muffled sobbing in the distance

Every Pawn Can Become A Queen Snippets Part 3 of 3

I promised people that I would write the ending of the Historical Fantasy Arranged Marriage Au that came from my original fake Viktuuri fic list from the Rivals series alternate A03 so here it is! 

Original post here

Part 1 here

Part 2 here

Disclaimer - this is a mock up of what one of the fics written by Viktuuri fans in the Rivals universe on the alternate AO3 might look like and therefore is a reflection of how fans see umfb!Yuuri and Viktor not as they actually are. Also again this is a quick fun piece of writing so please don’t take it seriously!

Every Pawn Can Become A Queen Snippets Part 3 of 3

Rating:  Explicit

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Category: M/M

Fandom: Figure Skating RPF

Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov

Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor Nikiforov, Katsuki Mari, Phichit Chulanont, Christophe Giacometti, Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin, Jean-Jacques Leroy, Georgi Popovich, Mila Babicheva, Other Character Tags To Be Added

Additional tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe – Historical Fantasy, Alternate Universe – Royalty, Plotting, Assassination Attempts, Enemies to Lovers


Yuuri is the Prince of an Empire, second in line for the throne and renown in battle, a formidable warrior who has been fighting for almost half his life against the neighbouring Empire and their barbaric ways. But after tragedy strikes both kingdoms, an uneasy peace must be formed between the two opposing sides, a peace that must be sealed with the strongest of bonds.

Charged with keeping the peace for the sake of his people, Yuuri is forced to leave his homeland forever and marry the only son and heir of the opposing kingdom, forging an alliance with marriage to protect the empire built on the backs and blood of his family and now ruled by his beloved sister. But Yuuri knows what the marriage truly is beneath the pretty words. A life-sentence, imprisoned forever under the rule of a man he hates and has faced on the battlefield countless time.

But the political machinations of the foreign court might prove to be an even deadlier battlefield than the one he just left and he must keep the peace between the two kingdoms to save the lives of millions, whatever the cost. And what’s more, his long-time enemy and new husband is not the man he believed him to be and his position as Prince Consort holds more power than he ever expected. For the one who holds the heart of the future king is the one who can control the kingdom.

Keep reading

A Heart So Big

Dean imagine requested by anon! “Imagine where it’s after Kevin’s death and the boys are assuming that Mama Tran is dead, and Dean sees a picture of them on Kevin’s phone and that’s where he loses it (throws the phone, throws the chair, knocks over the table, ect) *muffled sobbing in the distance*” LIKE I DON’T REMEMBER (and yes, I’m still mad) “but doesn’t know that the reader is there watching him and right when he’s about to completely break the reader goes over to him and takes him into her arms and just hugs him and lets him cry?” Usually, when I write a sad imagine, I listen to "Hear You Me” by Jimmy Eat World (which will be linked to a lyric video, if anyone’e interested. I DON’T HAVE ANY RIGHTS TO THE SONG I’M BREAKING THE LAW AND I’M TAKING YOU ALL TO HELL WITH ME). It’s one of my favourite sad songs. Safe to say I’ve incorporated a few key details from the lyrics into this imagine. Hope you like it!

The sheet fluttered to rest against the boy’s body, air pockets evening out as the fabric suctioned to the immobile tubes of his limbs. You dragged the covering to mask the gore-splattered face of the young man, your hands working numbly as you coated his lifeless body in snow, blood seeping through the bandages you had adhered to his eyes in an attempt to hide the worst of his injuries. That, you believed, had been the most difficult task of the entire ordeal, of patching up Kevin Tran in preparation for his pyre. The eyes had been scorched… they had been burned from his skull… you couldn’t continue to think on it without fracturing your heart all over again. Your hands had tangled in his hair, soft and smelling strongly of the generic soap you’d stocked the bunker with, your tears mingling with the congealing crimson about his eyes (or where they had been) as they fell to strike his color-void face. You had wrapped and wrapped, each new layer of cloth failing to conceal the damage done, your progress sabotaged by the determined pools of blood soaking through each new band of gauze and bandaging. You felt the familiar prick of tears threaten to pool along your red-rimmed waterlines as you brought the cloth to cover his lips, already pale, his jaw, unshaven and smeared with stubble. Inch by agonizing inch, the fabric swallowed his features, starting the clock that would eventually tick away your memories of his face. This was a necessary evil; the two remaining occupants of the bunker, yourself included, would not be able to watch as his skin was scorched by the fire. Covering him was your easiest option.

You tucked the corners beneath his head, taking care not to jostle him, treating him, childishly, as if he were merely sleeping. Your fingers trailed along the perimeter of his face, sweeping strands of his untrimmed obsidian hair beneath the shroud with a cautious, delicate care, skin brushing against his, a chilling spike of ice transmitted from his earlobe to the pad of your index finger. His frigid exterior was so foreign to so bright and warm a personality, further cementing the finality of his death in your mind. Your instincts urged you to flinch away from the corpse, but you were unable to physically tear yourself from your honorary, “unbiological” (as he called it) brother, your heart pounding heavily against the restraints of your rib cage as your mind fought against the hard evidence simmering before your eyes. You allowed yourself one final moment of comfort, of informality, your hand ghosting over what little of his jaw you could reach by slipping a finger beneath his shroud, the beginnings of a beard that would never grow stabbing into your flesh like thorns. This would be your final memory of him, physically at least. Something unfinished, hope and possibility shattered prematurely. It was sick, how fitting it all was, and how absolutely unwarranted it had all been. Your hand retracted towards your chest as you separated yourself from the truth laying before you, rose petals forming on the pale sheet, distinguishing his ruined eyes, watching your professionalism deteriorate as you finally wrapped your mind around the day’s events.

Kevin Tran was dead.

Your nerves flickered like static television in the soles of your feet, your head spinning as the motion of righting yourself flung you face-first into momentary vertigo. Ebony ink blots blossomed before your eyes, blocking out the morbid, heartbreaking portrait of your closest friend tucked beneath a burial shroud (as if he were being buried. That was a luxury your family couldn’t afford), the darkness drowning you. For a moment, you wished you would pass out, just for the sake of abandoning the emotions that crippled your consciousness, preferring the seemingly endless, unfeeling bliss of slumber. Your brain was overloaded with the acute pain, memories whirling about like soap suds swirling around a drain, refusing to sink into nothingness. You yearned for a moment of unfeeling peace, a tranquilizer to cage your throbbing heart and protect you from the inevitable agony accompanying grief. Slur the image of the body laying atop his makeshift gurney, frigid skin sapping warmth from the concrete flooring, chilling the atmosphere around him like ice. Strike the portrait of his eyes as they boiled and burned, glorious light you had come to trust harvesting a life you had valued, at times, above your own. God, if you could erase the picture of Sam’s palm adhering itself against Kevin’s unsuspecting unsuspecting forehead, you would. If you could block the echoing screams from reverberating in the caverns of your mind, you would. The unnatural sound his bones made as they jostled to the floorboards, hitting in uncomfortable positions with no sign of causing pain, the whisper of Dean’s strangled plea, the dying sizzle of the boy’s smoldering flesh. The feeling of your skin held motionless to the wall, wails nailed to the inside of your throat as you fought your unseen bindings. You could hardly thrash, could barely move in Kevin’s direction. Dean was pinned similarly across the room, though you only caught his form in your peripheral vision; your eyes were glued to the lifeless corpse sprawled on the floor before you, smoke winding upward through the stagnant bunker air in tendrils too soft to match the violence from which they were born. Maybe, just maybe, he had been blinded. Pamela had experienced similar injuries and lived, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she? But Kevin… Kevin wasn’t moving, wasn’t crying out in pain… wasn’t breathing at all. If only you could bleach the moment of realization from the tissues of your brain, the second you realized that he couldn’t hear your desperate cries for him to wake, to respond, the absence of a heartbeat against your fingertips stopping your own in a moment of unadulterated disbelief. You would do anything to take it away.

Even after the splotches had faded, the image remained. It was all too much, watching the blood bloom from beneath the sheet; your stomach dropped through your toes, your mouth arid, the metallic taste dancing across your tongue itching at the back of your brain. Too much. You found yourself spinning on your heel, a staggered, clumsy gait propelling you from the room, sobs catching in your throat, the back of your hand secured to your lips as you fought to muffle the auditory projection of your misery. As you traveled, you heard his voice bounce from the paneled walls, phrases crackling as his exhaustion took hold of his tone, his last words a mere echo the day after his death. Hey, do you notice anything a little off about Dean lately? Between you and me, I’m a little bit worried about him. At this, you had hummed a single-noted response, a wordless agreement to preface your verbal reply. You had set a mug of black coffee on the table beside his beloved tablet, steam tainting the air with the scent of fabricated alertness. It was all so routine… you could have never seen it coming. The hand unoccupied by muffling your crying squeezed around your forehead, your fingers and the heel of your palm pressing into your temples in attempt to claw the memory from the tissues of your brain. You had been seconds from easing his concern, your mouth open in preparation, words on the tip of your tongue. The ‘don’t worry, Kevin, Dean’s a tough cookie’ spiel you’d spat a thousand times was cut short by the smack of skin on skin, of spines to wood and plaster, your eyes blinded by the unexpected attack. Within the course of fifteen seconds, Kevin was laying on the floor, his body cooling against the ground.

Your feet carried you to slump against the very wall you had been adhered to only a day before, your shoulders shouting protests as you slid lower, your body crumpling like a paper ball of bad ideas. Your eyes squeezed shut against the images flashing by, a trail of salt water trickling over your cheekbone, teeth chomping down on your lower lip to keep from making too much noise. When you opened your eyes, your breathing shallow, you were greeted by Dean’s hunched form, his head ducked to stare at whatever he held in his hand, his steady inhales moving his frame like a life support machine; even, rhythmic, slow. Patient. Tormented. You propped yourself up, your body coiled to walk forward when Dean’s arm snapped, pegging the item, Kevin’s phone, at the wall, his face a mask of pure rage and suffering, his gemstone eyes glistening with livid tears. His lips were perched in a snarl over clenched teeth, his hand striking out to swipe the lamp from the table top, the glass bulb shattering upon contact with the wooden flooring. The books were next to go; volumes thumped to the ground around the tornado of a man, his parade of destruction breaking bindings and tearing paper. Your body was rigid with tension as you watched, silently, the force that resulted from Dean’s emotional torment. His fists closed around sections of his hair, fingers grasping at strands like a drowning man would a life preserver, his sharpened elbows piercing the air above his head as he twisted around, his face promptly reverting to the usual unfeeling facade as he registered your eyes watching from the corner. If you hadn’t witnessed his actions, the only giveaway that Dean was in pain would have been the tears building on his waterline. The man was an expert at bottling his emotions… you just happened to catch the moment when the carbonation was too much for his aluminum shell.

You stood in a broken silence, your breathing matching his, your lungs alike in their ragged inhales, their jolted exhales. He was scrambling to present the stereotypical hunter’s exterior, stronger than steel, unbreakable even under the most extreme pressures, hiding his pain as well as you had hidden the wounds that now replaced Kevin’s eyes. Your body, formerly locked in place, ran fluid once more, moving closer to Dean as if drawn by magnetism to his side, your eyes pointedly avoiding the scorched planks where Kevin had laid, your hands quivering at your sides. Dean nodded once in your direction, more understanding than greeting, his lips trembling noticeably as he forced himself to swallow the bile no doubt ravaging his mouth. The water riding on the ridge of his eyes caught the light from the remaining lamps, glimmering dimly as the tides rose. His pupils dilated, his peridot irises falling to target the busted lamp, its shade dented severely, his focus following the trail of books that had been strewn across the floor like the bodies of fallen soldiers; uniform in their destruction, randomly placed in their moment of death. The cracked remains of Kevin’s cellphone screen peppered the ground with fragments of glass. There was… guilt in his eyes, deeply rooted behind the wall he had constructed on such short notice. You clenched your jaw, cold hands reaching for Dean’s wrists, his fingers relaxed from their fists as your hands ran up his forearms, smoothing the tension from his muscles. His chest deflated, his lips parting quickly, trembling, before his composure broke entirely. Shadows seeped through the slivers in his facade, his body bending to yours as your arms encircled his back, his face nuzzling into your shoulder. He wept, as did you, broken sobs that shook the body, his chest heaving against your own. His tears soon soaked a stain into the shoulder of your shirt, his hands clutching to the clothing on your back as though it was his only known method of survival, his lungs expanding and contracting against your body, his breath warming your skin through layers of fabric as he exhaled the demons that tormented him so.

Unspoken words faded from heart to heart. Kevin, the poster child for commitment and determination, a genuinely good kid, all the credible reputation in the world, and he could not escape his fate. Not even he could outrun the masses of monsters eager to reap joy from the living, the wall of ugly, gnarled evils lurking in your wake, his innocence stolen like a cheap wallet on a crowded subway. Kevin Tran, the prophet supposedly protected by God, had been picked off by a jilted child. His God couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger in his favour, couldn’t spare a second to check-up on his ward. Dean leaned into you, bending your back with his weight, your hands tangling in his hair as he clung to you. The saltwater clouding your vision warped the pillars that had been your prisons, skewing the lines and structures of the room. Dean’s fingers released their hold on you, slowly removing himself until he was barely holding you at all. His eyes, though glassy, held yours, his nose crinkling as he sniffled, a shaking hand running through his stubble. A droplet broke free from his eye, your fingertip wiping the trail into nonexistence, your hand lingering against his cheek. Dean angled his face to better fit into your palm, his forehead wrinkling as he cried, eyes probing the ceiling for answers he would never receive. You wound your arms around his waist, your head on his chest, his fingers knotting in your hair, the both of you crumbling in the wake of your loss. You couldn’t hold on to each other any tighter than this, couldn’t stand to be parted in the wake of so permanent a separation. Not even Kevin could evade the curse of association. You couldn’t even count on the angels to keep him in their care, given they had been the ones to so wrongly deliver him from your world. He was alone in every way possible, leaving you with the shell of a man holding clinging to your form as you did his. The both of you were ghosts for the evening, relying entirely on the other person to haul you body from the relentless waves of pain, saltwater pounding around you, pouring from your eyes.

And so you broke in Dean’s arms, the two of you clutching to the shards of your souls, trusting each other to catch the pieces you could not carry, the boy behind the door poking holes in the back of your mind. You pressed a sloppy kiss to Dean’s chest, your lips encountering cloth dampened by your tears, wishing with all of your might that the boy would emerge from his room, confused, tired, hungry as he always was, opening his arms to bear the weight of your broken bodies. You bowed your head, droplets falling against your cheek from the empty man in your arms.

anonymous asked:

Jody look at her brother's face as he eats cake. She looks back at her dad. "Dad why're you giving Jamie cake? He doesn't like it." Jamie drops his fork. His dad turns around and asks, "You don't like cake?" Jamies eyes prickle with tears as he slowly nods. HE closes his eyes waiting for something to be said about him being ungrateful. It never comes. HE finally looks up to see John patiently waiting. He knows this is about more then cake. "Okay son. Just tell me what you want when you're ready"