, she was the opposite of a nervous flier. In fact, she relished the loss of control, it was liberating. She could tell he didn’t believe her, but she wasn’t bothered and went back to enjoying her drink. He could keep his judgments on his side of the plane.

When they were up in the air, with the alcohol coursing through her body, she finally had the courage to ask some rather important questions.

“Well, Mystery Man, what’s your name?” He slowly tore his gaze away from whatever he found so interesting out the window. “Or do I just keep calling you ‘you’?”

“Gold.” He looked uncomfortable even sharing that much with her. This was a new interesting facet to her Mystery Man. While he was confident blowing up her life as she knew it, he was less inclined to be the focus of attention.

“You got a first name?”

“Mister.”

She smiled in spite of herself. She always did appreciate sarcasm. “Alright, Gold, what’s your role in all of this? Besides stalking and kidnapping all in the name of shoving a tiara on my head?” She decided over her drink that she’d deal with the influx of batshit crazy information she’d received over the past several hours like some sort of cosmic joke. One that happened to be working in her favor thus far, considering the luxury plane and high end liquor.

“I’ll be there to prepare you to become a princess and ultimately ascend the throne. There are innumerable protocols, rules, and social etiquette that you should have learned from birth but I will instruct you on over several weeks. Avonlea will want to welcome you home with a sort of pre-coronation event, officially welcoming you into the royal family. There will be an official celebration day, including a reception and ball. I’ll stay until you’re settled, then I’ll move on.”

Protocols. That sounded hella boring. Hanging out this close to Mr. Gold didn’t seem like too much of a chore through. He was bossy and disapproving, and, really, how was ‘Mr. Gold’ any better than ‘Mystery Man’? But she enjoyed turning the tables on him, of shocking and surprising him, and earning one of those half-smirks.

“Sounds fun,” she responded, meaning anything but. Suddenly restless, she rose from her seat and poked around the plane, opening and closing cabinets at random. She found a television behind one and snacks in another. The whole time she explored, Gold alternated between reading the thick historical nonfiction book he’d boarded with, staring out the window, and leaning his head back with his eyes closed. Having run out of diversions, she meandered back to her seat, tossing a small bag of Cheetos onto the seat next to her.

Before she could sit down, the plane hit turbulence. The bumps weren’t bad, by frequent flier standards, but navigating the rolls in an open area while in heels was. She crossed her left foot over her right, overcompensated, and tripped herself. As she tipped she clawed at empty air, hoping to grab the back of a seat. The plane steadied and her fall was abruptly cut short when she landed with an oof in one of the seats. His seat. Not just his seat but his literal lap. If she hadn’t already met his cock earlier in the evening, they were getting very well acquainted now. She could feel it pressed against her bottom, right through the virgin wool of his trousers.

His cool passiveness from the bar was nowhere to be found. Beyond surprised to find her in his lap, he was unnerved. Even before they’d boarded the plane, he’d already started to pull away from her, to purposefully snuff out the spark that had been ignited between them at the bar. She had the sneaking suspicion that when they got to Avonlea he’d basically turn to ice. Which was a shame because they could have so much fun together.

He’d instinctively wrapped his arms around her when she’d landed. He didn’t look thrilled, but he wasn’t tossing her off him either. Instead, he quietly studied her face, then looked at her mouth. She felt his cock jump against her. This she knew. She didn’t need protocol lessons about this.

She took his stunned silence as an opportunity. Instead of standing up, she leaned in closer. “When we land, I’ll officially be a princess.”

He pressed his head hard against the seat but there was no escaping her. “You’re already a princess,” he breathed. “You always were.”

“What I mean is,” she smoothed her hands up his lapels to his shoulders. She longed to thread her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. “I’m gonna have to be all proper and shit, yeah?”

His body was stiff beneath her. “That would be preferable,” he choked out.

She narrowed her gaze, “Preferable for who?”

She closed the rest of the distance. She noticed again how, just at the bar, instead of puckering he opened his mouth to catch her lips with his. The drunken haze from the bar had worn off and he was still the best kisser she’d ever experienced.

When she finally pulled back his eyes narrowed at the corners in a disapproving glare that didn’t reach his dick. “You’re going to need to stop doing that,” he told her in his cold professional voice.

She didn’t buy it for a second. “Can’t I do whatever I want to now that I’m a princess? In fact,” she fingered his pocket square, “can’t I tell you what to do?” God, that would be fun. She pictured herself in a Marie Antoinette dress, demanding he drop to his knees. She’d order him to help remove her stockings. Then those hands of his would climb up under her dress, his fingers sliding up her calf, the back of her knee, her thigh. Her requesting him to keep going up and up and...

That got a half-smile out of him. He shook his head. “You’re not my princess, Princess. I’m not a citizen of Avonlea.”

She slumped her shoulders and pouted. “Then what fun is this going to be?” She should probably get up now but she’d settled onto his lap quiet comfortably.

He stared at her lower lip distractedly. “Not very much at all, I suspect,” he replied quietly, his eyes never leaving her mouth.

Suddenly this whole princess thing didn’t seem like such a ripper of a situation.

He must have seen the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “You’ll be fine, Princess.” It was sounding less like a title and more like a nickname now. He rubbed her back comfortingly. “I don’t think you’re at all who you pretend to be.”

That sounded so sanctimonious she couldn’t let it pass. She sat up in his lap, turning to face him. “And who’s that?”

“You forget, I’ve been watching you. You’re a party girl with your friends but when you’re alone you like to study and read,” he matter-of-factly encapsulated.

Something about that neat summation of her life didn’t sit right with her. If he thought he was plucking her from some kind of drudgery and believed he could control her, he was mistaken. She liked her life, she enjoyed her time out with her friends. Her motivation for coming with him was finding out the truth about her mum, her father, and her family, no to escape her life. She quickly stood, knowing she was giving up her chance to join the Mile High Club, and went to sit across the aisle.

She didn’t check to see if Gold looked confused her hurt from her abrupt exit. So what if he did? Let him be confused for a change. She pulled her phone out as she sat down. She had a couple “Have fun!” and winky face messages from her friends. They’d assumed she’d gone home with the stranger from the bar and wouldn’t expect to hear from her until tomorrow. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. Her thumbs hovered over the keypad. How to explain what had happened to her over the last few hours? She’d send a group text later, explaining that her father, finding out about her mother’s death, had resurfaced. It was the truth. Once everyone calmed down about her existence, she’d head back to Australia or have her friends come visit Avonlea. Wherever the hell that was. She still knew so little about her birthplace.

She finally darted a glance at Gold. He was looking out the window again. She could just ask him since he was such a know it all, but her pride wouldn’t let her. Instead, she Googled Avonlea.

Thirty minutes and twenty tabs later, she was so immersed in her reading she didn’t notice him getting up. Or his blatantly looking over her shoulder on his way back to his seat. He smirked at her obvious absorption.

“Well you’re not telling me anything!” she told him.

He sat back down. “What did you learn?”

She took a deep breath. “Avonlea is located near the Southern Isles. The castle is located on the coast,” she recited. “They had a rocky history. The 1800’s are filled with them getting their butts kicked in various wars. But they made their money in the 1970’s and 80’s with the export of their natural resources. But what they’re best known for is being a melting pot. Lots of people immigrated there in the 70’s and 80’s with the economic boom. So tourists will notice all the different accents.”

“You’ll fit in perfectly.”

She doubted it. She’ll be alone, is what she’ll be. Arriving in Avonlea meant joining a group of people who have been living together for thirty years or more. Christ, she missed her mum. “Can I-” she felt silly asking for them but the need was overwhelming. “May I see those photos again?”

He slipped them out of his jacket and handed them across the aisle to her.

Belle thought of all the parts of her life that she’d effectively gave up by getting on this plane. “What about school?” She only had a semester left. The idea of giving up college didn’t sit well with her. She was never going to be a librarian now, like she’d planned, but she’d taken a lot of pride in her schoolwork. He hadn’t been wrong about her in that sense.

“We’ll arrange it so you can finish your studies online. You’re close to graduating anyway.”

She nodded, not looking up at the images in front of her. She stared at the photos of her father, a complete stranger. She flipped through the rest slowly, relishing every image of her mother. If only she could have her mother with her, to tell her what to do and hold her hand. But she’d taught Belle to be an independent person who could think for herself, trust her gut, and make her own decisions. Was her parenting style purposeful? Did she know this day was going to come? When they were going to be found and Belle would be forced to make this very choice?

“Please tell me you packed proper shoes or, better yet, a shirt with a back?” he nodded at the outfit she wore, the same one from the bar. “I’d prefer you not create a scandal the minute we get off the plane.” His face told her he was attempting to lighten the mood and bring her back from her far away musings.

“You can’t tell me how to dress,” she shot back halfheartedly.

He looked at her pityingly. “Princess, I believe you’ll find that not to be remotely true.” Then he smiled slowly, as if he was going to enjoy bossing her around.

Her stomach dropped from nerves, the plane, that smile, or some combination.

When they landed and the plane’s stairs were lowered, Belle hesitated at the top. She knew she had to descend but her feet wouldn’t move. Up to this point, she’d been on a fun, sexy adventure. Follow a mystery man to an exotic location - another journey to put in her scrapbook! But this was real. This was actually going to happen. Once she disembarked from this plane and stepped foot on her native soil, that was it. She was a princess here and her life was going to dramatically change forever.

“Belle,” Gold’s voice was quiet behind her.

Her eyes were glued on the tarmac below. “Yes?” she answered conversationally, like she didn’t know what he was requesting of her.

His voice was next to her ear now. “I told you I would stay until you were ready. I meant it. I promise I will not leave your side until you are ready for me to go.” Warm fingers slipped into her own and squeezed once but were gone before she could even register them.

She let out a long, shaky breath, “Okay.”

Stretching across the tarmac stood a line of men and women in what she assumed was military dress. They stood at attention, to her seemingly waiting for something. Was she supposed to order them at ease? Why were they just standing there? It was making her nervous. As they walked past them, Belle slowed to a stop in front of them, balanced on one heel and wobbly bent her knees.

Gold leaned over her shoulder, “What are you doing?” he murmured.

“I don’t know,” she hissed from her half-bow, “curtsying at everyone!”

“You don’t curtsy to them,” he told her slowly, “they bow and curtsy to you.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” she was stuck in her failed curtsy.

“Besides never do that again? Stand up. Walk to the helicopter,” he instructed. One waited on the other side of the tarmac. “It’s time to go meet your father.”

#fic: A Princess in Theory #Rumbelle #Rumbelle fic #Rumbelle fanfic

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terriblelifechoices · 6 years

Note

It's the quality, not the quantity, of fic that makes someone a good author and you've got it in spades! And you seem to be an absolutely lovely person on top of that! :) If you want to write a ficlet, I will not say no! We haven't seen a lot of Scary Bastard! Credence, or Extremely Competent and Cutthroat and Brutal Politician!Credence, which are my favorite versions of him. If you'd like to write a fic about his day job of kicking ass and taking names (verbally of course) I'd love to read it!

Aw, thank you! ��

I liked the options rather a lot. Extremely Competent and Cutthroat and Brutal Politician!Credence was easier to write, though, so that’s what I went with.

Fear takes a long time to unlearn. Ten years after the repeal of Rappaport’s Law, Credence is still having the same argument with politicians about why it was necessary in the first place.

The Woolworth Building, February 1943

It was, perhaps, a little mean to inflict Dag on unsuspecting politicians. At eight months old, Dagonet’s cuteness was surpassed only by his ability to charm anyone he came into contact with.

Credence refused to feel bad about that. He would take any advantage he could get.

Also, Dag had just hit the clingy phase, and would dramatically scream and cry if left in the care of anyone who wasn’t Credence, Percival or Jacob. Credence really hoped Dag grew out of that soon.

Senator Bromwell actually did a double take when he saw Dagonet strapped to Credence’s chest.

Credence met his gaze calmly. He wasn’t going to start a fight with the senator – that was more Tina’s thing than his – but he’d damn well finish one, if that was what the senator wanted.

The senator did.

“Mr. Graves, forgive me. You seem to have forgotten that the daycare is downstairs,” Bromwell said, all solicitous concern.

“Have I,” Credence said, disinclined to continue the conversation.

Bromwell didn’t take the hint. “You can’t possibly be serious,” he said. “Bringing a baby to a committee meeting is ridiculous.”

“Senator Bromwell, if you find Dagonet’s presence objectionable, you are more than welcome to recuse yourself,” Credence told him. “I, however, will be attending the meeting.”

“With a baby strapped to your chest.”

“Would you prefer it if he were strapped to yours? I guarantee neither of you would much care for the experience; Dag’s feeling a bit wary of strangers at the moment.”

“You can’t honestly expect us to take you seriously while you’re parading a baby around!” Bromwell said.

“Seraphina Picquery signed laws into effect with my oldest two children sitting on her lap,” Credence said, using his most exquisitely reasonable tone of voice. He’d found that it tended to have a maddening effect on some people, particularly if they were already being unreasonable. “The very same laws we’re here to discuss, as it so happens. There’s precedent for it, if that’s your concern.”

“Credence,” Congressman Rosewater said repressively. “Stop baiting Bromwell. And you,” he said to Bromwell. “Stop taking the bait.”

Credence inclined his head. “Apologies, Victor.”

Bromwell grunted something and sat down again.

Credence followed suit, settling carefully into his chair to avoid jostling Dag.

Congressional meetings, Seraphina had told him once, were really just so much street theater. Except rather than amuse the audience, the performers primarily tried to impress themselves.

She was right about that. They were like street theater. Boring street theater, though. No one in their right mind would ever pay to see this performance.

Credence watched the performers. He was less interested in the performance – he already knew what most of them were going to say – but it was always good to get a read on whether or not they really believed all of the ridiculous garbage they were spouting, or if they were simply misinformed.

Bromwell believed. He talked about No-Maj’s like Ma used to preach about witches – as if the threat of them were very real, and might erupt into all-out war at any moment.

Rosewater didn’t. Victor Rosewater was a moderate, through and through. He tended to vote on the conservative side of things, but when it came right down to it, all he really wanted was what was best for their people.

Congresswoman McGilliguddy believed, too, but she was on his side. Rumor had it she had presidential aspirations, just like her many times great grandmother. Credence believed them. McGilliguddy had the drive for it.

“For magic’s sake, man,” she said, exasperated. “The kneazle is well and truly out of the bag and there’s no getting it back in. Trying to slap Rappaport’s Law back on like a bandage isn’t going to work.”

“I didn’t take you for a No-Maj lover,” Bromwell said. The tone of his voice made it clear that being a No-Maj lover was on par with being a blood traitor.

Enough was enough.

“And just what,” Credence said, taking care to stay quiet so he wouldn’t yell, “is wrong with being a No-Maj lover?”

“Ah,” said Bromwell, some miniscule hint of self-preservation kicking in at last. “Nothing, of course.”

“And No-Maj’s?” Credence persisted. “You don’t seem to think very highly of them, either.”

“There’s nothing wrong with No-Maj’s,” Bromwell added hastily. “Some of my best friends are No-Maj’s.”

“I doubt that,” said Credence. “But one of mine is.” He smiled.

Bromwell visibly recoiled at the mention of Jacob. Or, more likely, at the reminder of what had happened to the last wizard who thought Jacob Kowalski had no place in the wizarding world. Credence’s wrath had been nothing compared to Queenie’s.

“If you have nothing worthwhile to say, Senator, then please be quiet and cede the floor to those of us who do,” Credence said, still quiet. “I, for one, am getting tired of your bigoted rhetoric.”

Bromwell’s jowly face went very red. Credence cast a silent muffling charm on Dag. The yelling portion of the street theater was about to start soon.

“I am trying to protect our people!” Bromwell snapped.

“From what?” Credence demanded. “From the No-Maj’s? They’re people. People just like you and me, who live and love and just want to go about their daily lives. Most of them have no idea we exist, and in accordance with the International Statute of Secrecy, most of them will continue to have no idea we exist. No one is suggesting we start slinging spells around to amuse the No-Maj’s.”

He was so very tired of having this argument. Rappaport’s Law had been repealed a decade ago, and people still kept trying to bring it back. And for what, he wondered. So they could live in government-sanctioned fear and tell themselves their hate was justified?

“We can’t go back, Senator. The only thing we can do is go forward. If you truly want to protect our people then make a better world for them to live in.”

“WHAT DO YOU THINK I’M TRYING TO DO?” Bromwell bellowed back. “Don’t you dare take that sanctimonious tone with me, you little No-Maj loving prick. You’re the one our people need to be protected from! You and your politics,” he sneered. “You’re no better than Grindelwald. Magic knows you sound like him, carrying on about fear and using it to justify your agenda.”

Credence froze. If he moved wrong – if he breathed wrong – he was going to lose his temper, and he didn’t want to do that. Not in front of Dag. Dagonet was too young to remember anything, but Credence still wanted to set a good example for his son.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, even softer than before. He wasn’t doing it on purpose this time. Credence got quiet when he was angry – quiet and cold.

“I think,” Rosewater said carefully, well acquainted with Credence’s temper, “that we’re might need to take a brief recess.”

“I’m sorry, Victor,” Credence interrupted. “But I believe the senator has something to say. I’d like him to say it to my face.”

Bromwell said nothing. Bullies were like that. It was easy for them to be brave when they were standing in a crowd.

“No? Very well. Then I have some things I’d like to say in return.” Credence smiled. It was a smaller, more subtle version of Percival’s wampus cat hunting smile, but the predatory intent remained the same. “What you are trying to do, Senator, is justify inflicting the same culture of fear you grew up in on the children who will be our future. On my children.” He cupped the back of Dag’s head, protective.

“Grindelwald wanted our people to rule over the No-Maj’s. If you’re going to accuse me of using his rhetoric, you ought to read a few of the transcripts of his speeches, first. Anything less just reveals your ignorance and undermines the point you’re trying to make.”

“You’re still no better,” growled Bromwell. “You think your power and your name give you the right to dictate law to us. Shall we bow to the Dark Lord Graves, instead?”

“Senator Bromwell, please stop presuming to know my mind better than I do,” Credence said. “It’s tiresome and insulting.” He went on before the Senator could find something to say to that. “For the record, I don’t think my power or my name give me the right to dictate anything, but I am willing to use both to fight for what I believe in. I have spent the past decade working on the No-Maj reforms not – as you so charmingly put it – because I am a No-Maj lover, but because our previous legislature hurt our people. All of them, not just the No-Maj born ones.”

Credence met Senator Bromwell’s gaze and held it. “Wizarding America normalized fear of the No-Maj. And for what? Because they don’t have magic? Because they’re different? You and I both know what the word for that is. Any system that justifies bigotry or hate is corrupt and cannot stand. As politicians, we cannot let them stand. We have to do better.

“If you don’t agree with what my version of better is, that’s fine. That’s why we have committee meetings. But if you have nothing but fear and watered down hate to contribute to the conversation, then recuse yourself and let someone who is willing to do the work take your place.”

Rosewater eyed him warily. When Credence remained silent for an uncomfortably long moment, he cleared his throat and said, “I suggest we take that recess now.”

Credence smiled. “Yes,” he murmured. “Let’s do that.”

#my fic #comment fic #Possible 'verse #credence graves #credence barebone #Dagonet Graves #redwitchrising

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roxy-davenport · 7 years

Text

The King of Hell and an Angel Walk Into a Bar

Pairing: former Crowley x Cas (Crowstiel) now just friends, implied Drowley

Beta: @chaosinacoffeecup and @gettinjoyful (Thank you ladies. You girls rock.)

Word Count: 1,755

A/N: This was written for @webcricket’s SPN Advent Challenge day 11. Not fluffy, slightly angsty

Also on AO3

Crowley was waiting in the shadows against the cold brick wall by the entrance of a dimly lit bar. The kind that housed only the lowest common denominator, the ne’er-do-wells, if you will. The kind of bar Crowley would never be seen in, if not for Feathers. He could have sworn that he had taught Feathers better drinking habits than an establishment like this.

Of course, if Crowley had to guess, the reason why Cas would be here in a matter of seconds, was due to Dean. The Winchester had a tendency to rub off on the angel. Cas was having a rough go out of it lately and figured if drinking in places like these eased Dean, maybe it would the angel.

Why Cas didn’t think of calling him was beyond the King. Crowley always answered his calls, not that Cas called much after their falling out.

Crowley heard a car door close and then saw him. He looked worn out, the years had not been kind to him. He saw the stress on his face. The angel walked with his head down, lost in some dark thoughts if the King had to guess. The angel needed him even if he’d never admit it. He needed Crowley’s strength, he could make the angel all better, hold him, keep him safe if Cas would only give him the chance. Cas sighed heavily with his hands in his pockets, and his feet kicking up the dirt and gravel in front of the door to the bar.

Crowley couldn’t help looking him up and down. Even like this, his old friend looked scrumptious. It was now or never. Crowley moved to stand behind the angel silently, but judging by the fact that the angel perked his head up, he knew Crowley was there.

“Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. The King of Hell and an angel walk into a bar-”

“I would like to be alone,” Cas said forlornly. Whatever burden he was carrying was really weighing on him, too much for the King’s liking.

“To wallow? How unbecoming. You’re a Sereph, a great warrior, a fighter, mate. A clever, wiley fighter to be exact. You double cross me, go off your rocker and now when you need my help, you shove me away? What is this?”

“I do not need your help you’re-.”

“Wise beyond your years, yes I am, pet, and you most certainly do need my help. Look at yourself. You really think you’ve got this, love? Cause you don’t. Whatever this bloody is. Listen to your elders, angel,” he said with a growl.

Cas sighed heavily and quickly opened the door hard, making sure it slammed in Crowley’s face. Crowley had no idea why he bothered sometimes but he just couldn't walk away. Was it because of old times? If he closed his eyes he could imagine how Cas called his name, how his face looked when he orgasmed, how he felt in his arms. But their little fling was long since over. He couldn’t be feeling sentimental, could he? After all this time? Whatever the reason, watching him die just didn’t sit right with the King. And if left to his own devices, Cas would be dead soon. Crowley needed to help him whether he wanted it or not.

Sighing, Crowley walked into the bar and sat down next to the angel. He groaned when he noticed one of his moronic demons watching him from the bar. He’d have to kill Lucas on his way out. No need letting that idiot tell his minions anything. He didn’t need another rebellion on his hands. Crowley couldn’t kill Lucas right away though, he’d be kicked out and god knows what the stupid angel would do next. He’d probably run away and Crowley would be forced to follow, like he has been for weeks now.

“You’re on borrowed time, love. You’re weak. You probably can’t even get it up,” Crowley said with a smirk.

Cas looked at him askance confused in what way he meant, “get it up.” Was it sexual or did he mean his angelic power to smite him? Or both?

Crowley rolled his eyes at the angel’s confusion.

“I could kill you,” Cas said slowly, unsure if that was what he really wanted to say, but he felt like being guarded with the King would be the best approach. Guarded and ready to fight. He couldn’t trust Crowley even if he desperately wanted to. Even if he craved him every moment since they broke up. An angel of the lord doesn’t have the luxury of loving the King of Hell.

Crowley, being the clever demon he was, saw right through that statement.“ All bark no bite, kitten. You’re adorable. I think we covered this though, no? Do try and keep up. I could kill you but not the other way around. You don’t have the power. Now, being the generous soul I am, I’d be happy to get you the power.”

“You’re not a generous soul.”

“I’m missing meetings for this. Risking ridicule for this. The least you could do is hear me out.”

Castiel slowly looked up at Crowley and saw how angry and hurt the King was. His face was flushed and a little red was showing through in his eyes. Crowley wanted to help him and wanted to be heard. Well, Castiel could listen he supposed. The angel sighed and ordered them both top shelf whiskey.

“Go on.”

“As I was saying, kitten, you’re weakened. You need a strong man to look after you.”

Castiel sighed and gave Crowley a major eye roll.

“I have no idea why you insist upon being a hunter at this moment but you can’t, not in your present state. You need help and if you wanted the Winchesters, you’d have them by your side. For whatever reason you want to hunt alone and not just for Lucifer. You have an annoying tendency to never die and always be somewhat useful at times. I need you alive to look for Lucifer, so it behooves me to make sure you don’t kill yourself in some stupid, sanctimonious, self-sacrificing way like hunting. So, for the immediate future you have a hunting buddy.”

“I don’t need-”

“Yes, you do mate. Not up for discussion. Look at the rather deep cut on your shoulder. Healing any? Don’t be a moron and let me help you.”

“We’re…it’s been a long time since…”

“We’re over. I know. Got the memo,” Crowley stated with an eye roll, though truthfully the comment hurt more than it had reason to.

They had broken up for a while now but everytime Crowley was close to Cas, he felt a need to never leave his side, to draw the man into a passionate kiss. The confirmation that never again would he be able to do that, was like a dagger to his heart. He should want the angel dead for double crossing him and breaking his heart but he didn’t. Torturing him, sure, threatening him, okay, but actually killing him, not so much.

Unknown to Crowley, Cas saw the pain flash across Crowley’s face at his dismissal. He just couldn't go there again. He couldn’t be tempted to make questionable choices, couldn’t align himself with someone so dark when he was an angel, no matter how he felt. He wouldn’t, not again.

Crowley was the one to end both of their reveries. “You can’t take on a house full of werewolves, be sensible.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, unsure of how the demon knew which hunt he was about to go on. Had he been following him? He looked over at Crowley, seeing his steely determination. Cas might as well relent and save himself the hours of debate. “Fine, you can come along on a few hunts.”

“How gracious of you,” Crowley sassed with a smirk.

Crowley knew the angel was likely hurt and so brought a cream that could heal him. Without any fanfare he grabbed the angel’s shirt and unbuttoned the first button. Then he pushed the shirt aside, revealing the angel’s shoulder. Cas was too shocked to really stop him. Lucas was looking curiously at the pair, likely about to tell his demons quite a story. In seconds, Crowley put the cream he made from a particularly nasty spell on the angel’s deep wound. He noticed the way the angel flinched at his touch. Crowley sighed and gently pulled the shirt back over Cas’s newly healed shoulder.

“You’re welcome feathers. All patched up now thanks to my extensive knowledge of magical herbs.”

Cas looked like the lost angel Crowley first fell in love with. He stammered and blinked a ton. “Uh..um… thank….thank you, Crowley.” The angel was confused but a small smile wormed its way onto his face. Crowley couldn’t help but smile back. It had been awhile since Crowley saw that smile.

The angel left without saying anything else. What was there to say?

As Crowley left with Feathers, he snapped the demon out of existence. So much for rumors. He left a generous tip for the bartender, even if the whiskey was terrible.

“This is your car?” Crowley inquired.

“What’s wrong with it? It has character,” Cas defended with a furrowed brow.

“It’s a shoddy pickup, mate and we’re not cowboys.”

“Of course not. The era of cowboys is long since over.”

Crowley sighed and got into the seat next to Cas. “No history lesson needed, love.” The second Cas started the car, country music started blaring.

“Really, mate? I’d take classic rock over this.”

“Would you?” Cas asked in an overly emotional tone, totally out of context with the rest of their conversation.

Whether Cas was asking about music or using the word, “classic rock” to reference Dean himself, was unknown. Very like Cas to be confusing and use odd references. Judging by the tone Cas used, if Crowley didn’t know any better, he’d say Cas was jealous of their liaison. But that couldn’t be because Cas clearly didn’t want Crowley anymore. And he and Dean were an item for a hot minute when Cas and he were already well and broken up.

Nope, Cas and Crowley were now just two beings in a car, sitting together doing a job.

The King simply sighed, happy to get away from Hell a little and spend some time with Cas. He was ready to go on a little adventure with his old fling. Next stop- werewolves and Omaha.

Tagging

The Crowstiel Girls: @whatthefrickcrowley @wholita @takeabulletliketeddy @webcricket @mayalaen @alangel1895 @christinalibertymikaelson @noellejackson @purgatoan Peeps from a previous list. If you want to be removed, just let me know. @ferferelli, @chrisatplay, @justanothersaltandburn, @thegreatficmaster, @singingflames @jessica-kitten, @mrswhozeewhatsis @notnaturalanahi, @thedoctorsimaginaryamy

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sara-reading1 · 4 years

Text

Inconceivable - avocadomoon

Well," Bellamy says dryly, "this whole diplomacy thing sure is going great."

------------------------

On some level, Clarke doesn't know why she gets surprised by these sort of things anymore. Last month, the entire camp ate some bad not-strawberries and everybody's tongue turned blue for over a week. Two days ago Jorah saw something she insisted to anyone who would listen was an actual unicorn, and on the hike over here, they'd been serenaded by a flock of birds whose caws sounded eerily like a bunch of gravelly old men beatboxing. So - you know. Earth is weird.

Still, every once in awhile it manages to, well - let's go with 'take her off guard.'

"They want you to have sex," says Arden.

Clarke and Bellamy stare at her. Arden fidgets.

"Uh, with each other," she clarifies.

"What," Bellamy says flatly.

Arden flinches a little, which, Clarke doesn't exactly blame her. Bellamy's what the fuck voice is legitimately terrifying. "It's part of the ritual they perform for the spring solstice. All their trade partners do it; it's how they prove their worth to God that they're, er, rejoicing in the bounty of...something." Arden shrugs a little helplessly. "There were a few words I couldn't translate exactly but that's basically the jist - "

"But the sex part came through loud and clear?" Bellamy snaps.

Arden flinches again, and Clarke slaps his arm, an automatic instinct. A few feet away, she can see the grounder clan council - the Marach, she corrects in her head, if they're going to be trade partners the least they can do is use their actual name - standing stoically, watching them with easy, placid patience. They don't look like the type to demand weird sex favors in return for grain and access to hunting grounds, but well - Earth is weird.

"You asked me to come and translate, well that's what I did," Arden says defensively. "It's not normal French, okay, it's French after a hundred years of evolution and it's not like textbooks on the Ark got automatic updates or anything. I'm doing the best I can."

"You're doing fine," Clarke soothes. "You're sure - I mean - it wouldn't be like, a miscommunication of some kind?" she asks hopefully. "Like maybe the word for 'sex' actually means, like, 'gift' or - or 'communion' or something now - "

"They were...pretty explicit on the sex part." Arden shifts uncomfortably. "There were hand gestures." She frowns. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Bellamy says.

"Okay," Clarke says, trying to keep her calm, "okay. Can we, I don't know. Can we negotiate? Maybe explain to them that it's - it's not something we do, and we could...offer them something else, instead?"

"I can try," Arden says, looking skeptical. She glances at Bellamy one more time before turning back to the Marach. Even the way she walks away looks reluctant.

"Well," Bellamy says dryly, "this whole diplomacy thing sure is going great."

Clarke glares at him. "Yeah, because clearly the smarter option would be to kidnap their leader and hold them hostage in exchange for two barrels of grain a month, Bellamy."

Bellamy looks contemplative at that, and Clarke tries very, very hard not to be offended that he seems more willing to start a war than to have sex with her. She fails. "Don't tell me you're actually considering doing this."

"I'm not," Clarke says, feeling an embarrassing rush of blood flood her cheeks. "I definitely do not want to have sex with you."

"Good, because neither do I."

"Good."

Clarke turns away from him at the same time as he does the same to her, and they stand in resentful silence for a few moments, watching Arden speak and gesture with the Marach. It...doesn't look like it's going particularly well.

"If we're going to have any long-term presence in this area, we need to have peace with these people," Clarke says after a moment, quite needlessly.

"I am aware of that," Bellamy says, enunciating each word in that precise way he has when he thinks she's treating him like an idiot.

"They might take our refusal to do this as an insult."

"I am aware of that, too."

Clarke glares at the side of his head. "You're being difficult."

"You're being sanctimonious."

Clarke huffs. It's not like she does it on purpose. "I'm just saying," she starts, and breaks off when it comes out much louder than she'd intended. Two of the Marach councilmen glance over warily, and Bellamy shoots her a severe look. "I'm just saying," she tries again, controlling her volume, "that we need this. Like, we really need this, Bellamy. We can't handle another fight right now and winter was tough this year; we're exhausted. We can't pick up and move again until we all get some rest."

It's been a very long, fraught week, these negotiations with the Marach, and Clarke can see every second of it on Bellamy's face in that moment. "Why don't you just come out and say what you're trying to say, Clarke?"

"Fine." Clarke sighs. "It's better than what the River Clan asked us to do."

Both of them wince in unison. Nobody likes to talk about the River Clan.

Bellamy glances back over at the Marach. Arden is still talking, holding her hands out in a placating gesture, but none of them look particularly moved. "It's a dangerous precedent," he says, voice carefully quiet. "For us, if not for them. To compromise on our principles so easily."

"Sex is a principle for you?" Clarke asks incredulously, unable to help herself. Bellamy shoots her another dirty look. "No, really, I mean - it's not like they're asking us to kill each other at the end of it, it's just - "

"Oh come on, you know what I meant," Bellamy interrupts, irritated. Clarke squares her shoulders. Fine, yes. "It's a slippery slope - today it's sex, tomorrow it's, I don't know, human sacrifice or something. Besides, we don't even know all the details yet."

"Details," Clarke says blankly, and Bellamy looks pointedly over at the ceremonial center of the Marach camp, a large, stone altar decorated with various bundles of food and flowers. "Oh my God - "

"Yeah," Bellamy says, with finality. "So. Don't go taking off your pants just yet, princess."

Clarke looks at the ground and concentrates on not blushing. She fails again. "We still may not have much of a choice," she mumbles. When she dares to raise her eyes again, Bellamy is focused on Arden, who's heading their way, two Marach in tow.

"There's always a choice," Bellamy says darkly, and Clarke groans internally. That's the kind of thing he says before he starts wars, generally. "Look, just back me up on this play, okay? I'm not going to let them force you into anything that makes you uncomfortable. We'll hear them out but we won't roll over."

"Fine," Clarke agrees, reluctantly charmed by his sneak attack gentlemanliness, as always. "I appreciate that."

"You're welcome."

"Still don't want to do you," she adds.

Bellamy nods knowingly. "Back atcha," he says, and grins a little bit as they fist bump.

Okay, so, Clarke is a twenty-four year old woman who has lived on Earth for the better part of a decade, and pardon her language, but, well - she's seen some shit. She's done some shit. She's lived some shit. And contextually speaking - it wouldn't really be that big of a deal.

The whole princess thing is more of an advantage than anything these days, but this part of it never fails to be irritating - how they underestimate her sometimes. It gives her authority, reverence, helps people look up to her and seek her guidance, but it also makes them think that she's...breakable. It makes people who hate her want to ruin her, and people who care for her want to protect her, and it's annoying as all hell in either incarnation, to be honest.

So while the idea of having weird possibly-public sex with her platonic political life partner in exchange for a measly trade agreement and a tentative non-aggression pact might not be Clarke's favorite way to ring in the growing season, but like she said, Clarke's seen some shit, and last winter she had to perform open-heart surgery on a fourteen-year-old boy with his mother's dagger at her neck the entire time, so like, let's try and keep some perspective here, people.

Clarke's a nice girl, and she does still believe in love. But sex is sex, love is love, you can have one without the other, and she's pretty sick of eating those crappy berries that taste like creek water every day, so whatever. She's not about to lose her head about it.

(Plus, it's not as if Bellamy isn't - that she hasn't - whatever. She's not thinking about this. Shut up.)

But like, even if she had thought about it - which she hasn't - it's not like it would mean anything, that it wouldn't be totally understandable. She and Bellamy have been living in each other's pockets for years, and it's not like there haven't been - it's natural, okay. Perfectly natural, especially considering that Clarke's love life hasn't exactly been all that lively, considering the blood, death and politics of survival on planet Earth. She's been busy, alright?

Sometimes she thinks she knows his body better than she knows her own, she's had her hands in it so many times. Every scar, every wound, every bruise, she knows, can place on the mental map in her head that pulls up every time her eyes close, and even beyond that, even beyond the intimacy that comes from stitching someone back up over and over, holding them together with your bare hands, there's everything else there too - late nights in tents and muddy ravines and muggy, moss-filled caves, early mornings at the edge of camp passed with cups of purloined coffee and seaweed tea. Every fight, every decision, every moment since she first stepped foot on the ground has happened right next to him, standing shoulder to shoulder, back to back, Bellamy Blake - her partner. A complicated man with simple desires, her perfect complement, in so many ways.

(Like - put like that, it's weirder that she hasn't thought about it. But she hasn't. Again, just clarifying.)

But thoughts are just thoughts and, just, it's not like that, with Bellamy, right? It couldn't be like that, not when it's so important for them to be in sync, not when they have an entire colony of people - almost four hundred now, Clarke thinks sometimes, faintly and with no small amount of shock - depending on them to be sane and solid and unwaveringly together. And sex and love and all that, that's just - that's a bad idea. It just - it just is.

Anyway. Not that Clarke would - anyway. She's done talking about this.

"I'm sorry about this," Arden says again, a little frantic as she tries to apologize, help Clarke into the dress and not meet her eye, all at the same time. "I know how you feel about skirts and I tried to talk them out of it but apparently it's important, like a roleplay thing and - "

"Roleplay?" Clarke repeats dumbly, pausing. The bodice on this thing is made from some kind of bone, and she can already feel the ache she'll have later, the old bullet wound in her side that never quite stops hurting. "What, do we have lines or something?"

"Oh - no," Arden says, flustered. Clarke is reminded kind of suddenly that she's barely nineteen years old. As fierce as she is, and as passionately as she fights for them, she still came down with the Ark, still was shielded from the worst of those first few years, tucked safely away in quarantine at Mount Weather. "No. From the way I understood it, it's like a ceremonial, uh, reenactment, I guess? They have this whole story about the seasons, how spring and summer reunite to defeat autumn and winter every year. Spring is female, summer is male, and they celebrate by, uh - "

"Right," Clarke says resignedly, grunting as Arden pulls the last latch together on the dress. It's too small for her, really, made for somebody with smaller breasts, but at least she can breathe in it somewhat comfortably. And it is pretty - the bodice is horrific but the skirt is made from well-made, white cotton - they must have traded with the Mountain for it - and it flows loose around Clarke's knees, brushing pleasantly against her bare skin. It is, honestly, the nicest thing she's worn in years. "That's an interesting way to look at it, I guess."

"Yeah, I thought so, too." Arden's face brightens a little, and she pulls at her braid a little nervously, smiling sweetly at Clarke. "You look very pretty in it, you know."

"Thanks." Clarke smiles back. It feels kind of awkward on her face. "And - you made sure to get them to agree to the lock on the door, right?"

"Yeah, yes," Arden says. "Bran - that's the main guy, the tall one I was talking to - he was really insistent about it, actually. Apparently when the leaders from other clans do it, they usually bring their own people to stand guard. He wanted to make up the difference, since all you guys have is - well. Me." She smiles sheepishly, then blushes and looks away.

"Right," Clarke says slowly. "Well, glad to know the ritualistic sex clan has such high standards of privacy. Admirable."

"It seems important to them," Arden says, maybe a little defensively. Clarke looks at her sharply, and some of her fire finally comes back, straightening her posture and turning her eyes flinty. "It's their religion. It really is important to them. And it's not meant to be an invasive thing, it's - a celebration, meant in good faith. That's why they seemed so insulted when we wanted to turn it down." She shrugs. "It's a great honor, to be allowed to perform this. Apparently."

Clarke exhales slowly, and tries very hard not to laugh at the reality that having sex with Bellamy Blake is, at the moment, a great, sacred honor.

"Okay," she says, "thank you for your help. I appreciate it."

Arden nods, stepping back at the dismissive tone. "You're welcome," she says, back to deference. Clarke is grateful for that, at least. "They'll send him in soon, I think."

"Alright."

"I'll leave you alone," Arden says quietly.

"Wait," Clarke says, halting her, "thank you. Honestly. And - " she clears her throat. "Thank you for agreeing to - I know it might be awkward for you to lie, when we get home, but - "

"It's nobody's business but yours and Bellamy's," Arden replies firmly, and Clarke remembers now why this girl is her second, why Bellamy chooses her to accompany them on these necessary, delicate trips. "Good luck," she adds, a bit wryly, and Clarke laughs sharply, surprising herself.

"Thanks," Clarke says again, and finds herself surprisingly comforted, watching her close the door softly behind her.

Finding herself alone, Clarke moves to sit down on the bed and then changes her mind, heading to the small, wooden table instead. The turf structures the Marach live in are small, and crude-looking, but they're impressive in their sturdiness, and this one is packed full of the highest luxury that exists in this part of the world: wolf pelt blankets on the bed, an array of hard-to-find fruit on the table, even a jug of what Clarke strongly suspects might be the spiced wine the southern clans produce sometimes, when the crops are good enough. Her mouth waters, just looking at it.

She nibbles a little at the food, confirms her hypothesis about the wine. Walks over and touches the elaborate, beautiful designs on the walls, carved into the hardened mud and painted meticulously in vibrant colors. It is amazing, she thinks, what humans are capable of, even in the most dire and stressful of circumstances. It never really fails to humble her.

(She's not nervous. She's not. She is not. She definitely, one hundred percent, absolutely is not even a little bit - )

"Hey," Bellamy says, suddenly appearing in the doorway, and Clarke nearly jumps out of her skin. When she whirls around, he's smirking at her. "Wow, okay, someone's jumpy. It's almost like we're about to - "

"Shut up." Clarke scowls at him, smoothing down the skirt nervously. "You startled me, is all."

Bellamy smirks again, but apparently is going to take the high road on this one, and doesn't reply as he steps inside, shutting the door firmly behind him. The deadbolt sliding into place is a comforting sound. "They treat you alright?"

"Yes." She picks at the dress again fastidiously. "They put me in a dress," she says a little dumbly. Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her, like, well, duh. "I mean, obviously." She picks at the bodice. "It's a little small."

"Still better than what I got away with," Bellamy says scornfully, stepping further into the room. For the first time, Clarke registers his clothing - the dark pants most of the Marach men wear, and his chest, bare and painted in the same swirling spirals of paint that adorn the walls. "I feel like I got attacked by a bunch of overexcited kids with fingerpaint." He grimaces, flexing his arms in apparent discomfort, causing the swirled designs painted on them to distort a little with the movement of his muscles.

"That's," Clarke says, throat sort of dry, "uh, it looks still wet. Won't it…"

Bellamy shoots her another one of those looks. "Yeah - I think that's the point, princess."

"Oh." Clarke looks down at her dress. Suddenly the bright white color and hard-to-unfasten bodice make a whole lot more sense. "Oh. Okay."

"Right. So." Bellamy sounds resigned, running one hand over his brow as he speaks. "I suppose we could try to fake it, but - "

"We can't," Clarke blurts, feeling an odd jump in her stomach when he turns to look at her curiously. "I mean, just - good faith. That's the golden rule, remember?"

"Right." Offer something to a grounder, you follow up. Period. The lesson they'd learned in many, varied, violent ways, that first year on Earth. It hasn't failed them yet. "The whole...principles thing again."

"Yeah, and - " Clarke shrugs. "It seems like a lot of effort to go to anyway, when we could just…"

Bellamy raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish, a mean grin spreading across his face when she trails off into silence. "Gonna be hard to do it if you can't even say it, princess," he says.

"Oh, shut up."

"No, I'm just saying, like - effort is kind of a big part of it. Are you sure you've been doing it right?"

"I said shut up," Clarke says, laughing a little. She's a little relieved, ludicrously, that he's being a jerk about it. It makes her feel a little bit more sure-footed. The laughter bubbles up again at the look on his face - that skeptical side eye he graces her with whenever she does something he doesn't understand. Or agree with. Or like. Or - you know, that's probably just how he looks at her, most of the time. "Nothing. Sorry. Just - this is weird, and - "

Bellamy's mouth quirks a little. "Right."

"Can we just…" Clarke shakes her head, taking a moment to close her eyes and breathe out, gathering some of her calm back around her, a comforting shroud. "We should eat."

"Okay." He's still smirking a little, but joins her at the table nonetheless. "Is that - "

"Mulled wine," Clarke finishes with a grin. "Yes."

"Christ." Bellamy snags it from her outstretched hand and takes a long swig straight from the cask, sighing in pleasure as he lowers it back to the table. "Fuck, I haven't had good booze in forever."

"Not that I don't love Monty's moonshine or anything," Clarke says, "but I know, right?"

Bellamy grins wolfishly and generously hands the wine back for her to take her turn. Clarke shivers a little when his hand brushes her forearm as he pulls back.

"Haven't had a spread like this in awhile," Bellamy comments after a second. He picks up a fruit Clarke doesn't recognize and taps it against the table, frowning and discarding it when the sound seems to displease him. "Might as well take advantage of it, I guess."

Clarke watches him pick up a strip of dried meat and rip it in half with his fingers, sort of transfixed by the movement of his hands in the dim light.

"Here," he says, handing the other half to her. Clarke takes it, bites into it mindlessly, eyebrows shooting to the top of her forehead when she realizes that this is bear meat - the rarest thing on the table, probably. Her surprise is mirrored on Bellamy's face when she looks over. "I'm still not crazy about this," he continues, "especially since we can't be a hundred percent that Arden's interpreting what they say right. But they're obviously trying to impress us. Which is a nice change of pace, if nothing else."

"Either that or this is part of their whole - celebration bounty spring whatever thing," Clarke says, popping the rest of it in her mouth and chewing greedily. God, it feels like it's been forever since she had food that actually tasted good.

"Well, princess," Bellamy says, grabbing the platter of meat and taking it over to the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room, other than the table. "Let's indulge. I'd say we deserve it."

Clarke bites back a smile, squares her shoulders, and grabs the wine.

"Now you're talking," she says.

Okay, so, just to clarify something else: she isn't stupid, or anything. She knows what it all looks like. It isn't like that, but it looks like it.

They usually share a room; it's just easier that way. They're not usually rolling in privacy, anyway, and after this thing with one of the Ark refugees who'd gotten maybe a little obsessed with Clarke (she hesitates to call it stalking, okay, it was mostly just...really sincere love notes and a lot of sad staring) Bellamy tends to get a little overprotective, so it's honestly easier just to sleep wherever he is rather than deal with his neuroticism about it the next morning.

The last time she remembers seeing him with a girl was about three years ago, before the cease fire with the Mountain and the trade accord and all that. She'd run into her coming out of his tent one night - an older woman, Clarke doesn't remember her name, something beginning with N, maybe? - and had caught a glimpse of the scattering of dark love bites down the back of her neck. But then came the drought, and the peace talks with Mount Weather, and since then they've been on the move almost constantly, so - it hasn't really been the first priority for either of them.

It's not like she thinks that he's in love with her or anything, that he's spent all these years pining away tragically, like some twisted post-apocalyptic Austen hero. She knows he loves her, of course, the same way she knows she loves him. The same way they love Octavia, and Jas and Monty and so on and so forth. Hard not to love somebody when you live like they do, honestly. Bonds forged in fire and blood and blah blah, whatever.

But - maybe it's still different. Maybe people keep thinking they're together because they are, in a way. Half the grounder clans they encounter just assume that they're married, and the Mountain certainly thinks the same - hell, even Clarke's mother probably does too, wherever the fuck she is now, with her own little group of Ark separatists, roaming around the world, trying to live life. And maybe, sometimes Clarke thinks - well, it's not a real marriage, is it, but does that really matter, at the end of the day?

But that's not - okay, fuck, this train of thought got away from her somewhere. She should...probably stop talking now.

It doesn't take long for them to get a little tipsy - drunk, she fears, is out of their reach, not with just one bottle and years of experience with Monty's booze, refined to battery acid perfection.

It is nice, though, to get a little floaty on wine and food that tastes good, on a comfortable bed with warm blankets, the sound of happy people creeping in from outside, the party that's since kicked into full swing. Clarke is, she dares to think, relaxed.

"This whole - spring and summer thing," Clarke says, reclining back on the pillows, shamelessly taking up most of the bed. "Why is spring a girl and summer a guy? Why not the other way around?"

"You think summer's more feminine?" Bellamy asks.

Clarke shrugs. "I don't think either of them have a particular...gender, honestly."

Bellamy downs the last of the wine, discarding the cask on the ground next to the bed. "The Greeks only had three seasons - spring, summer, and winter. There was a goddess of each - three daughters of Zeus called the Hours." He frowns. "I don't remember the names."

Nerd, Clarke thinks fondly. "I thought the Greek version was the whole Persephone and Hades thing."

"That too. The Greeks just liked stories." Bellamy shrugs. "There's usually one about the seasons along with an origin story, in most cultures. I don't remember them all. O's favorite was the Mesopotamian one, Ninhursag. She cursed her husband to the underworld for cheating on her with their own daughter, which made the earth barren and created winter." Clarke wrinkles her nose and Bellamy snorts. "Yeah. Octavia always liked the messed up ones the best."

"Sounds like her." Clarke sighs. "I guess the Marach's story is nice, in a way. Romantic. The whole idea of it being this grand battle that these two lovers keep winning, over and over, every year."

"Or losing," Bellamy points out, ever the cynic. "Just depends on where you start the story."

Clarke rolls her eyes as dramatically as she can manage. "Of course you would say that."

"Winter comes every year, princess," Bellamy teases.

"So does spring," Clarke points out, and something happens then, with his face, like it twists and darkens a little and he looks down at the bare skin of her knees, peeking out beneath her skirt, and she has to look away. "Uh - "

"You'd make a lousy spring goddess anyway," Bellamy says, a little too loud. Clarke looks back up at him abruptly, caught between outrage and surprise. "Well, you hate it, don't you? You're always sneezing on everything and grumping around for three months straight - "

Clarke laughs despite herself. "It's annoying! People go crazy after being cooped up all winter, they get reckless, hurt themselves more, get pregnant more - "

Bellamy's laughing at her, shaking his head. "You just never know how to have fun."

"Do too." She wrinkles her nose at him. "I'm fun."

"You're a downer," Bellamy tells her.

"I'm - ! You're the one who got all offended about this sex ritual thing, which seems like kind of a downer to me," Clarke says, forgetting to be embarrassed. Bellamy laughs again, a little incredulously, and she crosses her arms stubbornly in the face of it. "You know what I mean."

"I do," Bellamy says, sobering a little. He's sitting close to her feet, reclining sideways across the bottom of the bed, but he's so tall, his arms are long enough that he can reach up and touch her arm without even moving. Clarke feels a little claustrophobic, all of a sudden, even though he's as far away as he can get without leaving the bed entirely. "I just - I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable."

"I don't," Clarke says honestly.

"I mean that." He moves down to her hand, opening his palm up in invitation. Clarke takes it easily, used to that kind of touch from him. "Listen up, I'm gonna be real with you for a second."

"Listening," Clarke replies, smiling when he waits for her to meet his eye before he continues. So grave, she thinks. So formal.

"I know this is one of those things," he says, "that we're gonna do because it makes sense, and you were right before, it doesn't have to be a big deal. But Clarke, I'm not - you have to know I'm not going to do anything to you that you don't want me to do."

"I know that," Clarke replies, a little surprised.

"I want you to be okay with it." He purses his lips. "I need to know you're okay with it, alright? That's the only way I'm gonna be okay with it."

"Okay." Clarke feels a little overwhelmed by the intensity of his words, and the way he's looking at her, so serious and insistent. "I'll tell you if I get weirded out, if you do the same. Okay?"

He nods, and Clarke holds her breath as she watches him sit up, keeping his grip tight on her hand the entire time.

"Come here for a second," he says, tugging a little, and Clarke blinks, letting him pull her to her feet to stand at the edge of the bed in front of him. He really is that tall, she thinks a little dizzily. He doesn't have to reach up that far to touch her waist.

"Still okay?" he asks, a little dryly.

Clarke bares her teeth at him and he laughs. "Fine."

"Good," he says, and slides one hand down, experimentally, over the curve of her ass and further down to her thigh. She shivers.

"No kissing," she says suddenly, and he freezes, tilting his chin back and away from her. She feels a wave of something like shame fall over her. "I mean, just - "

"No, good idea," he interrupts, and pulls her abruptly closer, down onto his lap. Clarke squeaks a little, embarrassingly, and grabs his shoulders on instinct to steady herself. "Good idea."

"Keep it platonic," Clarke breathes, fascinated by the way the paint contrasts against his skin, a little paler than usual after the long months of winter, but still darker than her own. It's still tacky, and when she pulls her hand away from his bicep, there's a smear of color on her palm. Her dress has paint on it, too.

"Clinical," Bellamy says, voice a few steps deeper than usual. His palms are on the small of her back.

"Well, let's not go overboard," Clarke says bravely, and the smile she gets is worth the way the words make her insides tremble.

"Really, because I always thought you'd be a 'close your eyes and think of Earth' kind of girl," Bellamy says, settling his hands back on her waist.

Clarke smirks down at him and gets a little more comfortable, watches his reaction as she squirms closer. His eyes go half-mast and he actually shivers, which is kind of fascinating.

"No," she says triumphantly, "you really didn't."

They've kissed a few times, when they were drunk. One horrible night, around the time Finn and Raven had left, Clarke got so tired of being sad that she even went to his tent and asked him to fuck her, to which he responded with a droll, "not tonight honey, I've got a headache," and then kindly tucked her into his bed and glared at her until she went to sleep.

She woke up the next morning with a gigantic headache and cursed herself all the way through breakfast, ducking around corners to avoid him at every turn, thinking he was going to make fun of her. But all he did, when they finally came face to face, was give her one of those unimpressed looks, and said, "don't be such a drama queen Clarke, shit," and shoved the bag of seaweed he'd gone out to collect into her arms. She'd almost dropped it, and snapped at him to be careful, and he'd rolled his eyes and made a joke about doctors and clumsiness and brought up the time she'd tripped and hit her head in the lake and had to be pulled back to shore by Octavia, and then she'd forgotten why she was embarrassed about it in the first place.

Not a big deal. Whatever.

"I'm gonna - quit it, for real, I will walk away right now," Bellamy says, dodging her slap and rolling over onto her leg to keep it pinned down.

Clarke can't reply, too busy laughing at the look on his face. "Look at you! Oh my God, you look like you're about to march into battle or something - "

Considering how many times she's seen him actually march into battle, she'd think he'd take that seriously, but alas. "You know," he says imperiously, and leans a little harder on her leg. "Most girls enjoy this part. In fact, this is kind of the highlight for them, more often than not."

Clarke looks at his face and starts laughing again.

"That's it, I'm gone - "

"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, okay." Clarke takes a deep breath and pats his head consolingly. "You can go down on me now. I'm totally serious about it."

Bellamy peers up at her skeptically, which is how she knows he's not really angry. "Nah, you know, I don't think I'm in the mood anymore."

"Well, you better get in the mood, buddy, because we've got to work for our food tonight."

Bellamy manages a full two seconds before he cracks, burying his laugh into her thigh. Clarke laughs along with him, just at the pure absurdity of the situation. The absurdity of her life.

"Are we even awake right now," Bellamy rumbles, into her skin.

Clarke shivers. That feels good, she notes absently. "It's possible."

His breath is warm against her skin, and it's not like he's even done anything or even taken anything off yet, but just being touched, in places nobody has touched her in so long, is enough.

Bellamy lifts his head up after a minute, seeming to pick up on her shift. "When's the last time somebody did this to you, princess?"

"I don't know," Clarke says, a little shakily. She's suddenly very aware of their position, of the fact that it's Bellamy leaning down between her legs, with his hands up her dress and his mouth on the inside of her knee. She closes her eyes so she can think clearly, trying to remember. "Um, Rehka, probably."

"Rehka?" Bellamy looks up at her, incredulous. "That was like, three years ago."

Clarke shrugs helplessly. "It's not like I have a lot of time to date."

"Yeah, but…" Bellamy trails off, still looking gobsmacked at the mere concept of a human being going that long without oral sex.

"Oh, like you've been getting it on the regular," Clarke says dryly. "Your room is right next to mine, don't forget."

"Well, it definitely hasn't been three years," Bellamy mutters.

"Three years since...this, not three years since sex in general," Clarke protests.

Bellamy looks even more offended at that, if anything. "Now that's just sad."

"Well, it's not like you're my first choice to break the dry spell," she says resentfully, smirking when Bellamy rolls his eyes at her in exasperation. "Are you gonna get on with it or just hang out and judge my sex life all night?"

"So demanding," Bellamy replies, with faux disappointment. Right, Clarke thinks. Like 'pushover' is really a quality he looks for in bed partners.

Before she can formulate a reply, he slides his hands up and presses his thumbs into the dips of her hipbones, just hard enough for her to feel it.

"You're wet," Bellamy observes, almost casually, "does arguing turn you on, princess?"

"No," Clarke says through a gasp, wincing at the sound of her own voice. Man, that didn't sound even a little convincing.

Bellamy seems to agree, smirking a little and tugging at the waistband of her underwear. "Can I take these off?"

Clarke nods, lifting her hips up so he can slide them down and over her knees. She kicks at them awkwardly, trying to shake them off, biting her lip to keep the laugh in when Bellamy shoots her an exasperated, indulgent look.

"Are we more serious now," Bellamy says once they're finally gone, voice low, and bends down to kiss her navel. Clarke has to swallow a few times before she can reply, her throat is so dry.

"Please," she says, meaning it to be dismissive, but it comes out as a genuine plea, instead. Bellamy kisses her again, then bites gently at the stretch marks that line her abdomen, smoothing the skirt of the dress up and out of the way.

"Just tell me if it's too much, alright," he says, and then moves the rest of the way down. Clarke tips her head back and thinks, yeah, fat chance.

She doesn't feel much at first; it's almost like it's happening to someone else, in a way, and Clarke is just an observer, watching from the sidelines. But then Bellamy makes this sort of - sound, like a grunt almost but more nasal, and presses down harder with his tongue and Clarke gasps so loudly she almost coughs, and fuck, fuck that is good.

She doesn't know what to do with her hands; there's no wall behind the bed to brace against and the fur on the blankets is too slippery, so she grabs her own hair instead, gripping the strands at the back of her neck like she's trying to hold herself down. It's good, it feels so good it's a little overwhelming actually, and Clarke very suddenly remembers that she likes sex, likes being touched and held and kissed.

Bellamy has large hands, nice hands, with calluses that scrape pleasantly against her skin, and he holds her thighs apart, pushing them back and up, against her chest. His mouth is warm and pleasant against her, and he goes slow at first and then gradually gets faster, easing off every time she starts to twitch and tighten up. It's like teasing but also not, because all it does is just make it last longer, and the up and down of it isn't cruel, just - steady, a relentless ebb and flow. The wet sounds of it make it all seem that much more real, grounding the sensations firmly in the reality of Bellamy, leaning over her, his hands on her thighs, his mouth on her clit, rubbing paint off onto her skin and his face buried between her legs.

It's unreal in the way things tend to be when you never expected them to happen - how it just overwhelms you, makes you float along on this giddy little high and you just keep thinking, this is happening, this is actually happening.

She rides that giddy high all the way up and over, fisting her hands in her hair and letting it roll through her, sweep her head to toe like the shockwave from a dropship engine. It feels good, it feels clean, uncomplicated, and Bellamy eases her through it, only pulling away when she hisses at the sudden overstimulation.

"Okay?" he says after a moment, and pulls one of her legs down to rest over his shoulder, using it to brace himself over her. His mouth and chin are wet; Clarke stares, transfixed.

"Yeah."

"You sure? You're breathing hard."

Orgasms tend to do that, Clarke wants to say, but she can't quite seem to catch her breath to manage it, and realizes abruptly that he's right.

"Fuck, hold on," Bellamy says, wiping his mouth quickly and moving out of the vee of her legs, up next to her on the bed, "it's the dress, right?"

Clarke nods, letting him pull her upright so he can get to the laces. "Too small," she manages, gripping his waist as he messes with the bodice, tearing the ties apart and peeling it carefully free. "Oh my God," she breathes in relief when it's finally gone, wincing and raising her arms to let him pull the entire garment up over her head. "So much better."

"Should've told me," Bellamy mumbles, rubbing at the marks on her skin.

"The dress seemed important," Clarke replies wryly, leaning back into his embrace. Her legs are still tingling a little bit.

"I think breathing is actually a little more important," Bellamy replies, in that gently scolding way he has sometimes.

Clarke just shrugs, leaning more heavily against him. There's still paint all over his chest, and now it's on her, too, and some hidden, visceral part of her heart wriggles in satisfaction.

"Do you," and her voice cracks. Clarke swallows and tries again, "do you want to - "

"Yes," Bellamy says.

Clarke laughs and leans her forehead against his shoulder. There's paint in her hair, even. Now it'll be on her face. She doesn't care. "You didn't let me finish."

"Trust me, whatever you were about to say, the answer's yes."

"Careful," Clarke teases, "you shouldn't write blank checks like that."

"I feel pretty confident about you at the moment," Bellamy replies, and slides his free hand up her stomach to her breasts.

Clarke indulges him for a few moments, but it doesn't actually do much for her - never has - and the pressure to pretend is oddly absent. "Come on," she says, pulling away and flopping back down on her back. "Like this."

Bellamy grins at her, lacing their fingers together and letting her pull him down. He settles down on top of her like he's always been there, like he knows just how to balance so the weight is pleasant and not overwhelming. "Hell, princess, I should've known you'd be like this."

"Like what?" Clarke asks, placing her palm on his chest and smearing some paint that's gathered in the dip of his collarbone, pulling it up and drawing a muddy, colored line up his neck.

"Fun."

Clarke gapes at him. "You said I wasn't! Not even an hour ago, I heard you."

"Well normally you aren't," Bellamy says, "but it's the buttoned-up types like you that you have to watch out for."

"I'm not sure how to feel about that, Bellamy."

"Feel this," Bellamy tells her, and bends down to kiss her neck, "feel good."

Clarke takes the direction to heart, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. But, seriously though - "I'm telling you," she says, as he trails wet little kisses down her throat, "I can be fun. I am a fun person. And not just in bed - like, generally."

"Of course you are," he mutters, and bites her chin.

"I mean, maybe I get a little single-minded sometimes, but so do you, and since when are you the gatekeeper of what's considered fun or not, maybe I like studying Lincoln's herb journals - "

"Clarke," Bellamy says, "I'm going to fuck you now."

"Yeah okay," Clarke says, and hitches her thigh a little higher up on his waist. "I'm still fun though," she adds, which is why Bellamy's laughing as he slides inside her, why she's laughing too, gripping his shoulders and grinning wildly up at the ceiling.

The first thrust is always Clarke's favorite and Bellamy doesn't disappoint, pushing in as far as he can and pausing a little to let her get her breath back. Clarke's laugh turns into a moan, one of those really good ones that come out because you just can't hold them in, and Bellamy curses under his breath, his arms shaking a little where they're braced on either side of her head.

"That's it," he murmurs, pulling out and thrusting back in again, slow and steady. "Clarke - "

"I know, I know," she says, and laughs again. "Faster - you can go faster - "

Bellamy breathes out harshly and presses his face into her cheek for a second, a gesture so oddly sweet that she actually tears up a little. I'm so glad it's him, she thinks, and grips his neck with one hand, scratching at his scalp and getting paint in his hair. I lied before, I'm so glad it's him.

She doesn't know how long it lasts, because she loses herself in it the second he starts to move again, holding her knee in one hand and her hair in the other. Her whole body feels like one long, giant current, and every spot he touches is like a live spark, a jolt of electricity, and of course he was right. Of course she should've known it'd be like this.

At some point, he must kiss her, or maybe she kisses him, or maybe it doesn't matter because who cares who started it when it's so good, when she feels devoured in the best way possible, so small beneath him but so powerful, all at once. Clarke wants it to last forever. She wants to go back in time and yell at herself for not doing this sooner. She wants to do it again and it's not even over yet. She wants.

(Understandable that the concept is a little foreign. Clarke's forgotten what that felt like, too.)

Bellamy makes these noises as they kiss, like rough little grunts deep in his throat that make Clarke shiver, and he says her name over and over as she comes, whispering it into her ear like a secret - Clarke, Clarke, Clarke. Then he's right there behind her, as always, pressing in deep and burying his groan in her neck as she shakes and tries to keep her legs from falling back down to the bed in exhaustion.

Clarke whimpers a little, digging her fingernails into his bicep, the ache in her left thigh getting a little unbearable. Bellamy immediately pulls away, easing her legs back down to the bed and pressing his mouth to her sternum, like an apology.

"No kissing huh," he says, and licks some of the paint off the inside of her right arm. Clarke has the presence of mind to hope that it's digestible and not made of those freaky berries that make your hair grow really fast, because that would be awkward.

"Well, heat of the moment, it doesn't count," Clarke replies, waving her hand dismissively. "Besides, we don't like each other remember? That's what's important."

"Right." Bellamy sits up on his knees briefly, unintentionally presenting her with an impressive display of their handiwork. Whatever designs that paint had at the beginning is just a smeared mess of muddy yellowish-grey now, and Clarke bites her lip a little, looking down at her own torso and seeing the matching stains. "Would you look at this?" He's snagged her dress from where it fell, holding it up gingerly. The skirt has ripped from the bodice, and the whole thing is just a scraggly mess. "Think they'll frame it or something?"

"Oh my God," Clarke says, "I don't even wanna think about it."

Bellamy shakes his head and tosses it down on the floor. "Let 'em go wild," he mutters dryly, and grabs the blankets, pulling them up from where they've bunched together at the foot of the bed. "Over," he says, and jabs at her thigh gently.

Clarke grumbles a bit but moves obligingly to let him collapse back into bed next to her. "God, I'm tired." She opens one eye. "Don't say it."

"Say what," Bellamy says, but his face is smug.

"Ugh," Clarke replies, making a face. He laughs in reply - a genuine one, a rare thing for him that's been unusually frequent tonight - and Clarke maybe feels a bit of smugness of her own.

"C'mon princess," he says, manhandling her under the blankets, tucking her into his side with one long, powerful arm. "Let's get some rest. Long hike back home tomorrow."

It occurs to Clarke that she should maybe feel awkward about their nakedness, but -

"This isn't cuddling," she tells him. "Just co-sleeping."

"Of course," Bellamy replies easily.

"I wouldn't cuddle you if - " she pauses to yawn. "If you were the last man on Earth."

"Yeah, I don't like you either," Bellamy replies agreeably, and strokes her hair.

Clarke sighs in contentment and scoots a little closer. She feels much better now that they've made their positions clear.

Arden wakes them up the next morning with a polite knock and two grounders carrying an incredibly welcome basin of warm water, which Clarke indulges in for maybe a little too long, judging by the exasperated looks Bellamy starts shooting her after the first ten minutes.

"Don't even act like you're not checking me out right now," Clarke tells him, weirdly giddy and comfortable in the intimacies of waking up together, bathing in front of each other, being able to look over and watch him get dressed in the early morning light. "You know you like it."

"I check you out all the time," Bellamy tells her. "I didn't think I'm ever subtle about it."

"Oh, you're not," Clarke says, and cups some water in her hands, letting it splash down over her bare shoulders. "It's nice not to have to pretend not to notice, though."

Bellamy smirks at her, and keeps watching.

The Marach leader - Bran, Arden had said - greets them with a friendly smile once they finally emerge, bowing at them each in turn and chattering away in his rapid, almost-French.

"He says - he's thanking you," Arden says haltingly, trying to listen and translate at the same time. "He says it was a beautiful celebration and he's happy you honored them with your participation, and - something about air? Sky? Who knows - oh!" Arden pauses, listening intently when Bran turns to speak directly to her. "Merci beaucoup. Oui." She turns to smile at them both. "He's eager to be friends. That was the last thing."

Clarke's shoulders relax a little, and she feels Bellamy's do the same, next to her. "Tell him thank you," she says. "Tell him we're the ones who are honored, and…" she trails off, glancing up at Bellamy, a look of bland approval on his face. "And that it was our pleasure."

"And ask what they're gonna do with the dress," Bellamy murmurs, just for her ears, and Clarke bites her lip against the smile.

Arden's translation takes a little longer this time, but Bran's good cheer is palpable, and he seems to be patient with her in a way that he hasn't been yet, all week. Who knew, Clarke thinks wryly, that sex could have such an effect even on somebody who wasn't one of the people having it. Wonders truly never cease.

"They have food for us," Arden says finally, turning back with a grin. "Breakfast in their main greeting hall. Then they're going to send us back to camp with an escort, and the first supply of grain they promised us."

"Great," Clarke says, "I'm starving."

Bran touches Arden's arm politely, nodding encouragingly at all three of them and gesturing at a one of the larger turf buildings, towards the center of the encampment. Arden shoots Clarke one last triumphant grin and scuttles off to follow his lead, leaving Clarke and Bellamy to trail behind in their wake.

"So," Clarke says triumphantly, "this whole diplomacy thing sure is going great."

"Oh, shut up," Bellamy replies, raising his voice over her laugh. "It still could've been the altar. I maintain that was a legitimate concern."

"I don't know, that could've been fun," Clarke replies, just to see his reaction. He doesn't disappoint her there, either. "What, too much for ya? Not into it?"

"You are so annoying when you're in a good mood," Bellamy complains, and she laughs again, happier than she's been in months and not particularly caring if he knows it.

Who cares, anyway. They have grain, and new allies. She's clean, the sun is shining, she had two orgasms last night and there's a smear of paint beneath Bellamy's left ear he'd missed that she's going to really enjoy looking at for the rest of the day. Life is good, for the moment.

"Fine," Bellamy says, "you're fun. I'll admit it, if it means that much to you."

"It kind of does," she admits. Their hands tangle together as they walk, so naturally Clarke almost doesn't notice at first, until she does. She's not about to let go, though. It'd be like giving up. "You really don't know what you've been missing out on all this time, you know."

"Well, I do now," Bellamy says, and tugs her a little closer. "Don't I."

"Nothing you'd like, clearly," Clarke says cheerfully.

"Yeah," Bellamy replies. "You're kind of a turn off, frankly." Clarke grins hard at the side of his face until he smiles, rolling his eyes a little and shaking his head.

Not a big deal at all, she thinks, and squeezes his hand. He squeezes back. It's good to be on the same page.

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okmeamithinknow · 7 years

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The Sauced Snake Chapter 4

Chapter Four: The Hungover Hognose Part 2

Previous Chapter

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

A.N.: If I were going to give this chapter a title besides the Hungover Hognose pt 2, I would definitely call “The one with the run on sentences” or “The one that just kept getting bigger until I debated about whether or not I should break it into two pieces.”

The Hungover Hognose Part 2

Cobra’s just finished pulling on a shirt, the fabric sticking to the skin still damp from the shower when there’s a knock at the door. He groans, not needing his magic to know who’s standing on the other side. Even if Lucy hadn’t warned him ahead of time, Cobra—and probably the rest of Magnolia— would be able to hear her team coming. Specifically Gray and Natsu’s bickering.

He’d hoped to sneak in a short catnap after his shower, but the pounding beat of water on his back was too much of a temptation to abandon straight away. Mira’s miracle cure and the scalding temperature of his shower have worked wonders to improve his mood. As it stands he’s more likely to maim someone on the team than kill them outright.

Pausing in the doorway of their bedroom, he leans against the doorjamb to watch his fiancé let her team in. Lucy pulls open the front door to find, in classic fashion, Natsu and Gray in a heated argument, with an irate Erza standing behind them. A cackling Happy sits on her shoulder and it’s obvious that he’s laughing at the boys’ antics. Both men—if you could call either one of the juvenile mages men— are somehow simultaneously locked in a headlock with Gray yanking on a handful of pink hair and Natsu digging his knuckles into Gray’s skull.

Cobra doesn’t need to see Lucy’s face to see the roll of her eyes at her team’s antics as she invites them in.

All at once the pounding in his head is back, and when Erza fixes him with an icy stare he catches a fleeting feeling of panic from Lucy. Its barely a flicker of a thought, that he might just run when faced with this complication, and he scowls. He’s no coward and running is the last thing on his mind.

Making his way over to where Lucy’s standing next to the sofa, he flops down and pulls her into his lap. The message clear enough to her and the rest of her family. He’s not going anywhere. He buries his nose in her hair, closing his eye and taking in the calming scent of her.

Lucy’s team filters in and takes seats around the living room without another word, Natsu pulling the front door closed behind him.

It’s awkward and a tense silence permeates the air, one that pulls at her heart, squeezing it in a vice. Cobra pulls her closer, arms wrapping around her middle and a low soothing rumble fills her ear. The sound gives her the courage to look up.

Natsu meets her eyes with a bright sunny smile on his face. He’d always been their staunchest supporter. When Lucy first started dating the former criminal, Natsu had been the first to welcome him into the fold. That he’d pulled Cobra aside soon after their announcement and clearly explained, in graphic detail nonetheless, what would happen if the Poison Dragonslayer ever chose to hurt his best friend, was no surprise to any of them.

Lucy’s gaze skitters over Erza— who’s situated herself between the two men to keep them from coming to blows again, a position she places herself in quite frequently— to Gray.

Arms folded across his chest, wan smile fixed on his face, Gray seems more uncomfortable about being dragged here in the first place. His approval came shortly after Natsu’s, the mage offering to spar with Cobra one afternoon where he not so subtly echoed Natsu’s warning. The two of them have struck up an odd sort of friendship, the foundation of which is built on mutual self-deprecation.

Overall though, both boys agree, if Lucy’s happy, then there’s no problem, and Cobra has proved over the last few years that he’s more than willing to make their friend happy.

Erza’s the lone hold out, and everyone knows it.

The silence grows thicker, the ticking of the clock and the nervous swishing of Happy’s tail the only sounds in the room. No one seems to quite know where to begin.

All at once the damn breaks, and the boys declare their heartfelt congratulations at the exact same time that Erza tries to explain her concerns. Right as Lucy launches into a rehearsed speech about how much the two of them are in love and how they might not have planned it, but the baby and their marriage are both good things and are exactly what Lucy wants and if Erza’s not ready to deal with that then she’s going to have to suck it up.

It lasts for all of a minute before Cobra tells them all to shut the fuck up.

“You’ve had three and half years to make your ‘concerns’ known. We’ve been more than candid about our relationship from the beginning,” he says, fixing a knowing eye on Erza. “And don’t even give me that whole ‘sullied her honor’ sanctimonious bullshit, when Flames for Brains and I can both smell that Blueberry all over you. Did you even make it back to Fairy Hills before you fucked him?”

Erza sputters and blushes a glowing red as deep as her name, but Cobra ignores it, continuing on. “Now, you can fucking fight me in the training ring as soon as my fucking head stop pounding like an illegal rave, which will be completely useless because you won’t be changing my mind, or you can say yes when Lucy asks you to be one of her bridesmaids and leave it at that.”

He glares at the red head who gapes open-mouthed at him over Lucy’s shoulder. Blush still firmly in place, Erza nods dumbly.

“Maid of Honor,” Lucy blurts out suddenly. “I was going to ask Levy, but she's already married and she’s been so busy with the twins and she said she’d be fine with just the matron of honor, even though we’re the same age and we were going to tell you guys about everything, but we wanted to tell you all at once and we…” Lucy turns in Cobra’s lap, peering up to look at him. “Well I wanted to make sure we made it past that window where there’s a bigger risk of losing him or her…”

“You’re babbling, Bright Eyes,” Cobra chuckles, and Lucy blushes, pink staining her cheeks. She turns back to Erza, expectant smile plastered on her face.

She’s so focused on Erza and her reaction that she misses Natsu’s uncomfortable shifting. His foot taps nervously against the hardwood floor as Erza launches into a series of questions about the wedding, all of her previous unease obliterated. The motion isn’t lost on Cobra, who watches the other slayer from the corner of his eye, magic focusing in on the edgy dragonslayer.

As an hour or two passes and the girls’ discussion grows more in depth with the occasional interjection from Gray, Natsu’s fidgeting becomes more and more pronounced. The nervous energy finally spilling over when Cobra asks Gray to be one of his groomsmen, and Natsu stands to leave, rushing out of the apartment.

Lucy clambers after him, stopping at the doorway to look back at Cobra.

“Go after him,” Cobra says, knowing that Lucy’s sensed Natsu’s growing unease as well. She hadn’t been able to distract Erza long enough to catch Natsu’s attention, the red head’s series of questioning growing more meticulous as time went by.

She rushes down the steps and out into the fading twilight. It’s much later than she realizes. The street lamps are just starting to flicker on when Lucy stops, checking both ways for the telltale shock of pink hair. She barely catches a glimpse before she takes off running down the street after him. Lucy calls his name, but he doesn't respond, either not hearing her voice or blatantly ignoring her. He rounds a corner, one that Lucy’s entirely unfamiliar with and she picks up her speed, legs pushing her forward.

Rounding the corner, she trips, stumbling over a loose cobblestone. Scream lodging in her throat, she braces herself for impact, but instead a pair of sturdy and altogether too familiar arms catch her around the waist before she can hit the ground.

“Careful,” Natsu chuckles, though his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve got precious cargo in there.”

Lucy huffs a breath, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. A half formed grumble about Erik’s doting already turning to smothering on her lips. Natsu’s concern rings true though, even if the worst she probably would have gotten were a few scrapes and bruises. She straightens, extracting herself from his arms. He lingers nearby unable to look her in the eye as Lucy brushes invisible dirt from her skirt. There’s a certain tightness to his brow that combined with the defeated slump of his shoulders makes Lucy want to cry.

“Will you…” she clears her throat, “Will you take a walk with me?”

Natsu nods and Lucy holds out her hand. When he takes it, she offers him a tentative smile and laces her fingers with his. They walk for a while, no destination in mind, until they reach South Gate Park. Lucy leads him to a bench. Night has fallen in full force, the crickets chirping in the background. Lucy shivers, from both the chill in the air and the stress. Natsu scoots closer, and Lucy, the heat leech that she’s always been, leans in until he reaches an arm around her. They’re both quiet, letting the peace of the evening wash over them.

“You were so quiet back there…” Lucy says finally. Voice barely above a whisper, the unspoken ‘What’s wrong?’ hovering between them.

She honestly has no clue. Natsu’s had no problem with any of the members of Crime Sorcière since they joined Fairy Tail, and even if he’d been a little jealous of the Poison Dragonslayer monopolizing Lucy’s time in the beginning of their relationship, he’d understood. Especially once he’d started seeing Mira. Double dates had become quite the interesting affair after that. That was also when the quest to figure out how to get Cobra drunk started.

“I just thought…” he trails off, shifting uncomfortably.

“Thought what?” Lucy grabs the hand closest to her and pulls it into her lap.

“It’s dumb,” he says.

“It’s not dumb if it upsets you,” Lucy says, rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. “We’re best friends. You can tell me.”

“Best friends… Right,” he says with a shake of his head, and then heaves a sigh, running his free hand through his hair. “I know you’re a girl and all, but I really thought I’d be like… I don’t know… your best man. Or whatever.”

“Like a Man of Honor?” she asks with a giggle.

He nods, blush dappling his nose. Lucy releases his hand, bring both of hers to cup his cheeks.

“Oh Natsu,” she says, and there's something in her tone that almost breaks his heart. Natsu looks away, unable to look her in the eye.

“I should have talked to you first,” she says. “Erik and I, well we talked about it… and he said it just makes sense… He’s the one that gave us the chance to be together… Once Crime Sorcière was absorbed into Fairy Tail after they got pardoned… We’re not even sure if he can do it anymore, since Laxus took over as master, but Erik insists that because he’s still a Wizard Saint that it shouldn’t be a problem and if not then we’ll still have Makarov perform the ceremony and we’ll just have Laxus sign everything like he did it. And with my mother and father gone, it just kind of makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” he asks, interrupting her.

“Would you…” she asks, blush staining her cheeks, “Would you walk me down the aisle and give me away?”

Natsu is speechless. The slack-jawed look on his face has Lucy panicking for a second before he lets out a whoop of mirth. He jumps to his feet, dragging Lucy along with him. He spins her in a circle, laughing. Natsu sets her down, pressing his forehead to hers. His eyes are bright, unshed tears sparkling in the light of the street lamps.

“I take it that’s a yes?” she asks, barely containing a laugh.

“Of course I will,” he says. “After all, what are best friends for?”

Read, review, reblog to save a life.

#Colu #ftfanfics #lucy heartfilia #cobra erik #natsu dragneel #Erza Scarlet #gray fullbuster

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