Hi how are you? Sorry to bother you again but I really liked your fanfics and I wanted to know if you could write one Patrick Wilson smut where he sees Y/n masturbating and decides to help there since his hand is bigger and he can do much better 🫣 With masturbation (f+m), suffocation, mutual oral sex, hard sex, height difference, age difference, kisses, hickeys and much more 🙏🙏❤️❤️🥰😍🛐 I loved your new Orm fanfic and I'm super excited for more❤️❤️(we know that Patrick sings beautifully and really well so I also thought Orm singing in Atlantis for Y/n lying on his lap would be so beautiful 🙏🙏❤️)
Hello! I'm alright, how are you? I'm sorry to say this, but I don't write RPFs. Only Fictional characters. You're welcome to send anything for Orm.
“Focus.” The self-righteous voice said behind you. You shift, irritated with him. “It’s kind of hard to do when your cock is jammed in me.” You snap wanting to turn and glare. Orm chuckled, rubbing the tops of your thighs soothingly. “It’s motivation,” He tells you, “The sooner you get your paper done, the sooner I can make you feel good.” You grunt, shifting into a slightly better position. It wasn’t the motivation you needed; it was divine intervention.
Normally, papers weren’t all that hard for you to write. Four pages, double spaced was child’s play as far as you were concerned, especially when it came to history. But you worked full time and went to school full time. It was finals week and a busy season at work. You were burnt the fuck out. What normally took you two hours tops had taken three days. You were crying in frustration and Orm, your boyfriend, had the inspired idea you get you horny in order to finish your paper. You really had no idea how you cock warming him was going to help, you were sure it had more to do with the fact that you hadn’t been intimate with him in a month and he missed you, but you were desperate to try anything at this point.
You type one word, then another, then another. It was a struggle to put that sentence together. You reread your notes, reread the paper topic, and started for a moment. You wanted more than anything to just give up and call it a night, but the deadline was due soon and you wanted a free weekend to enjoy your boyfriend. Another word appears on the page, then another. It’s a painstaking endeavor, but soon enough you somehow manage to hit your stride.
An hour later you lean back, surprised that you’ve hit the limit. “Done?” Orm asks, looking over your shoulder at the computer screen. He doesn’t know how to read surface world English yet, outside of his own name, but he was curiously trying to decipher the letters. He was good at catching all the o’s in the words. “Not yet,” You mutter, waving him off, “Gotta edit.” You lean forward and begin to pick apart your paper and format it. Orm rubs your back comfortingly, proud you were so dedicated to your studies.
Another hour goes by as you nitpick this and that, and finally, you sigh and save the document. You send it off to your professor and shut the laptop. You were done, aside from a final tomorrow, you were done with the semester. You get up from Orm’s lap, entirely forgetting he was inside you. You both groan at the friction. “Are you done now?” He asks hopefully. He was so hard the tip of his cock was purple. Poor thing, he’d been so patient with you. “Yes,” you say smiling at him. Before anything else can be said, Orm scoops you up into his arms, carrying you bridal style to the bedroom. “I am going to fuck you now,” He announces to no one in particular. “Until you can’t remember your own name.” You snort with laughter. “Ok,” You tell him, bringing him into a kiss, “Just make sure I remember everything else. If I fail this final, you’re a dead man.”
Hiii, can you write a smut that Orm gets jealous and makes Y/n suck him in the throne room, And makes her call him Ocean Master🙏🙏 with face fucking, spanking, angry sex, choking, hair pulling and anything else you want As much as you want to write ❤️❤️
Whelp...I didn't get to the spanking but I hope I did ok enough!
You and Orm had been fighting a lot recently. It wasn’t normal. From the moment you two met years ago there hadn’t been an angry word between you and now you couldn’t stop shouting at each other. Orm intrinsically understood all the fighting was his fault. He was letting his insecurities get the best of him, but it was hard not to. Everything had been ripped from him, his home, his former fiancée, his teacher. He went from beloved Prince Orm to the black fish seemingly overnight. Sure, Arthur and Mera forgave him for his heroics when he saved junior, but the people of Atlantis had long memories. Besides, you were like, really hot and it annoyed him that you weren’t around much anymore.
You were a general in the Atlantean army. Your tactical know-how and battle prowess were legendary. So much so the Brine King himself asked for your hand in marriage. On top of that, you were incredibly intelligent with a special interest in what Arthur called ‘anthropology’. You went out of your way to learn about the people of the Seven Kingdoms of Atlantis and now, the surface world. Arthur relied on you heavily for diplomacy, which took you away a lot. Now, you were spending more time with Arthur than Orm was comfortable with. Thus, all the fighting.
Orm was in the throne room, looking at the seat of Atlantis, trying his best not to grind his teeth into his gums. “Your highness?” Your voice rings out clear. The title irritates him further, you, his beloved, don’t call him that, you call him by his name. He turns around, glaring at you. You meet it with a stony look of your own. “Is this what we’re reduced to?” He asks, “Honorifics?”
“Well, you’re not acting much like a lover these days.” Orm feels his eye twitch. “Neither have you.”
“What’s the supposed to mean?” He doesn’t miss the hurt in your voice, but he’s seeing red. He swims up to you, only stopped by your hand around his throat. It isn’t enough to hurt, but he knows if you decide to squeeze, he’ll be in a pain he’d never felt before. “Why are you spending so much time with Arthur?” His tone is accusatory, yours is flat when you respond. “It’s my job.”
“You’re late coming back to our quarters,”
“We have a lot to discuss.”
“You spend a lot of time in here.”
“It’s the throne room, of course we do.”
“You’re alone with him.” He feels your fingers tighten in frustration. Something in Orm’s cock stirs. “Only because I have to be.”
“Because you want to be.” He snaps. Your fingers tighten to a painful degree as you bring him close. Another thrill runs through him. “What has gotten into you?”
“How do you think it looks when my woman spends all her free time with Arthur? Hm? How does it look to outsiders when you two leave this place alone after hours of being here. What do you wonder they’re thinking you two get up to?” You snarl and push him back with so much force he hits the throne with a small ‘oof’. “What do others think or what you think?” You spit at him. “Do you honestly think I’d go for someone like Arthur when I have you?”
There’s a heavy silence that lingers between you two for a long time. You’d given him the validation he wanted, but his mind was clouding over with lust. He liked you aggressive. “Prove it,” Orm challenges, “Prove you like me better.” You roll your eyes in exasperation, crossing your arms. “And how do you propose I do that?” He doesn’t answer you, instead he considers you. You’re so beautiful, floating in front of him, angry, done with his shit. “Well?” You growl. That’s it, that’s all it takes for him to be at full mast.
Not caring if you two get caught, Orm undoes his suit enough to bring his cock out. You look at it, mouth open in disbelief. “Are you insane?” You hiss. “No,” Orm says smiling, “I’m the Ocean Master,” You balk at him refusing to believe this was happening. “You said you wanted to prove to me you like me better, prove it.” He motions to his length. With only a few moments hesitation you relent. He swears he gets harder just knowing what you’re about to do as you swim to him. You begin to undo your own suit, but he puts up a hand to stop you. “Suck.” Is his simple command.
You say nothing as you take position. He adjusts his posture, giving you better access. You waste no time in licking a long strip from base to tip. “No teasing,” He demands. You follow directions and pop the head in your mouth and give a particularly hard suck. He lets his head fall back at the phenomenal sensation. You set a brutal pace; what you can’t reach with your mouth you reach with your hands. He knows you can take him all the way and wants that from you now. You aren’t giving it to him, and that’s frustrating.
He places his hands on either side of your head. You understood the significance of this action and place your hands on his thighs, bracing yourself for what’s coming. Even in his frustration and anger he waits for your silent signal to go ahead. You tap his thigh twice. You’re ready, good. He thrust into your mouth, stay there for a few seconds before pulling back out.
It’s vicious, the way he fucks your mouth. You suck every time he pulls out and he just barely remembers to wait a few moments for you to take a breath. But this is what he needs, your permission to use you as he sees fit. To fuck you as he pleases. Who else would allow him to do this to them for free if not someone that truly cared for him? He climaxes within minutes, making sure he empties himself down your throat before ripping you off him. You’re gasping for breathe the moment he does, ignoring the spurts of cum that float around you.
He pulls you into a standing position, undoes the bottom of your suit and turns you around so your ass faces him. If you two were in your private quarters, he’d take the time to return the favor. Taking your clit into his mouth and sucking you dry, but this wasn’t about you right now. Without waiting for you to say anything he grabs your hips and pulls you into his lap, his thick cock enters your wet cunt with ease. Good, you were at least enjoying this. “Move,” He commands. You begin to bounce, letting out little gasps of pleasure.
He was a long way off in terms or orgasm, but you weren’t. He could tell from the way your pussy fluttered around him. His eyes rolled so far to the back of his head he nearly found his brain. “Don’t you dare cum until I tell you to,” He growls. He pulls you back to his chest, hand closing around your neck this time. His free hand manages to wiggle its way between your legs to find your clit. He rubs harsh circles, reveling in the sound of your whimpering. The position is awkward for you, so you can’t bounce up and down like you so desperately want to. You settle with grinding. “Who do you belong to?” He asks. “Orm Marius,” you say, his fingers tighten around your throat. He asks the question again, “Who do you belong to?”
“His highness, Prince Orm.” The hand around your throat tightens more. He’s aware that you’ll be blacking out if he leaves his grip that tight for long, he hopes you get the answer right this time. “Who-”
“O-ocean Master!” You manage weakly. His smile is wicked as he loosens his grip. “That’s right,” he tells you, allowing you a little more space to bounce. “That’s right, you belong to me, not to Arthur. Not to the king of Atlantis, but to me.”
“I don’t want to belong to anyone else.” He hadn’t expected your comment. It strikes a chord with him. You continue, “No one else is as good as you. No one fucks me like you, no one makes me come as hard as you. There’s no one else but you, Ocean Master, no one.” His ego stroked to the fullest, Orm decides to reward you for being such a good girl. Quicker than you can fathom, he switches positions. You’re bent over an arm of the throne, the metal digging painfully into your skin. Orm, his hands on your hips, is thrusting into you from behind. It wasn’t fast, but it was rough. Every time he pulls out and pushes back in you see stars. “Please, I won’t last much longer.” You tell him, gripping onto the back of the throne for support.
You think your pleas fall on def ears until you hear him say, “Cum for me.” It’s as if your body is awaiting such a command. He watches as you writhe beneath him, coming hard around him. He groans at the feeling of your pussy squeezing him, milking him for everything he has, he lets himself go inside you, painting your walls with thick ropes of cum. You two stay in that position for a long while before you gather yourself and redo your clothing.
You turn to him finally, lips pursed. “Do you feel better now?” You ask him. Actually, he felt foolish about the entire thing, but he nodded instead. “Good,” You bring him in for a deep kiss. He feels so silly for doubting you he can’t bring himself to look in your eyes. “We will never do this in the throne room again, do you understand?” He nods. “I mean it. Never.”
He gives you another quick kiss. “Just the one time,” He promises. For the first time in weeks, you gave him a smile. He’s relieved. All the pressure building between you two had dissipated. “I love you,” He whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “I love you too,” you tell him. “Now, go back to our quarters,” you say, pulling away from him. “I’ll be along in a few moments; I have another meeting to attend.” Orm frowns, “What could Arthur possibly want to talk about this time?”
You frown and shake your head, swimming away from him, “My meeting is with the Ocean Master,” You inform him, “Something about a performance review.” You shrug and disappear into the hall. Orm smiles to himself wondering how he got so lucky to find a woman like you.
Summary: Orm has the hots for Arthur's big sister, and it looks like she's got the hots for him too.
She was Arthur's big sister, and Arthur was doing his big brother duty by ordering Orm to stay away from her. Orm agreed entirely. Getting together with his brother’s older sister would be messy, to say the least. It started as nothing more than a silly little crush. A pretty girl flashed a brilliant smile towards him, patched him up and fed him because he and Arthur had to hide out for a while. He would get over it soon enough. Six months had passed since the initial agreement that Orm would stay away from her, and he was more in love with the woman now than he ever dreamed he could be.
She was nothing like Arthur. She was quiet, introspective. Having had a hard life living with her mother, her smiles didn't come easily. When she spoke, Arthur listened and did what he was told. There was a deep sense of respect on Arthur's part for his big sister that Orm admired. She was neat, orderly, efficient. When Orm fantasized about being king, she was his queen. Regal and unwavering. He was desperate for her attention.
He did menial chores to compensate. He was bad at it at first, but he picked it up quick enough. He always went grocery shopping with her. She was on the shorter side, so getting items on higher shelves was an issue. Not to mention feeding two grown Atlanteans in their prime required a lot of food. He made sure to wear tighter, more flattering shirts to show off his muscles as he hauled bags upon bags up the driveway to the kitchen. He thanked her, complimented her, and anything else he could think of just to get her to look his way.
The benefits of being stuck in a small home with the woman of his dreams every day for six months were numerous. The one he liked best was the fact that he could observe her in silence. He spent an unabashed amount of time watching her. She noticed him doing it to. She made snide comments before when Arthur snapped at her for wearing revealing clothing. She simply laughed in Arthur’s face and said, “I have to make sure to put on a show for Orm. He’s always staring.” If his staring bothered her, she hadn’t said anything.
He learned so many things about her in such a short amount of time he felt like his head was stuffed full. In fact, despite the desperate circumstances he and Arthur were in, all he thought about was Arthur’s sister. She had a matcha latte and a bagel every morning. The topping on the bagel were different day to day but often it was peanut butter and banana. She was a university student in her last years of school, what she studied he couldn’t make heads or tales of . He just understood that it was frustrating. He also knew, the more frustrated she was, the more likely she was to play loud “nasty” music just liked the music coming from her room now.
Orm looked up the stairs, wondering if he should try and comfort her. She didn’t seem a woman that would enjoy his company when stressed, but he hadn’t seen her at all that day. She had been up since before the break of dawn and remained shut in her room the rest of the day. He would die if he didn’t at least tell her good night. What if she didn’t like him though? He couldn’t just go up there and knock on her door to say goodnight, sleep well…could he? She had to like him just a little. Arthur was her brother, but she spent less time with him than she did with Orm. She smiled at him more, sought him out first after missions to make sure he was ok. It felt like she was choosing him. She could just be trying to be nice; he reasons. On the other hand, if she was trying to be nice, why didn’t she ever comfort Arthur the way she comforted him?
He isn’t sure how long he stares up, but when he hears a thump, he’s running to the second floor, two steps at a time. He calls her name, panicked. Banging on her bright yellow door, he calls for her again. “I’m ok!” She calls to him, sounding just as panicked as he feels. “I’m fine.” He hears scrambling and another thump; the music cuts off abruptly. She opens the door, flashing him a ‘see I’m fine smile’. She looks in disarray. Her hair fluffier, as if she’d been sleeping, her tight shirt slightly raised to show the chub of her belly, her shorts showing her meaty things. Once again, he’s plagued by thoughts of being squeezed by those thighs. “I heard a bang,” he says, looking past her and into the room. “Are you alright, did you trip?” She was a woman of poise, rarely tripping over herself. “I’m alright,” She reiterates, “I just knocked something over, that’s all.” Orm’s blue eyes snap back to her, she gives him another smile, sheepish, telling him to go away, everything is fine, just fine. That’s when the smell hits him.
Orm understood that surface people went through a mating season, not unlike Atlanteans. A human female’s season was short, about a week. They made up for the short season by going through it once a month. He took her appearance in again, and somehow managed to leap to a conclusion. She was relieving her heat herself. That thump must have been a tool of some kind, and she dropped it in the throws of passion. Orm felt himself harden instantly at the thought, he wanted to know what tool it was that had her so flushed with pleasure, he wanted to use it on her. Her sheepish smile falters as his stare becomes intense. `
“Orm are you ok?” She reaches out to him, grabs his arm, he can’t help but to step inside her room, pull her close to him and take a deep breath. Damn, that sent short circuited his brain. “Orm?” Her voice is soft, laced with confusion, but not alarm. “Arthur doesn’t like the thought of us being together,” Orm tells her, unwilling to stop the confession about to pour forth from him “But Arthur be damned. I want you; I’ve wanted you since the first moment I met you, more than I’ve ever wanted another.” She squirms in his arms, but he doesn’t let go, can’t let go, not yet. “These past six months have been nothing but a fever dream of yearning. I don’t just want to fuck you on every available surface, I want to kiss you, hold your hand. I want to take you to Atlantis and show you all its wonders. I want you to explain the surface world to me. I want to get lost in you until the end of our days.”
“Orm-” he cuts her off, “But I understand our dynamic is strange,” Orm finds the strength to let go of her. He feels stupid, weak, embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to lay his soul bear to her, but she just brought it out of him. He was madly in love with her. “We share a brother, and he’s uncomfortable with the thought of us together. I only needed you to know I have strong feelings for you. If you reject me, I accept. I want nothing more than for you to be happy.” He feels his heart give a painful squeeze. He knows there’s no way she’d accept him. Arthur was her brother, Orm was nothing less than a disgraced prince. But he had to tell her, he couldn’t go on living without at least telling her his secret. Damn her for making him so weak.
She reaches for him, takes his hand in hers, tugs him closer. It’s the most natural thing in the world, bending down to kiss her. He’s thrilled when she wraps her arms around his neck and receives him. He takes his time kissing her, exploring her soft lips, playfully nibbling, and nipping, enjoying her girlish giggling. When they finally pull back, both are smiling stupidly at the other. “What about Arthur?” Orm asks, the king of Atlantis is going to be pissed at this new development. “It’s like you said, Arthur be damned.” Orm took it as permission to dip down and kiss her again.
Somewhere in the haze Orm manages to close the door, walk her across the room, and get her on the bed. He hovers over her, unwilling to move too far from her lips. He spends eternity kissing her, wanting to tell her how much he loves her. It’s too early for that, he thinks, I don’t want to seem desperate. In a shocking turn of events, she flips him over onto his back, settles herself on his hips, both letting out gasps when she brushes his erection. He rests his hands on her hips as she regards him. Her wild hair seems wilder now, her eyes glimmering with mirth. She’s smirking down at him, and he swears he’s died on gone to paradise.
It’s strange how little she looks like Arthur. Arthur was tall, tan with brown hair, green eyes, and a shit eating grin. She was much shorter, reaching the bottom of Orm’s sternum. Steady and solidly built, her skin was darker by a few shades than Arhtur’s, she had brown eyes, and her hair was black, curly, and wild.
She finds the hem of his shirt and starts to tug it up, he sits up and raises his arms. The shirt goes up and over his head. When she presses him back down, he doesn’t resist. Her eyes roam up and down his body. He knew he was fit, he spent all his life training and fighting. He had a few scars here and there. Shockingly he starts feeling self-conscious. He forces himself to stay still for her. He wants to flex, to tell her in the right lighting, he looks like a god, honest he does. She rakes her nails down his chest, catching a nipple in the progress. He damn near loses his mind. The term ‘monkey brain’ suddenly begins to make sense. Rational thought is slowly leaving him as his desire to put his cock in her nearly takes over. It’s her contented sigh and the “You’re so handsome Orm,” that brings him crashing back into himself. Handsome! He’s so handsome at that. She leans over him pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, his chin. Things get a little naughty when she reaches his neck.
He grunts at the sudden pleasure over her teeth nipping at his skin. He turns his head for her, and she manages to find a place at the junction of his jaw and behind his ear that has him fisting the sheets. He rolls his hips upward involuntarily, seeking any kind of friction. She giggles and laves attention on the spot, sucking a dark mark onto his skin. He’s so wrapped up in what her mouth is doing he isn’t aware that a hand slips beneath the band of his pants until he feels her fingers on his cock. He must let out a strange noise when she squeezes the middle of his member because she immediately removes her hand, much to his displeasure, and pops up looking panicked. “I’m sorry!”
He shakes his head, too confused to answer her. She gets off him, but before she can get too far from him, he grabs her hand. All he can manage is a strained, “Continue.” Her brows furrow, unsure if she should listen. He swallows thickly, “Please,” He manages, “Please, I need you. I was just shocked, that’s all.”
“You sounded like I stabbed you Orm,” He shakes his head. “I don-, I don’t know what sound I made, but I can assure you, it was one of pleasure. I didn’t think I’d ever have the opportunity to…to do this kind of thing with you. I’m a little overwhelmed.” He runs his thumb across the back of her hand in reassurance. She hesitates a little too long for his liking. “Do you not want this?” He asks, perhaps he’d read the situation wrong and she was having second thoughts. “I do.” She tells him, finally relaxing, he relaxes as well, flopping back down on the bed with a sigh of relief. “Please,” he begs her, “Please.”
She does as he asks, hooks her fingers underneath the band of his pants and, with his help, shimmies them down his hips. Flinging them somewhere in her room, she has a full view of him. He wants nothing more than to shy away from her, to cover himself up from her piercing gaze. He shouldn’t have initiated such an intimate moment so quickly. “Jesus Orm, you’re perfect.” Perfect, the word echoes around in his skull as she kneels before him. Jesus, a deity surface people call out, as a curse or a prayer. Orm, his name. Perfect, a reference to him. When she thinks of perfection, she thinks of him, his nakedness, his body. He’s satisfactory looking to her, more than that, he’s perfect. All the incoherent ramblings going on in his skull cease the moment she grabs his cock once again. He makes the same strangled sound, but this time, she simply pauses instead of moving away from him.
Her clasped hand moves up his cock, down, and up once more. He can no longer force himself to stay still, fuck he couldn’t even force himself to stay quiet. “Oh, now you see, that sounds better.” She teases him. He manages to prop himself up on his elbows to look at her. She’s smiling at him. She stops again, and he wants to curse, but she rests her cheek on his knee a look overcoming her features. He can’t tell what it is, but he never wants her to stop. Lazily she squeezes him, begins pumping slowly as she looks into his eyes. There’s something there, something more than lust, something…loving. I’m going to do it; I’m going to tell her I love her. He doesn’t get the chance. She presses a kiss to his knee, then further up his thigh, then a little further up. Yes, his monkey brain screams, understanding what’s happening before he does. Yes, put it in your mouth, oh Poseidon, put my cock in your mouth.
She works her way to the base of his cock, head an angry scarlet, weeping with precum. She licks a stripe from base to tip, catching a bead of white on her tongue. He’s fascinated by the sight, watches her swallow then pop the tip in her mouth and give a strong suck. His hips jerk upwards involuntarily. She merely giggles and continues to suck him. He watches as she moves herself into a better position over him, free hand resting on his hip. He immediately takes it, entwines their fingers, settling onto his back for a third time. His mind clears as she continues her ministrations, getting lower and lower on his cock as time goes by.
What she can’t reach with her mouth, she reaches with her hand. Orm’s head, for once in his life, is completely empty. There are no duties he has to attend to, no imagined slights he has to nurse an injury for, no jealousies to consider. It’s just him, the women between his knees, and the unceasing waves of pleasure. He’s vocal, calling out her name, begging her not to stop, oh please, he needs this, please, pretty please, oh please, ohpleaseohpleASEOHPLEASE. Yes. The tight coil in his gut snaps as his orgasm rips through him. He’s aware of the noises he makes, of the giggles, of his hips jerking hard. He relaxes, lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, then finally opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling.
She moves again to straddle him. Brushing a heated cheek with her thumb he finally as the courage to look at her. “You ok?” She asks, “That seemed a little intense.” He wants to snap back at her, ask her how she would feel if the woman she was lusting after just gave her the best head she’d ever had. Instead, he sits up and kisses her deeply, tasting himself on her tongue. That’s when the scent hits him again, her arousal. It seems more intense now, sweeter than anything he’s ever smelled. He helps her get rid of her clothes in a quick fashion, pushes her on her back and stares open at her nakedness. If she had any reservations, hesitations, or anything else, she didn’t show it.
Orm understood that, whether for aesthetic purposes or cultural purposes, humans took their body modifications personally. Arthur had tattoos that represented his culture through his father’s line, Arthur’s sister didn’t have ink, she had jewels. He allows his eyes to roam her body freely, tracing a path from her chin, down her neck, to a nipple. Two little balls rested on either side, he tugged gently, curious as to the meaning of such a thing. He doesn’t linger, there’s too much of her he wants to explore and he’s reasonably confident he’ll have time to stare at her all he wants in the future. His hand trails downward to the shiny green piercing that rested in her belly button. He glosses over it, a half though forming in his mind that a pearl should be nestled there. As his hands travel lower, she adjusts herself, opening her legs to him. She’s got nothing to hide, and he loves her all the more for it.
His fingers slip past the curls of her pussy and plunge inside, eager to see her come undone just as quickly as she’d undid him. She’s wet. His ego takes a hit when he realizes she’s wet because of what she was doing before he interrupted her, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He pumps two fingers in and out experimentally, knowing the basics of what he was doing. She was quick to correct him. “Angle them upwards more.” He does so. That first little whimper damn near does him in. “Your thumb.” She breathes, He looks down at his hand, what about it? Was it in the way. “Use it.” He has to pause and think, how did he use his thumb?
“Have you never fingered a girl before?” Her question is gentle, unjudgmental. “I haven’t exactly had time to practice.” He admits, flushing red for different reasons now. “Here, let me.” She maneuvers his hand the way she wants it, two fingers angled up, his thumb on another piece of jewelry. “That’s my clit,” She explains when she places his thumb there. “It’s a very important piece of anatomy. Makes a woman see stars. If ever you’re with someone, and they aren’t getting there in a timely manner, I can say with much confidence if you put some sort of stimulation on it, they’ll cum in a few moments.” He wants to make a cute retort that she’s ruined all others for him, but he’s eager to absorb the lesson she’s trying to teach him. “If you ever eat a girl out, that’s where you’ll want to focus your mouth. Now, go ahead and move your fingers in and out, making sure to apply pressure upwards, and use your thumb as leverage on my clit when you move out. If you can remember, move it up and down or in circles while moving in an out.”
It’s all so clinical, he thinks, so impersonal. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. She knew exactly how to please him without so much as an utterance from him. Here he was receiving an entire lecture. But you’ll be better for it, he tells himself, you’re learning how to please her directly from the source. She isn’t letting you fumble through it, she’s giving you direction, that way next time you know what the hell you’re doing. A smaller voice he chose to beat back asked him if he was so sure there would be a next time. He starts over, doing as she instructed. Pressure in two places, nice and easy, in and out. This time, she reacts, groaning and rolling her hips to meet his fingers.
He falls into a steady rhythm. She wriggles beneath him, and he watches intently as she moves. Her walls flutter around his fingers and he feels himself harden and begin to leak once more. He’s enraptured by the vision beneath him. Eventually a sheen of sweat forms on her skin, making her glow in the light that filled the room. He leans forward, unable to resist kissing her any longer. She tries to kiss him back, but she’s too busy chasing her release, so he opts for open mouthed kisses anywhere he can reach, cheek, shoulder, anywhere. Before long, her hips begin to stutter, her walls clamp down on his fingers in a rhythm all their own. She calls his name over and over, like a prayer. It soothes the hit his ego took earlier. When she’s finished, she pushes his hand away, the sensation becoming too much. His hand is soaked in her slick, that wonderful smell overwhelming him once more.
Unsure of how to proceed, he wipes his hand on his leg as best he could and lays next to her, watching her heavy breathing become normal once more. His cock aches with the want to enter her, but she made no moves to take things that far. Eventually she steadies, and he begins to press kisses to her skin once more. She turns her head to capture his lips in a kiss. It’s lazy, unchaste, all tongues and nips and nibbles. He could spend an eternity there, but she begins to cling to him in a way his subconscious understands as her wanting more. He dares to roll on top of her and settle between her legs.
He manages to pull away from her and trail kisses down her neck as she’d done before. He tries desperately to find that magical spot on her neck that she found on him but couldn’t do it before she called his name. He stops immediately. It’s time to go, their little tryst has come to an end. Arhtur is going to be home any second and they have to compose themselves, no matter how much his balls ached to be emptied again. “Please,” she says, bringing him in for another scorching kiss. “Please, I want you.” The desperation behind her words almost kills him. He pulls back, not to be a tease, but he wanted to get something straight. In his mind, it was one thing to pleasure each other using mouths and hands, it was a different thing entirely to be joined so intimately. He beings his final confession.
“I love you,” He says, “In all the Seven Kingdoms, in all the world, there’s no one I want more than you. No one I desire to be with more. I’ll only continue if you feel the same way.”
“I love you too, Orm.” It’s the way it falls from her lips without hesitation, the earnestness in her tone, the softness of her smile. This was what made him believe her. His face breaks out into the biggest smile he ever managed. “Yeah?” She nods, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, kissing him for the umpteenth time. He wriggles around for a few moments, using a free hand to slide effortlessly into her. They both groan as he slides all the way in. He can’t explain it, but he’s weak in the best way possible. He wants to collapse on top of her and remain sheathed inside her for eternity. This is right. He belongs with this woman. The universe aligned everything just so he could meet this woman and love her.
His pace is slow to start. He doesn’t want things to end too quickly, but it seems she has other plans. She begins to match his easy pace thrust for thrust. Both of their grunts and whimpers got lost in the others’. An ‘oh Orm,’ was coupled with an ‘oh yes,’ which in turn was followed by ‘right there’ and ‘don’t stop’. All too soon Orm found himself speeding up, just a little, chasing that release. From the way her walls fluttered around his cock, he hoped she was close too. “Orm, thumb, please.” She whispers, clinging to him. Through the haze of pleasure, he manages to find enough wits to place his thumb on her clit and began to rub. Her legs wrap around his waist, bringing him impossibly deeper. By this time neither could tell which grunt belonged to who, who was begging for the other harder. They were lost in each other, and when they climaxed, it was together. Both their hips jerked erratically, each chasing their release, lamenting that the pleasure was over too soon.
Orm collapses on top of her. She brings her arms around him, scraping her fingers over the back of his scalp with one hand, and running the other up and down his back. He softened slowly inside her as they both bask in the afterglow. In the back of his mind, Orm knows Arthur is going to be pissed. But it’s like he said in the beginning, Arthur be damned.
To my 2019 self from myself in 2024. It took five years. Five long, hard, angry years, but bitch, you made it. You fucking made it. I couldn't be prouder.
For my darling @brightlycoloredteacups. A very happy, very belated, New Year to you! ❤️❤️❤️
Tony Stark x f!reader
Warnings: fluffy, emotional
Who would’ve thought Tony Stark would enjoy baking? Not you, at least not at first. Though once you thought about it, you suppose it made sense. It’s a science, after all, and if there’s one thing aside from you that Anthony Edward Stark cares for, it’s science. Still, what greets you as you arrive in the kitchen after having bought more butter to sate this newfound interest of his manages to shock you. There’s flour everywhere: on the white lace curtains, on the sturdy wooden table gifted to you by Clint - he’d made three of them when he was bored during house arrest - and even on the tip of your husband’s nose. The aforementioned husband is currently bent over the kitchen table, studying one of the cookies under a microscope that he must’ve brought up from the basement while his dark hair sticks out in every which direction.
“Anthony?” you wonder out loud. Though you say only his name, what you’re really asking is ‘what the hell happened here?’.
He remains bent over the microscope, laser focused, though he replies without hesitation:
“There was a mishap with the blender, I’ll have Dum-E clean it up once we’re done here.” That’s one of the benefits of living with a bona fide tech genius; there’s few chores he hasn’t found a way to outsource to one of his creations, leaving more time for the two of you to just be with each other. Just years ago, walking into the kitchen and finding this level of mess probably would’ve caused you a minor heart attack. Now, you take it in stride because you know it’ll be taken care of by someone other than you.
“There’s fresh coffee in the pot if you need it.” He sticks his thumb out behind him, indicating the pot on the counter. You absolutely need it, having spent twenty minutes in line at the grocery store while the girl working the cash register tried to figure out why it was malfunctioning. To top it all off, the lady in front of you then decided that the best way of handling her frustration was to yell at the poor girl. You’ve had your fair share of customers like that, before you got out. When it was your turn to pay, you told the cashier to keep the change and wished her a good day. You set the butter on the counter, knowing that It’ll need about half an hour to reach room temperature before you and Tony can move on to the next recipe in grandma’s book. The coffee’s still warm as you pour yourself a cup and take a seat to wait for him to be done with the microscope, and for the butter to soften. You’re about two thirds done with the cup when he stands up abruptly, setting his hands on his hips.
“If you let me tweak the recipe, we could optimize this whole-”
“It’s not about optimizing, Anthony,” you interrupt, “it’s about family traditions, remembering where we came from, spending time together.” Tony’s face scrunches together. You can tell he wants to retort, that he wants to break out his businessman persona - the one that he was raised to have since before he could talk. But, just as abruptly as he stood up, he deflates.
“You’re right. And I’m sorry. About this-” he gestures to the flour covered kitchen, “-and, well, about this.” He gestures to himself. Indicating more than just the flour dusting the tip of his nose. You shake your head, stepping forward and putting your hands at either side of his face.
“That’s alright.” Running one hand along his hair, you chuckle a little to yourself as the attempt to smooth it out only leaves it looking even more disheveled. “I know you get excited when you get to be a nerd.”
“Pretty sure that’s why you married me,” he says casually. “You just can’t resist the nerd, no woman can.” The very first thing he nerded out about with you was the development of photography. It was preceded by you taking a picture, having set up the timer on your camera to capture a memory of the picnic he’d invited you to less than 48 hours after you first met each other. That photo opened a dam, and it was well past 1 in the morning before you made your way back to the car and drove home. You brush the flour off of his nose before planting a kiss there, feeling his cheeks heat in immediate response, then retreat and nod to the microscope where the - now cut in half - cookie is still resting on the slide.
“Peanut butter or cinnamon?”
“Peanut butter,” Tony replies. “I was curious as to whether the distribution of peanut crumbs was affected by the oven settings.” Of course he was. You nod along as if that’s a perfectly ordinary thing to think about while baking.
“Leave the microscope for a bit,” you instruct and Tony’s features sharpen as he focuses on your words. “I’m going to read the next recipe to you, and I want you to follow the instructions. Whenever there’s an urge to tweak, you resist it.” You raise your hand and without, without so much as a femtosecond of hesitation, Tony answers the fist bump. His face cracks open with a boyish smile.
“You got it, boss.” He rounds the table, picking a clean bowl from the shelf, then whirls around to face you - body tense like he’s a sprinter waiting for the start gun to go off. You start off with measurements and Tony floats back and forth on the other side of the table as he brings out tablespoons and measuring cups, exacting out the correct amount of each ingredient in preparation. It seems as natural to him as the circuit boards he’s been building since he was four.
“Whisk together flour,” you instruct next, reading tita Javiera’s precise handwriting, “salt, lemon zest, ginger, baking powder, and baking soda. Set aside.” Tony goes to work immediately, adding each mentioned ingredient to the bowl. Is this what it was like for tita Javiera? you wonder. Her and tito Theo side by side in the kitchen, flour dusted on their clothes and the room filled with laughter and warmth as they moved around and with each other to test the recipes she’d gotten from magazines, friends, older relatives. Did Theo’s hair stick up just like Tony’s is doing right now? Your heart clenches in an unexpected way. Not unpleasant, but overwhelming.
“Now what?” Tony asks, his back turned to you as he washes a measuring cup. You swallow thickly. He turns to look at you, a smart comment written on his face but it dies out as soon as he sees you.
“Honey?” he asks, concerned. “What’s wrong?”. You wipe away the stray tear before it can make a run for it down your check,
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just happy,” you hiccup and wipe away another tear, “real happy that I get to do this with you.” He joins you, but just as you think he’s about to bring you in for a hug he instead pushes the bowl further away.
“Don’t cry over the bowl,” he chides, “the salt will throw off the balance in grandma Javiera’s recipe.” You swat at his arm but he dodges it, pulling you into the embrace you were waiting for as he laughs.
“Asshole,” you murmur into his neck, smelling strongly of nutmeg. He must’ve gotten some on his fingers earlier, then scratched absentmindedly at the collar of his shirt as he is wont to do.
Happy super late very Merry Christmas/New Years @salt-is-a-terrible-currency! This is what I wanted you to read so bad. Hope it lives up to the hype.
Gurney Halleck x F!Reader.
Part One.
The news of Gurney’s death refused to register in your brain. Gurney couldn’t be dead, he was too strong, too smart. He meant too much to you to be dead. As Leto placed what was meant to be a comforting hand on your shoulder, your very form seemed to crumble. Leto caught you before you hit the floor, all but dragged you to a hard seat as you tried to process the news. You just couldn’t put it together. Gurney. Dead. Dead Gurney. Gone. Gurney was gone, forever. He wasn’t coming back, he wasn’t returning. Leto, stalwart, rock solid Duke of some far away kingdom, held your hand tightly, thick brows knit together, wondering what you were going to do next.
To your credit, you didn’t lose your ever-loving mind in the middle of the hospital. You hiccupped, turned to Duke Leto, and whispered, “Can I see him?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Leto says gently, “He was severely wounded…” The Duke swallows thickly, emotion threatening to overtake him as well. “It’s bad.”
“Please,” You sniffle, “I need to say goodbye.” Leto hesitated for only a moment before relenting. He began to give orders to the hospital staff, then when you were ready, holding tightly on to you, he led you to Gurney’s room.
It had been cold in that room, Gurney’s body covered by the thin hospital sheet. His hand stuck out on the edge. Leto let go of you and stood back in the hallway, so you’d have some privacy. You stood next to Gurney’s body for what seemed like eternity before you gathered the courage to tell him in death what you couldn’t in life. “I love you,” you said, your voice little more than a whisper, thick with emotion. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” You grabbed his hand, marveling at how warm it still was. You choked on a sob, squeezing his hand, wishing you’d told him this months ago. Leaning over his dead body, you kissed his forehead. “Bye Gurney.” With that, you let his hand go and walked out of the hospital, wondering if you’d ever be happy again.
That had been a week ago. Today, Gurney’s funeral was attended by yourself, and four other people. Leto, Paul, Jessica, and Duncan, Gurney’s only friends. Leto invited you to dinner, trying to goad you with information on Gurney’s will. Apparently, the old man left everything to you, which was substantial, considering he’d been Leto’s well paid bodyguard for years. You declined roughly and walked away from the Atreides family as fast as you could. A big part of you blamed Leto for Gurney’s death, you just couldn’t face him right now.
You made it home just before dusk. As you walked into the increasingly darkening apartment, you didn’t bother taking off your shoes, your jacket, nothing. You simply threw your purse into the belly of the beast and made your way to your room. You flop down on your bed, curl up, and cry yourself to sleep.
Hours later, when it’s totally dark, you’re not sure what awakens you. Your brain is screaming ‘something is wrong’. You lie there, the very same position you fell asleep in, and listen, trying to puzzle it out. For the first time in a week, you feel something other than overwhelming grief as sounds from your living room reach your ears. You reach for the bat underneath your bed and roll out of it. Kicking off your nice shoes, you hear the intruder walking down the hall. Positioning yourself by the door, your grip the bat tightly, praying your sweaty palms don’t fuck things up for you. As soon as whoever managed to break into your home opens the door to your room, you swing, making contact. The intruder lets out a satisfying “Ohh!” And falls to the ground, you swing down again, as hard as you can. Before you can get a third swing in the person kicks your feet from under you. You land hard on your ass, teeth clicking together. You don’t have time to gather your wits before they’re on you. You immediately begin to struggle with all your might. “It’s me!” They yell, “Darling it’s me! It’s Gurney,” You go limp in the darkness.
The familiar smell of him envelopes you, making you realize that it isn’t just a dream, “There now,” he says, rolling off you. The light flickers on, you blink rapidly as your eyes adjust. Sure enough, there’s Gurney Halleck, offering his hand to help you off the floor.
Something inside you snaps. You snarl viciously, get up, and tackle him back to the ground. You get a few good hits in before he begins to block your fists with his forearms. “What is wrong with you?” You screech, “Was this some kind of sick joke?”
“No!”
“Then why, why did you do it?”
“It had to be done!”
“What had to be done? Why? Was it Leto, did he tell you to do it?”
“Leto doesn’t know!” This stops you in your tracks completely. Sensing you’ve calmed down, Gurney peeks out from behind his massive forearms to chance a glance at you. “Leto doesn’t know?” You repeat. The thought of Gurney keeping something from Leto seemed more inconceivable to you than Gurney dying. “What doesn’t Leto know?” You ask, staring hard at the man beneath you. “That I’m alive. Only you do, you and Duncan.”
“Me and Duncan,” You repeat. Gurney lets his arms down completely as you puzzle it out. He rests his hands on your hips, unsure of which way things are going to go after this. “Gurney, what is going on?” You finally ask, getting off him.
He follows suit, getting off the floor, following you into the kitchen. “I faked my death,” He explained as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Why?” you ask, wincing as you turn on your light. Normally you kept a tidy household, but you hadn’t been able to do much since his fake death. Take out containers, delivery receipts, and used plastic utensils littered your kitchen counter tops. You’d gone in there to make tea but decided to clean instead.
As you grabbed a garbage bag and began throwing things into it, violently, Gurney began to explain. “It was after the Tuscany incident,” you grunted to show you were listening. Tuscany had been one of the worst missions Leto sent Gurney on. Your man had come back beaten, bruised, and sick with a cold. You nursed him back to health; it was then you began to hate Leto. “It was in Tuscany I realized something…” He trailed off as you tied the bag shut. You placed it next to the overflowing garbage can and took out another bag. “Then, when I got home, you told me what I’ve been needing to hear for years. It was time to get out. I knew Leto would let me go if I asked, but the moment he or Paul got in trouble again, he’d try to pull me right back in.”
“What was it?” You asked, cutting Gurney off, unwilling to give Leto a thought. You finally turn to Gurney, exhausted from your week, angry at him, at Leto, at Duncan. “What was what?”
“What the thing you realized in Tuscany?” Gurney crosses his arms, clearly uncomfortable. “That I had someone to come home to. Someone that I loved, deeply, and that someone loved me. That for once, I couldn’t just die in some shit filled back alley because there was a job that needed to be done. I needed to get home. I needed to get home in one piece.” The silence behind his statement hangs heavy in the air. You want to yell at him, scream, tell him you’re never going to forgive him. Instead, you drop the trash bag, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. Gurney rushed across the kitchen pulling you into his arms. You let out a sob that broke his heart. You were angry and relieved and grief stricken all over again.
As you sobbed, he didn’t say anything, simply stood there and allowed you to get his shirt wet with your tears. He promised that with all he had in him, however many days he had left, he’d spend all of it making things up to you. He had to, you were his life, his world, his love, he owed that to you, and so much more.
A/N: I’ve been working on this little by little and hadn’t realized I hadn’t posted in forever...um....oops?
Warnings: Canon typical violence.
Brynhilda had never been nervous before battle. Perhaps it was because she’d never led an army before. Sure, she led the charge, but she didn't have to give orders, all she had to do was fight. Now men looked at her expectantly. It’s a small group, pitifully so, but she sent the bulk of her forces with Alf to take down another Jarl with more men. Gods, she realized after an eternity, they want me to give a speech. “Remember,” she starts, “we didn't come here to slaughter the people,” she gulps what had they come here for? To kill the jarl, of course, but that didn't sound very inspiring. Her panic rises as she continues spouting inspirational bullshit, “We came to right wrongs. To put things back into order.” Yes, that sounded right, it sounded better anyway. The words come out easier now, so much so, they don’t sound like her at all. “We came on behalf of those that can't fight, that won't fight, so we could free them from Boggvir.” It was a half truth, a great many people were fed up with Boggvir's mismanagement. That was how her army had swollen so quickly. Now was the time to capitalize on that. “Today, is the beginning of the end of Boggvir, he will die, painfully, just as he deserves, We will see it done.” Her men grunt and nod in agreement, careful to keep quiet in the predawn morning. “Victory,” she growls ending her speech, “or Valhalla.” Her men whisper it back to her.
At the caw of her raven, they begin the dangerous trek over the ice. It's the dead of winter and they were freezing thanks to the long trek around the village. They were coming up through the harbor as it was frozen solid. Admittedly it was also the least protected. Who the hell was going to take over a town via the frozen harbor? It was dangerous. They could slip through the ice at any moment. Because of this, they moved slowly, ears tuned for the telltale sound of cracking ice. One wrong step, one solid gust of wind, any unforeseen danger, unplanned for snag, and they might as well be done for. She only relaxes when they reach the beach.
Silently, they make their way to the jarl's longhouse. Lucking out, they made it without any sort of fuss. The village had been stupidly unguarded. Apparently Falki didn’t feel the need to protect her people. It seemed that Jarl Falki was throwing a party for whatever reason she felt like. Who the fuck throws a part this early in the morning? Or was it this late at night? Shit, Brynhilda thinks, it’s just my luck, Falki sitting pretty in an enclosed space where it would be harder to fight. Out in the streets they could spread out, run around and get the upper hand. Inside it was a completely different story. Too many ways to get trapped and killed. Growling, she sheaths her sword. “My lady?” Someone calls, obviously confused. They were there to kill Falki, not play nice. She winces, gods she wished she wasn't a leader. “Well, we can't be rude,” she says, smirking to hide her nerves, “we're crashing the party after all,” her men chuckle. Brynhilda straightens up as much as she can. Gathering her courage, she can't help but feel that this is the stupidest idea she ever had, but with nothing stopping her, and no one else giving her any ideas, she walks through the front door.
All conversation stops from the moment she and her men enter. “Falki!” She says, opening her arms not giving the other woman time to register what in the hel was going on, “so good to see you my friend!” Falki is a small woman with red hair and a mean face. Her men looked equally as mean. All stood with weapons at the ready, despite being up all night and most of them being very drunk. Before her men could pull their own weapons out, she motioned for them to stop. “Here's the deal,” she says, daring to walk further into the longhouse. She's exposed, but she has to take this chance. “All I want is Falki's head,” Falki scoffs, “It will never happen,” the red head declares. Brynhilda ignores her. “No one but her has to die today,” Brynhilda turns to the biggest threat in Falki’s little group. She singles him out as leader the moment she entered the room, if she can get him to throw down his weapon, the others will surely follow. “You can join me, or become my enemy, what do you say?” She walks up to the man, reaching out to him for a handshake, “Friends?” She smirks in her nervousness. Stupid, she thinks, stupid, stupid, stupid. He isn't going to fall for it, I know he won't
Just as she thinks to move her hand towards her sword, the man in front of her slackens his stance, puts his weapon away, and grasps her hand in a firm shake. “Friends,” he agrees. Brynhilda smiles, not daring to believe her luck. Things could go sideways at any moment.
Before Falki cam even register the betrayal, Brynhilda's ax, a secondary weapon she hardly used, flies with deadly accuracy across the room, catching the red head right between the eyes. Things are deathly quiet. “Well?” Brynhilda says, surprised at how easy things had gone, “let's eat!”
*
Midday, and Brynhilda is exhausted. She's been waiting anxiously for news of the other half of her people. Had they won? Had they failed? She didn't think so, one of her ravens had departed with Alf to keep an eye on things and it hadn't reported back yet. They still must be fighting.
A few hours ago the village had awoken to find Falki's head on a pike, just as Brynhilda had promised. She had been ready for a fight, a skirmish, even a few complaints. However, as word spread of Falki’s death and people began to gather around the longhouse to stare in wonderment, nothing came of it. In fact, just as she was sure a riot was going to break out, people began to cheer. It took her longer than she wanted to admit to realize they were chanting her name.
From there life had gone on as always. As news of her victory further spread through the village and beyond, people kept coming in to see her. Mostly children, but women and men as well. A great many of them pledging their sword arms to her. She hated it, she wanted to crawl into furs and sleep the day away. It was the anxiety of not knowing about her other men combined with the looks of utter adoration on people’s faces. Boggvir had raised her to believe they all feared her. Because of that fear they hated her. It was just another lie he told to control her. She half thought of asking Dorfi to try his sleeping spell again, but she knew it wouldn't work.
Just as she thought she was going to go mad with anxiety the doors burst open. Alf walked in, not a scratch on him, her raven perched neatly on his shoulder. “It would seem your plan worked,” he declared, “though not as one would think.”
“No one fought you?” Brynhilda asks incredulously. Alf shakes his head, sitting heavily in a chair. “Not a one, in fact, once everyone realized whose army was taking over, they began to cheer.” She nodded, “Much the same happened here,” She was quiet as she thought it over, three territories captured. Two to go. It’s funny how she’s beginning to understand Boggvir's fear. If people follow her this readily as his enemy, what might she have done as his ally? It didn't matter, all that mattered was the end. “Get Dorfi and the others, we have a battle to plan,”
*
“You're staring into space again,” Dorfi says, nudging her. Brynhilda merely grunts, coming back to the present. Right, battle plans. “Who occupies your thoughts?” Alf teases, feeling giddy that the day had been won so easily, “your lover from Lattegat?” Brynhilda's hand goes up to Ivar's pendant automatically. “It doesn't matter who he was, he's dead now.” And besides, that wasn’t what she’d been thinking about. She had been day dreaming about her parents and brothers. She was curious to know if they were proud of her. They had to be, right? Someone had to be proud of her.
“Killed by your hand for an affair no doubt.” Dorfi says, not wanting to be left out. Brynhilda leans back in her chair, trying to relieve the ache in her back. “No, he went off on an ill advised raid. And he is dead. As is this conversation.” the two men nod, getting the hint.
“Right, Boggvir's men outnumber us three to one despite all the ground we’ve covered.” Alf says. “Your numbers swell everyday, but we need to attack while the advantage is ours.”
“We need to fight smarter, not harder.” Dorfi reminds her. Brynhilda chews at her lip, this is all true. But she wasn’t one for planning things out. She was just a weapon to be used, not an intellectual. Even so, an idea begins to take hold. “Boggvir has an ego as big as a giant. He probably thinks I'll just charge into battle. We can use this to our advantage.”
“How do you propose to do that?” Dorfi asks, “you won't see his army laying down their weapons just because you're Brynhilda the Deathless.”
“I don't expect them to.” She says, happy she managed to keep the edge from her voice. Dorfi got under her skin, she didn't trust him fully, and he always had the opposite opinion she did. But if she was to be a leader, she needed people who disagreed with her, to make her consider all angles.
“Boggvir is predictable, he lays his army camp out the same way every time. I can almost guarantee he'll situate himself at the Cliff of Cliffs.”
“Excuse me? The what now?” Alf asks, not even bothering to hide his snicker. Brynhilda sends him a glare, “I was ten when I named it, it was the biggest cliff I ever saw at that point in my life.” Alf laughs at her, as do the other men. She feels her cheeks heat up but she reminds herself they weren’t necessarily laughing at her, more like they were laughing at her logic. Her irritation eases. They felt comfortable laughing at her because they saw her as someone likable. Was it possible these people saw her for more than what she was? She liked the thought of that, but tried desperately not to let it get to her head. She’d allowed her pride to lead her blindly before, never again.
Brynhilda's plan was simple. So simple in fact, she doubted it would work, but she had to try. If nothing, she would at least be sung about in a saga. Maybe. She found she didn't care.
Braiding her hair carefully, preparing for battle, her thoughts turned to the subject of death. She had been evading it since her family was slaughtered for their land when she was ten years old. She almost succumbed to the Valkyries when she was left hanging from the altar. Apparently though, she had been spared by Odin. She was a part of some grand design.
Her name, her story, the idea of her had now reached mythical proportions. They whispered her epithet, The Deathless behind their hands, looking at her in awe. Every tragic episode in her life adding to her legend. The death of her parents, her first kill when she was ten in revenge for that death. The Blood Eagle ritual that hadn’t been completed, and now the ease with which she had come back from some place unknown, healed and stronger than ever. It sounded fantastical, even to her, and she had lived it all.
But what if this was to be her last battle? What if Odin had been setting up one long lesson for her about her pride just to pull everything she worked for right from under her? What if Aslaug's prediction was wrong?
She grabs the pendant hanging from her neck, giving it a lingering kiss. “I wonder if you're watching over me, my love.” She smiles at the memory of his perfectly blue eyes. It was the only thing she remembered accurately. “I hope you are. Perhaps I will join you soon,” Dorfi pokes his head through her tent flaps, “Are you ready?” She stands, wolf pelt upon her shoulders, bear shield in her hand, and sword at her side. “Victory,” she whispers, “or Valhalla.”
*
The Cliff of Cliffs hugged a valley rather than the sea. It had a simple cave system. That Brynhilda had explored as a child. From the information she’d gathered, thanks to a recon mission, she knew that Boggvir’s men were situated right against the cliff, next to a crack that opened right in the middle of the camp. He was trying to cover his back so he could watch out for his front. She had planned something entirely unexpected for someone like her. She though too much like Boggvir. Direct, powerful attacks had been his forte. She had to do the opposite. She had to be sneaky and whittle down the numbers before she attacked head on. To sew a little chaos amongst the ranks of Boggvir was her goal.
Brynhilda’s force is small, excluding herself, there were seven in total that followed her. Alf, Dorfi, and five others that had volunteered to go on a virtual suicde mission. The other men in her army had other tasks.
Standing in front of the opening that would take them through the systems and lead them to Boggvir’s army, she turns to her people, “Remember, you can take as much as you can carry, but destroy supplies. Keep as quiet as you can, for as long as you can. If you get caught, I won't be saving you.” Everyone nods in understanding. “Good, lets go.”
There were other groups prowling that night to help with creating confusion.. One such group busied themselves with setting up traps in the forest. In the early morning, they’d try to get some of Boggvir’s men to follow them for a skirmish, and neutralize a small portion of the army with said traps. Another group was situated on top of the cliff, ready to fire arrows down at the enemy at a random time in the night. Yet another group was going to try and lead a small group of the enemy into a small skirmish to the south, no traps this time.
Brynhilda didn’t have the bulk Boggvir did, even now, at the height of her popularity. She had to resort to guerilla tactics for the next few hours in the hopes of weakening the enemy, tiring them out, depleting some of the massive army.
So many opportunities for things to go wrong...yet the reward was worth it.
Brynhilda leads her group through the caves with no problem, out the otherside with only the smallest of sounds. When she finally saw the last person out of the cave, she hisses,“Find cover, quickly.” They do as told, following her behind a stack of food. She looks at them, “spread out, start destroying supplies. Food, weapons, shields. Throw things into the ravine, steal things, I don't care. Get going.” Everyone disperses at her orders. They had one hour to complete their tasks before the attacks began. Then, they either get caught in the fight, or they escape without a scratch.
Brynhilda is on edge the entire hour. Anything could go wrong. Luck holds with her, however. She manages to find weapons just laying around the camp, just as she expected. It’s a pity that she has to give Boggvir this sorely needed reality check.
Her confidence is slowly returning as time passes. She can do this, they can do this. A soft caw from one of the crows that perpetually follows her tells her it's time to go. She rushes back to the hole in the cliff, seeing most of her group. “Where is Dorfi?” She asks. “We don't know,” Alf tells her, “lost I expect.” Brynhilda curses. “Go back to the camp, I'll find Dorfi.”
“What happened to you not saving us if we got caught?” Alf says, smirking, “Clearly I lied.”
“I saw him go towards the edge of the camp, toward the log trap.” A woman tells her. Brynhilda nods by way of thanks and turns to head back towards the interior of camp, stopping when her group moves with her. “Go back,” she hisses. “Not without you,” Alf says. “Look-” Brynhilda begins to argue, but Alf cuts her off, “Don't bother arguing. We aren't leaving without you.”
“Well, don't blame me when we're still stuck here when things go to shit.” Brynhilda mutters, moving herself and her group towards the edge of the camp. It occurs to her that Dorfi really might be working for Boggvir, thus leading her into a trap. She grips her sword tighter, she'd behead him if that were the case.
She doesn't have to wonder about it long though, as she hears Dorfi's voice through a tent. “I don't know anything about Brynhilda.” he says defiantly. She keeps the smirk off her face. He could just be saving his own skin, Odin knew he didn’t owe any loyalty to Boggvir. “Oh? She didn't send you here to curse us all?” Someone sneers. Their voice is gruff, someone she doesn't recognize. She motions of her people to surround the tent. “Do you really think Brynhilda is someone that believes in curses?” Dorfi argues.
“Yes.” The unseen man says matter of factly. There was an awkward pause, “Do you think Brynhilda is someone who would use curses?” Dorfi rephrased. “Look, we all know Brynhilda wants us dead, but-” she steps into the tent for dramatic effect, cutting off the man’s tirade by running him through with her sword. She’s angry when she sees Dorfi beaten and bloodied. For a moment, she has to wonder if he really kept her secrete despite the torture. “You're right, I do want you dead,” she mutter to the body on the ground.
Dorfi looks at her, smiling. He gets off his knees and stumbles out of the tent. Sheathing her sword, she follows him, bringing out a dagger from its holster and cuts his restraints. “What happened to not coming to save our asses?” Dorfi asks, delighted. Brynhilda just pats his shoulder.
They were going to sneak back to the cliff, but the ravens kick up a fuss, the signal for the other groups to start their skirmishes. “Shit,” she mutters. Everyone readies their weapons, “There isnt enough time to escape,” Dorfi warns her, watching as people are now pouring from the tents, wondering why the fuck ravens are awake in the middle of the night.
“Tight circle,” Brynhilda instructs, bringing her shield in front of her. They form a tight ring as shouts of intruders begin to go up, now alerted to their presence. Men begin to surround them, no one attacking yet. “Brynhilda, I don't like this,” Alf mutters, “Oh really?” She snaps, “What's not to like? We're trapped in the middle of the enemy encampment, ready to be killed. What’s not to like?”
“Someone's testy,” Alf mutters, “She needs a nap,” Dorfi explains, “she gets cranky without her beauty rest.”
“I hate you both.” She mutters, bracing herself for a fight. The dam of tension breaks as soon as a random enemy charges at her and hits her shield. Everyone begins to shout, fight, run. Its utter chaos.
Brynhilda wants to throw herself into the fight with wild abandon, her very being craves the blood shed, demands it, but she's divided. She has to get her people to safety. They have to survive. She defends them more than she fights.
The enemy, composed of men she's led in battle and known for six years, are confused at the new tactic. She's a brute force fighter, she charges and her opponent dies. Now she's yelling coherent instructions, staying back and helping her people. Her old comrades can’t make sense of it, it makes them hesitate.
Her new friends are just as adept at fighting as she is, a tall blond clears a path, striking so quickly anyone barely has time to react. Dorfi is clearly a distance fighter, throwing numerous little knives into the fray. The women dart in and out of small pockets of enemies, taking down two or three at a time. They work as a team and manage to get to the border, where fighting only grows heavier.
The group Brynhilda sent out that was supposed to charge the side of the camp she’s headed towards is doing its job beautifully. She leads her people towards the small skirmish, forgetting about returning to the small cave system they entered through. The shock of the attack had given them the clear advantage. “Retreat!” She yells once she regroups with the small force of fighters. Despite the screaming and clanging steel, her voice is heard clearly over the battlefield. A horn is sounded and her men begin to fall back. Brynhilda stays until she is sure the last man has gone. She is about to join them when the enemy crowd parts, and she sees Boggvir.
Her heart aches. A sick part of her wants to forgive him, to run into his arms and take comfort in his presence, most of her just wants to snap his neck then and there. He looks older than she remembered, he looks...terrified. “Enjoy your final moments,” Brynhilda calls to him, bowing, “Boggvir, King of Traitors” with that, she melts into the darkness of the trees.
Murder babies deciding to get a dog! I don't know why I haven't thought about this one before because it's just *chef's kiss*
Well, I haven't done one THESE in a while....*cracks knuckles*
"We should get a guard dog." Ivar suggested as Hannibal pulled into a parking space. "We don't need a guard dog, we have Brynhilda," Hannibal points out. No one misses Brynhilda's smirk, the statement couldn't have been truer. They all pile out of the car. Brynhilda helps Ivar, Hannibal helps Ylva. They all make their way inside the restaurant. "We need a low maintenance dog." Brynhilda states, "That way it doesn't tire Ylva or Ivar out."
"I can handle a high energy dog." Ylva points out. Brynhilda kisses her temple, having meant no offense to the blonde. "We're getting a service dog," Hannibal says with a finality that doesn't leave any room to argue. The group was sat at a booth, Ivar and Brynhilda looking rather sour. "We don't need a service dog." Ivar snaps, good mood suddenly turning sour.
"Yes," Hannibal says, "We do." He looked at them all gravely. "The girls having been doing fine in therapy, but they have a long way to go."
"Don't talk about us like we aren't here," Brynhilda growls. Hannibal pats her hand. "You guys are still anxious, and there's still a lot that's new to you all. Having a service dog of some sort may help. He'll be able to alert you if there are intruders in the house." The statement hung heavy in the air.
Two nights ago, Ylva, after a bad dream, had Brynhilda check the entire house for anyone hiding in a dark corner. the week before that, Brnyhilda had stalked the perimeter of their home for hours until she was satisfied nothing was lurking in the bushes. What was the point of all of them living together if no one felt safe?
"I've spoken with a friend," Hannibal tells them, "We'll get the girls assessed and go from there. This is a good thing." The three nod, understanding there was wisdom in his words. "It had better be a big ass dog," Brynhilda grumbles, breaking the tension. The others laugh. As the waiter takes their orders, they ease into good conversation, assured the getting a new puppy was the right idea.
https://vikingstrash.tumblr.com/post/689780350035099648/i-really-liked-my-pinned-post-but-in-lights-of Why would you send her hate? What's wrong with you? Don't be an attention whore!
Warnings: Stalking, kidnapping, none for this chapter.
Tags: None
A/N: Whelp...never expected to go back to this series, but here we are.
***
There’s a change in you that Ivar can sense. He just isn’t sure if it’s a good one. He isn’t as crazy as one would believe, he’s self aware enough to understand that what he’s done to you is wrong, he won’t pretend it isn’t. But he also knew about Stockholm Syndrome. As long as he was nice to you, as long as he made you feel his love, eventually you would attach yourself to him. But would it be enough for you not to want to leave him?
Three days ago, when his father came to visit, you ran for the door. He wasn’t stupid, he knew you were looking for freedom. To see and feel the sun, to be with your family, but the moment his father had announced himself, you had attached yourself so quickly to him it was unbelievable. Not to mention you had introduced yourself as his girlfriend, and kissed him, twice. Now you couldn’t even look him in the eye. Were you ashamed of him? Ashamed to be seen with him? He grits his teeth together, was it possible that his legs were an obstacle you couldn’t seem to overcome? Was that why you had never made a move?
Finally, you look up at him, brows furrowed. You both were sitting on the couch, reading. Well, you were reading, he just had a book in his lap for show. “Is there something on my face?” You ask, swiping at it. Ivar shakes his head, “You’re beautiful, like always.” He tells you. You give him a small smile, but then immediately return to frowning. “Then why are you staring at me?”
“I like staring.” he tells you a little too quickly. You close the book you’d been reading, then turn to face him fully. “You’re upset about something.” He can’t help but smile, you knew him so well, he couldn’t hide his emotions from you.
It’s true, he was upset, he had been upset since his father’s visit. His mother had called, demanding to know why he hadn’t told her about you. “You tell me everything, Ivar, why not about this?” He had explained that he was taking things very slowly with you, that while you both had been friends for a long time, he didn’t want to mess things up between you two. In fact, he informed her, he had been taking things so slowly with you that just moments before Ragnar showed up you had decided to take the fateful leap into romantic territory. “I want to see her,” Aslaug declared, “I haven’t seen her in years. Bring her Bjorn’s party.” She commands. He had only made some half assed excuse and gotten off the phone with her quickly. To this very moment he hasn’t decided if he should actually ask you to go.
It would be a good test for you, to see how serious things had gotten between you two. But there were so many variables that could go wrong. Someone could see you, report the sighting to the police, what then? You could find a way to escape him, what if the syndrome hadn’t set in fully yet? What if you fell for Ubbe, or Hvitserk, or hell even Sigurd? That last thought made his blood boil. Apparently the sickening feeling had shown on his face because you looked at him, startled, “Is it me?” You ask weakly, scooting away from him. He quickly smooths his features, putting his hand on your arm. “No!” he says, scooting closer to you. “It’s just,” He heaves a sigh, not sure how to broach the topic.
“My brother, he’s getting married and throwing an engagement party back home,” He trails off, not sure where he wants to go with the conversation. You put a hand on top of his. “You can go if you want,” You tell him. He shakes his head, “I don’t want to go,” He mutters. You nod, sagely. You were well aware of Ivar’s relationship with his brothers. Only getting along with two out of the four. “Mother misses me though.” You don’t know what to do with this information. You understand Ivar is close with his mother, but it had nothing to do with you. “She wants to see you too.”
“I mean, this is your home, Ivar, you’re welcome to invite whoever you want.” He shakes his head, “She wants me to bring you to the party.” Your heart skips several beats at this revelation. Ivar can deny his mother nothing, which means it’s very likely he’s going to take you. By now you understood the game, however, and schooled your hopeful look into one of neutrality. “It would be nice to see her again.” You mutter noncommittally. In reality, you relished the chance to get out of the house. Perhaps if you played your cards right, you could be freed, you could go home and put this nightmare behind you.
You place your hand on top of Ivar’s, looking up at him, you smile gently, trying one last push to change his mind. “I’ll be good for you Ivar. I promise.” You felt him go rigid, his facial expression smoothed into an incredible coldness. Without saying anything, he got up and hobbled towards the exit. Too scared to say anything, let alone grab for him, you watched as he walked up the stairs, achingly slow, shut the big metal door to your room, and lock it with a finality that seemed like a death sentence. Your mouth is dry, so it’s hard to swallow the lump that formed there. What in the hell had you done?
A/N: Has been 84 years? Yes. Am I back on my bullshit? Maybe.
Warnings: None for this chapter.
Brynhilda shifts on her throne, uncomfortable despite the soft padding. Becoming Jarl had not been the point of killing the previous one. She’d only been looking to send a message, yet somehow, the entire town now saw her as their de facto leader. Something wasn’t right about that.
Looking out at the great hall, she’s surprised to see so many familiar faces. She’d revealed her game plan only a week ago, and already her tiny little village had swelled three times its original size. Men and women, young and old, new soldiers and army veterans, all of them looking forward to fighting for her. She nearly chokes on her emotions...well, at least her laughter.
With allies come enemies, she understands that, but she doesn’t know what to make of this particular situation. On the one hand, she’s highly amused, on the other, slightly disturbed. She knows this will only add to the rumors that she’s Odin’s chosen. But, really? She looks at the fabric in her hands, the Sleep Thorn had been stitched into it. She wondered what Floki the Boatbuilder would make of it. He had a special connection to the gods, he would’ve had a great deal to say. Suddenly, she misses Kattegat, misses funny old Floki and the girls, she even misses the cranky old medicine woman that refused to treat Ivar because of his temper.
“Lady Brynhilda?” Alf says, nudging her shoulder. Brynhilda blinks, brought to the present, oh, right, she’s supposed to sentence the traitor. “The Sleep Thorn,” She mutters, tracing the symbol with the pads of her fingers. “Not very effective, was it?” She looks up at Alf. He looks as amused as she feels. “No, lady, it would seem it wasn’t.” They look at the man who’d done it. “Jarl Brynhilda,” A rather rough looking man walks up to her, she only knows him as Arrow. He was the first to greet her back home, and the first to pledge his allegiance to her cause. “I say we kill this traitor and send his head to Boggvir,” mutters of agreement flow through the long house.
Brynhilda stands up, walks down from the dias, and stops in front of the man. “Why would we do a thing like that? Boggvir wouldn’t even recognize him.”
“My lady?” Arrow asks, unconvinced of her statement. Brynhilda begins to stalk the man that tried to curse her, round and round she went, taking in every detail. “You aren’t acting out of loyalty to Boggvir, are you?” The man struggles against his binds, snarling unintelligibly at her. “You're acting out of revenge for your brother.” The shock that Brynhilda remembers the prisoner is evident on his face. It’s quickly replaced with a smile, he speaks. “I didn't think you'd remember.”
“Yours is a hard face to forget.” Brynhilda straightens, looking at her confused men, she didn't feel like explaining that the one before her had been after her since she helped Falki take over. “The way I see it, you have two options. Choose your death, or choose to work with me.” The man spits at her, snarling once more in rage. “Why would I work with my brother's killer?”
Brynhilda turns from him, sitting back on her throne. Damn, this thing was hard on her back. “You and I both know I was a mere pawn in Boggvir's army, his best warrior yes, but a pawn nonetheless. I got Falki and her troops into your village, I killed your fighters, but I did not kill you brother. If I had, I would have been the new Jarl.”
He squirms in his binds, considering her words. What she said was true, even her enemies knew she was not in the habit of lying. Had she been the one to actually kill his brother, things would have undoubtedly played out differently. Still, surely years of anger and hatred didn’t shift from one target to the next in an instant. He straightens, giving her a haughty look. “You may call me Dofri.” Well, she’d been wrong before. It’s stupid to trust someone that just tried to curse her. She’s an idiot, she knows she is, but there’s something about him, something in his eyes. He’d never before considered working to kill the true target of his revenge. Maybe Falki had been unattainable to him until now. Even so, Brynhilda knows she’s just making up an excuse to trust him.
The way she figured it, the benefits outweigh the risks. She needed someone with a desire for revenge, some like her, that would stop at nothing to see it through. And, if she had to be completely honest, he reminded her of Floki. “Dofri” she motions for someone to cut his hands loose, “Welcome to my army.”
*
Those that visit Brynhilda's feast hall swear it’s a place of unsettling magic. Not exactly gloomy or bright. Not cold or hot. Not comfortable or uncomfortable. A charge was ever present in the air, making one aware of the unearthly quality Brynhilda exuded. Unseen things crawl around the place, whispering in their ears, telling the listener that they were safe, cared for. The only catch was Brynhilda herself had to be in a good mood.
Part of the magic of the place was that the feeling in the room changed with her feelings. If she was angry, the urge to drive your ax into the skull of your greatest enemy became almost too great to resist. If she was sad, you felt as though your heart had been ripped through your chest and eaten by a wild beast. If she was happy, you felt as though you had the strength of the gods themselves. The moment you left the feast hall, the cool air hitting your face, you felt dazed and confused. Why had you been subject to such alien feelings?
Only adding to the atmosphere were the plants hanging from ceilings, growing in pots in the corners, covering the windows with their leaves. Dorfi the Poisoner, a strange man you weren’t exactly sure was even a man, had made himself at home. He had no house of his own, no relatives he could rely on, so she opened the feast hall to him, and allowed him to do as he wished, within reason. Most of the plants were harmless until mixed into the right concoction. Dofri could make you a healing draught that helped you fight like ten men, or a poison that made you bleed from your ass. Many were unsettled by that fact, all but Brynhilda, it seemed.
Dearest Bryhilda, wild, untameable Brynhilda. She was the topic of much conversation. Alf had his suspicions that Brynhilda didn’t exactly belong to the world, she was too ethereal, too much wild energy danced about her. It didn’t help that to add to her mystique were the legendary stories. She’s killed a hundred men on her own, she survived the bite of the most poisonous snake in the world, she survived being Blood Eagled. Of course, she always brushes the stories off with completely plausible explanations. Those hundred men she killed on her own? It had taken her a week, and even then she’d gotten lucky with a rock slide taking out half the force. That snake bite? The poison didn’t get too far into her system before she had been treated. The Blood Eagle? Hadn’t been completed before an army attacked.
She may be a living, breathing, legend, but she was humble. That's why people flocked to her banner. Or perhaps it was because she was kind. The people in the village had been starving thanks to the previous Jarl’s greed, but now, they had rations, enough to last them through the winter. And with the promise of a good summer’s planting, the harvest should be more bountiful. Either way, in just a few short weeks, Brynhilda’s popularity was skyrocketing. Which surprised her, if her constant look of annoyance was anything to go by.
Alf listens to the conversations around him as was his task. Brynhilda needed to divine the moods of her people in order to be successful at ruling them. She needed eyes and ears everywhere. He knew Dorfi had also been given the job, but there had to be other men and women about. Two men couldn’t share the burden of ten. If Alf knew Brynhilda like he thought he did, and he was fairly confident in his assumptions despite knowing her for such a short period of time, he knew that she was keeping the other people that worked under her a secret. She was the only one that knew all the plans. Everyone else was kept in the dark in the event of a capture, or worse, a betrayal.
The most amusing talk was that of how animals reacted around her. She had two ravens, and wherever she went, they went. One was cheeky, always playing with her hair, her clothing. Always talking to her in its own birdish way. It was fond of mead, often drinking from Brynhilda's cup. The other raven was stoic. It either stood still on her shoulder, or the best place to watch over her. You got the feeling it was always watching over her. It too drank from her cup, but very sparingly. Mostly, it ate meat from her plate.
Pigs were excited by her presence, they followed her whenever she passed by a pen, what’s more, they obeyed her when she gave them an order. If she found any strangeness in that little fact, she told no one.
Alf looks up to try and find her, desiring her biting wit to end his boredom. She sat in a corner, a raven perched on either shoulder. She’s still, looking more a menacing statue than a young girl. He can clearly see the exhaustion on her face.
She woke up before dawn to the crowing of her ravens, trained relentlessly, ate like someone four times her size, then trained more. She ran through the forest, uncaring of the potential hazards, she hunted, bringing in the best kills and sharing it with her men. At night she learned all she could from men like Alf and Dorfi, medicine women, even the greenest soldiers she pestered with questions. She maintained that you could learn a great many things, so long as you thought to ask.
So yes, Brynhilda was wild, but she was kind, she could be brutal, but only if you pressed her. Mostly, she was curious, and infuriating. He thinks back to their previous conversation.
“You need to consider the dangers of attacking during winter.” Alf cautione. This had been an argument ongoing since the announcement of her plan. He knew she was pressed for time, but her plan was downright suicidal, “And you need to consider the advantages.” She argues. “Brynhilda, you want to keep your men, not freeze them.”
“Quick attacks,” she says, “on the two port cities. Here and here,” she points them out on the makeshift map. “We walk on the ice, attack from the harbor where they least expect it, when they least expect it. Just before dawn, when it's darkest. Everyone will be asleep, confused.”
“Alright,” Alf says, seeing she isn't going to be persuaded, “Suppose it works the first time around, do you honestly think it'll work the second time around?”
“I considered it,” she says, nodding, “We can split the army in two, attack at the same time.”
“Who can you trust to lead the second half of your army?” he couldn't think of anyone he'd trust, not even the men who watched her grow up. “You,” came the obvious reply. Alf has to register her confession for a while. “Me?” She nods. “You owe me for freeing you,” she points out, “that's why you hung around for so long.” Damn her, she read people too well. “Do this for me, and your debt is repaid.” Alf huffs, this was a bad idea, a very bad idea, but she did have a few good points. After a long while considering his options, he heaved a sigh, “Alright,” he says, “I'll do it.”
dededos
origamiaround
snowghoul
romaincrisis
izzy806
discoholicmusic
theartofmadeline
