Fics up for Artist Claims

[wyndewalker]

Here are the fics avaiable for claiming by artists. If anyone is interested in claiming a story please either PM me - wyndewalker or email me at extremebb.mod@gmail.com  Do not respond to this post.

I'm relaxing the minimum for Artists to one 500x500 piece and three smaller pieces. The other minimums remain the same.

Story Title: We Were Soldiers
Fandom(s): Sherlock
Main Pairing(s): John Watson/Sebastian Moran
Secondary Pairing(s): Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Current Word Count: 75K
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Story Theme Song: Shining - X Ambassadors
Summary:
What if John Watson got to Sebastian Moran before Jim Moriarty could? What if the wrong, or maybe the right, person got their claws into the Army’s finest sniper before he could become Moriarty’s right hand man? An Army-focused AU.

Two samples:
He slept, and dozed, and drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness for a while. Every once in a while, someone gave him directions and he followed them. Every time he opened his eyes, the room seemed to be different, the bandages on his body different. He took to doing a quick inventory every time the fog cleared a little. He was mostly sure he wasn't in Germany -- he'd done that trip once, and it didn't feel like that, which was strange.
Things had calmed down some, and he was a bit floaty from what he assumed was drugs. He knew the names of some of the medical staff but struggled to recall them. Then he did recognised someone. John. John Watson, heading over towards him.
"Evening Colonel," John said pleasantly. "How are you feeling?" He picked up the chart.
John was a sight for sore eyes -- and Seb was at least experienced enough to not let it go awkward. He had a whole fucking battalion to run, and no much time for a personal life. "Wasted." He blinked, hard, pushed through it. "I need to speak to Lt Col. Hall, and I need the S2. There's been a security breach..."
"Well I win the bet," John said. "He owes me a tenner. I said your first coherent words would be about work... Look, they are coming back at.." John checked his watch. "In about fifteen minutes for an update. The base is on high alert...one of the other injured men .. Major Cornwell, said something about it being a set up."
"Fifth vehicle in the convoy, *lightest* vehicle in the convoy. We were driving in tracks. There had to be a triggerman..." He rubbed a hand over his eyes, sucked in a deep breath that made his side hurt. It was all starting to seep back to him, the explosion, the fucking dust and dirt, the ringing that he still had low and to the right in both ears. "Fuck. No one knew we were going out but the nationals..."
"Easy..." John said sitting next to him. "Yeah, I guess they are working on that. We've been a bit busy in here. How is the pain level?"
Pain level? He closed his eyes for a moment, and it was hard to not feel disoriented in that brief period. "Low. Dull. Feels like a bad sunburn."
"Right. After you've debriefed LT colonel Hall I'l get you another morphine shot," John promised. "You've got concussion that we've been monitoring and burns and shrapnel contusions mainly on one side. Cracked ribs and a lot of bruising but it's mainly the burn. I elected to keep you here as I believed you would be more settled here...but if you try to do too much and get an infection you'll be off to Germany as quickly as possible."
He closed his eyes for a moment, nodding. His vision was just a little blurry, just a faint overlay of two images, and it made it hard to keep focused on anything for too long. "What were the casualties? Capt. Brooks was in the back. He was going to fix that, that fucking, shit. The supply system we keep inflicting on them."
"Captain Brooks was the most serious injury," John replied. He sounded serious. "We operated and ...he's been shipped out to Germany for post operative care. McCarthy has as well..he is also in Germany. We had two others who were stitches and minor fractures. They are recovering on base and yourself as well."
"And Sargeant Warburg?" He shouldn't have asked, he *knew*, he fucking new, he'd leaned over and put his fingers on the man's throat but still. He needed to hear it and not just know it in his chest.
"Dead on arrival," John answered him in a low tone. "Medics reported there was no response to resuscitation attempts."
If what he remembered was correct there had been little left to resuscitate.
"I think I saw his kneecap go through his chin. That or it was a rock." He opened his eyes long enough to focus on John. Well. Captain Watson, Doctor. Damn good doctor, by all accounts. Christ. "Has his wife been notified?"
"I believe the Lt Colonel has dealt with it," John said with a sigh. John looked tired which was not surprising considering what had happened.
They lost people. It was a fact of war, but if was.... mostly infrequent. Infrequent enough that it felt raw every time, and was no less horrifying. "Right. Right." He'd still have to reach out, he couldn't let that duty fall solely on his subordinate's shoulders even if he'd passed the initial word. But what did he say? He died fighting? He died completely unbelievably unaware, and there'd been a look of horror on the man's face when the explosion had gone up that had probably been briefly mirrored on his own. "When was the last time you slept, captain?"
"A long time ago," John answered. "And only you Seb would notice that when you are probably still seeing double." He smiled at him and Seb remembered the last time he'd seen that smile directed at him.
Officer's card game, and he'd been off his usual cut throat game because John had kept giving him *that* smile. John had still left after two more rounds, but Seb had cut his losses after a third hand of failure, to the morale raising jeers of his men before he and John had gone back to his quarters to raise a little morale of their own. "Colonel. You could at least pretend I'm still the battalion commander, laid up or not," Seb drawled. It was a struggle to stay focused, though. "How long does the vision fuckup last?"
"Right now, you're in my care," John said. "So I get to call you what I want. Double vision can persist for a while or go in the next 24 hours. I think it will last until tomorrow...Colonel."
He laughed then, closed his eyes because yeah, he'd deserved that. "How bad was Brooks?"
There was a hesitation which told him everything really. "Lower right leg was completely gone from the explosion. We saved the knee joint," John said. "He was conscious and lucid before he went in."
"Jesus." He exhaled shakily, watching John's expression. "He lost his *leg*? Fuck. Fuck."
John nodded slowly and seriously. He was expected to divulge this level of information but even so he kept the details light at this point." Unfortunately yes. It..well there was nothing there to save. Keeping the knee joint thought, gives him much better mobility options."
Seb shook his head a little, keeping his eyes closed. "There was always something about Brooks. You know, the men who think this is a game and they'll be fine because it isn't real. Still, Joining the army was the best thing he could've done for himself." And without his leg, the likelihood that he'd be coming back... was nothing, and they both knew it. "And the rest of the unit?" He'd stopped doing damage assessments after his own bell had gotten rung, and that was poor performance on his part.
"No other major medical admissions aside from those in the attack," John said. "I'll give them a few more days until they start thinking sunburn will get me interested."
"Small miracles." His dead staff sergeant, his out of service supply officer, two, two other sargeants injured, and a captain, he was sure of it. Fuck, that was too much, too much for one unit on the hells of the last month, and then three months before that.
"Very small. Look, Hall will be here in a minute so, have some fluids," John said "and then I'll give you a shot?"
'"Preferably after Lt Col Hall's been here, thanks." He was going to try his best to be a compliant patient. "And then you'll get some rest, right, captain?"
"Yes sir," John smiled a little flipping a salute. "I'll be able to then. I'll be back in the morning to check you out. It's going to be a little while you are here to be on the safe side."
"That's all right." John had probably breached ten rules to keep him there, when he knew his status should've had him shipped on to Germany. It was good to not have to face that, to be there with his unit still.
"Good. Here, let me get you something to drink okay?" John said. "You'll probably feel thirsty." He fetched some water. Ice was lacking but it was still pretty cool.
He took the glass, swallowed a couple of quick gulps, and then drank more slowly, until he'd finished it all, breathing out through his nose until he was done. It hadn't even crossed his mind that it was the slightest bit odd until Brooks had declared him 'his hero', and confided a similar hatred of water.
Fuck, he could tell that being out was going to go bad for Brooks. "Thanks."
"We'll progress to tea or coffee tomorrow," John promised glancing up and over at the door that was opening. Lt. Colonel Hall was entering. "I'll level you to it Colonel."
Sample two:
His jaw was fucking killing him, and he was pretty sure he had a fractured rib by the time they secured him upright to what seemed like a really bloody cheap barstool. the fact that the table behind him was covered in blood, that he had blood transfer on him from John, that John had been bloody…
Not John, not his John. Of all the people for this to happen to… him he could understand. He signed up for harms way, but John…
There seemed to be a lot of blood, the place reeked of it.
He was sure that they weren't the first people to go through there nor would they be the last. "Colonel Sebastian Augustus Moran, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, 5th Battalion."
"Very good Colonel, without prompting as well,"the man looked at him. "Your doctor was surprisingly obstinate to start with. After the first cur he was crying like a baby..."
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He felt the pain when his jaw clenched automatically, and breathed through it. "There's no reason to keep us. I'm a friend to the afghans."
"You are the worst of friends!" the man spat at him. "You are the friend who leads the faithful from the truth path with honeyed words and temptation. Who corrupts the holy word and spits on the name of Allah whilst feigning respect. We know your type, the most dangerous of our enemies!"
"You killed medics! You killed injured men and elders when you blew up the helicopter. We were having a peaceful shura, and your men opened fire!" There were a lot of stupid things Seb had done in his life, and it was a shame he was going to add trying to have a logical argument with terrorists tothe list. "Fuck."
"And they deserved to die for allying with you," the man spat back and that was practically unheard of. You just did not attack when there was a shura. "You will serve our purpose as an example."
"Oh, will I?" He gestured to the camera with one restrained wrist, barely a movement at waist level. "If you think I'm going to beg for my life on film, you're bloody full of it."
"I believe you will beg..one way or another. Do you have a message for your family? Your wife or children before they see your destruction?"
He exhaled, staring at the man for a moment as a cold tightness settled into his chest. There was no bluffing his way out of it, no amount of bravado would save the day. And he wasn't going to beg, he wasn't. But oh christ, he was going to die. He was going to die and he wasn't ready for it, no one was ever ready to die, there was no cold feeling of peace. Seb inhaled again.
"I love you, Becks. Give the girls a hug for me. I wish for nothing but peace to come to the people of Afghanistan."
And just for a moment, the damn double vision and hazy blurring snapped sharp. It was a filthy blade, the edge worn and sharpened badly enough to chip what had once been a fine Damascus steel. Christ, he needed his eyes, he needed to be able to see. "No. No, don't. Don't!" He twisted on the stool, trying to tip it, trying to kick to get it to move away.
They ignored him and then all he knew was pain, devastating and final and the incongruous sensation of something liquid trickling over his cheek, even as he bellowed out his protest.
"An eye for an eye..a word of god that should not be forgotten," the man spat at him.
He jerked hard at the manacles at his wrists, twisting and struggling because fuck, that hurt, that burned, that made his other eye close in shared pain that he was trying to fight down. Better to not see if the other one was going to be taken, he didn't want to see that blade again. Nothing, not even the explosion had hurt that much, knife wounds and animal claws, none of it compared. But he still managed to struggle out, gasping and not, not half-sobbing, no, "Christ, I will, fuck, I'll rip you apart, I'll…"
"And perhaps we'll take your other eye for that,"he said. "Take him back. Perhaps they now realise we are serious."
"What the bloody fuck do you want from us?" He half howled it, and when his hands were free one of them snapped up to cover his eye, as if the pressure would help lesson the seering agony. Not that it would, because he was being man-handled up and couldn't keep his other eye open long enough to re-orient himself to the environment, couldn't tell where he was long enough to work out when he passed from one room to the other, nevermind getting out and fuck, they needed to make their way out of there, they needed to escape immediately, there was nothing else, there was, they had to get out.
He barely registered, even as he tried to twist again, that they were throwing him back into the cell. He couldn't see what he was doing, everything blurred and stung and he fell into John as opposed to saw him.
"Oh thank god," John was clutching at him. "I thought they'd fucking killed you.. what did they...oh...fuck."

Story Title: That Ocean Is Not Silent
Fandom(s): Sherlock
Main Pairing(s): John Watson/Sebastian Moran
Secondary Pairing(s): John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Current Word Count: 84K
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Story Theme Song: Part Your Gods - Toad The Wet Sprocket
Summary: A Sherlock Cthulhu-verse. Where the sky is red and Royal Blood is treasured, and John Watson has lived and seen things no man needed to live or see.

They knew what had happened to him out there. John knew the report was clinical and terse in its details and in no way encompassed the horror of being the captive and the torture he received at the hands of the cultish Taliban and their mountain gods.
The temporary insanity had only been a surprise in that he recovered at all.
He wasn't sure he'd recovered, which was the haunting part. He dreamed, dreamed of spirals of flesh pouring out of nothingness, enveloping him, wet pale suckings on his skin, the carefully carved wounds peeling back like gaping maws to invite it all into him. He tried to not look at his injuries, tried to not contemplate how it related to his memories, to the sensations and his captor's laughter.
That way lay true madness. As it was, he pretended he didn't know about the betting pool on his odds of suicide, or becoming an alcoholic, or a drug addict to anything with the ability to deaden reality. It was all very tempting, but he didn't think he could do it. He didn't... He was perhaps too much of a coward to try the drugs. Too much of a coward to think past what he needed to do with his life, about getting a place to live when he completed his discharge paperwork.
So he smiled at the nurses and their pitying gazes, spoke to the bloody useless psychiatrist and tried not to read the papers about their Monarchy who were just the bloody same as the...things that had done this to them. No one talked about that. It was obvious as *shit*, and no one fucking talked about it. Hed been a diligent, true citizen all of his life, but just thinking about leaving the ward, and the way things were out there... chilled him to the bone. His fucking *pound notes* had the Queen on it.
"Captain Watson? You have a visitor."
He looked up, surprised. He wasn't expecting anyone and Harry was having drama all over the place and he didn't need that. "Right, okay." The nurse nodded, and stepped backwards, closing the door behind her. Possibly someone from his unit, an officer. They'd avoided him, dodged him, and he knew why. It was that moment that lurked in their heads, that thought of 'it could've been me'.
They were soldiers and it was part of the risk, but he was a doctor first then a soldier and he wasn't meant to be front line. Maybe it was Mike, he'd come back to the UK before everything had happened.
But the person who came in wasn't someone he recognised at all.
He was a thin man, deathly so, and pale in a way that made John think of fish bellies and silverskin. His hair, thinning, was reddish, and his face was impish, set atop a nice suit. "Captain."
"Not for long it would appear. I'm afraid I don't know you?" John replied trying to look for some sort of hint as to who the mysterious visitor was. Nice suit..must be pretty well off. Government type or military liaison maybe?
"Mr. Holmes." He didn't hold his hand out for a shake. "I've heard of your circumstances, and was curious if you were interested in... work."
It was a prospect he was definitely expecting. "Well Mr Holmes, considering I am facing a veterans' pension and little prospect of being considered stable for work as a doctor, lets say I'm interested."
A government man, and an offer of work. "If you are able to cover a task I will give you, you will be provided suitable rooms as payment, with the possibility of further work to follow."
"In London?" That was a generous offer right there and it meant not living with Harry as he suspected he was heading towards. Still, an offer too good to be true often was. "And what is the nature of this task?"
"I represent a government department who has an interest in the retrieval of a... an individual from an unfortunate situation." He tilted his head a little, and came closer to John.
"Okay." That didn't exactly sound like his sort of thing. "You do know I'm a doctor right? If you are looking for a rescue mission you probably got better options than me?"
He tilted his head, still watching John carefully. "The circumstances of the mission dictate that it be performed by someone of strong constitution."
He frowned a little and then stared at him. "Okay, seriously, you could just come out with it. What is this mission that you've decided I have the constitution for?"
He smiled a little. "A minor royal has been missing for a month."
"Absolutely no way!" John nearly flinched back. Tentacles flashed in front of his mind, blotting out vision. "Do you know what happened to me?"
"I do. Yes, it's all over your charts. Surely you realise that not all royals manifest as such." He was almost smiling as he reached a hand out to turn it palm up. There was a shimmer of ice on his fingers, unreal in a heated room.
He looked at him. "You're talking about Companions?" he said incredulously. They usually got treated by specialists. "You're a Companion?"
He hadn't made the connection Companions were that way because of Royal blood in their human genetics. He rubbed his fingers together. "One day, we'll all be this way, I suppose. And you're human -- you're not someone these people would be interested in holding. You'd be able to enter their sanctuary, and free this individual."
"Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't this technically ...treason?" John asked studying the man. He was starting to have an idea what sort of sanctuary they were talking about. He'd been in one.
"Not with the individual's degree of manifestation, no. They've mistaken him for something to be sacrificed to." He drew his hand back, the cold shimmer fading back.
He exhaled. Nobody should be left in one of those places, not even whoever this person was. "Okay, I'm interested."
"Good. I will leave a file with you -- the information you need. You'll find the address to the apartment on your discharge papers. You will need to see to this in the next week. We suspect they're keeping him drugged or it would have been a situation which he could've extracted himself from."
"For now yes," he said, the mystery engaging his whirling thoughts. "Good to meet you Mr Holmes. He reached into his coat jacket, and pulled out a slender inter office mailing packet, the paper silvery sheened. John accepted the package looking at it as he would an unexploded booby trap before he watched Mr Holmes leave. He opened the package carefully, instinctively making sure no-one was around.
The doctors had smartly kept him to himself, but he still checked as he settled in a way to keep the file from being looked at. It bore, at the top, a picture of the man paperclipped onto a sheaf of papers. A handsome face, with cheekbones a model would die for. A mop of unruly hair that was either naturally that way or the man spent a fortune trying to achieve that look and his eyes...even in the picture he could see a fever brightness in the eyes of the man. Sharpness, intelligent jumped out at him as well as a twist of disdain or ...something in the lips and set of the jaw.
No word of a lie, John could feel an attraction there just to the picture. He was hauntingly attractive, just as a person. It made him wonder what the man's manifestation was, that Mr. Holmes had said he was being held as something to sacrifice to. John chewed on his lip as he read the file. Did that mean he was being the object of sacrifice or other people were being sacrifice to him?
He had to admit, aside from personal details, the file was very thorough. Location, suspected Individuals, their associates, possible motives. Nothing much more than a picture and a name for the man. Sherlock was an unusual name, certainly interesting but getting him out of this place was a small price to pay for an flat in London and a wage besides. He'd need to do a bit of preparation, but he could do this. He hoped.
There was plenty of harm in trying, but almost excessive gain if he succeeded. One last bit of work for crown and country, maybe with more to follow. Something to do, until he got his legs under him again in a metaphorical sense Presumably once this Sherlock was rescued, he'd move on to wherever those with royal blood went. It would mean possibly coming into contact with Them again but he had to face his fears some time and when better to do it when his future was at stake?

Story Title: Blood and Bone
Fandom(s): DC Universe, Smallville
Main Pairing(s): Lex Luthor/Bruce Wayne/Kal El
Secondary Pairing(s): Bruce Wayne/Kal El, Kal El/Lex Luthor
Current Word Count: 92K
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Story Theme Song: You are a Runner and I am my Father's Son -- Wolf Parade, Covered by Jason Bajada
Summary:
A dystopian world of Houses, House Wars, Heirs, freemen, slaves and meta-humans.

Sample one:
"I thought you might want to talk to me face to face," Bruce replied. "If I were in your position I sure I would want to do the same."
"I'm still not sure what to say. I want to know why, but I suspect I'm not going to get an answer." it was hard to not stand stiffly, looking back at Bruce Wayne warily, because he *owned* Lex now. He could do any damn thing he wanted to, even if Alfred had said he wouldn't.
"Let's just say that is a puzzle I would prefer you to work out on your own," Bruce replied. He look intently at him. "You need to exercise your mind Lex. Your father's insistence on ignoring things beyond politics and business is dangerous. You have a great deal of potential that is being wasted."
"And you're planning to let me not waste that potential?" Lex sat back in his chair, glad at least of the space between them. "How altruistic of you."
"I plan to benefit from that potential," Bruce answered unfazed. "Why would I waste that resource? Once I have an accurate determination of your capabilities I will utilize them. But I do not believe in torture and humiliation."
"If it weren't for the last few hours, I'd be hard pressed to believe it," Lex noted. "My time with miss, ah "Selena' was..."
"Unfortunate." Bruce replied inclining his head. It wasn't exactly an apology. "But sometimes traditional methods are appropriate, and sometimes they are not. I will have to take you to the Imperial Court, and as such, you will be expected by the Emperor to perform as one. You know that he can exert his prerogative, and you also knows he can order you death marked if you cause offense or re not sufficiently pleasing."
“So you can imagine why I am not particularly pleased to find myself in this situation," Lex pointed out.
"I can. I cannot deny that it is not a coup for me, however I did not initiate the bet," Bruce replied calmly. "I do not wish retribution or humiliation. I think the reason why should be obvious"
"I'm only here for a year," Lex agreed, starting to stand up. "Your House has the same status as mine." And he was going to serve him for a year.
"I may have your father’s eternal enmity, but that does not have to extend to you Lex," Bruce said. "However, there is no avoiding the Personal training if only to save yourself."
"Will I be learning anything, or being beaten until I submit?" He might as well ask that honestly. "Alfred seems like a nice fellow, but you never know."
"Alfred has far more formidable ways of teaching," Bruce said with a half-smile that made him startlingly handsome. "Do you really believe Clark could be trained that way? Remarkable people sometimes need remarkable methods. I would not be attempting to appeal to reason if I intended to have you beaten. You will have to learn to deal with that form of abuse."
"Appeals to reason are abuse?" Lex snorted, and circled around to McKay's side of the table, looking at what was left of the man's scrawl on scraps he'd left behind.
"Apparently they are less acceptable in your own Household than the physical form of Blood Code punishment," Bruce answered watching him carefully.
"My father follows the Blood Code." Lex shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not going to lie and say I love it. I'm not going to lie and even say I love my father. But Luthor is my House."
"It is. It is *your* house," Bruce answered stressing the word. "That does not mean all he does is in the best interests of the house."
"No, no, betting your *heir* is a new one on the list of things I wouldn't do." He lifted his eyebrows at Bruce. "So, how do you manage to get Rodney McKay as a tutor for Clark?"
"We have a lucrative contract to provide top secret manufacturing of space worthy fighter crafts," Bruce replied. "They want a prototype rapidly. I am in a position to construct it if suitably recompensed."
Lex kept his eyes focused on the paper he was looking at. "Ah. So you blackmail on top of your contract for the finest tutors that exist."
"The original contract was specific. If they want to change terms, then I will do so as well," Bruce replied. "Clark has...an exceptional but untrained mind. I try to expose him to other means of thinking."
"McKay is certainly another mean of thinking. His mathematical work is sloppy. He makes leaps in conclusions that demand proving, yet they still work. They've stopped carrying him in journals and just started letting him edit them because most people look at his work and stare."
Bruce smiled again. "Yes, they do don't they? I take it you are not one of those people?"
"No. I'm not trained, of course," Lex offered, holding the sheet of paper out to Bruce. "But I read the Journals. I can follow his work."
"That puts you in a minority," Bruce nodded, seeming pleased. "How do you feel about participating in the construction of the X-305?
What the hell. He stared hard at Bruce, still holding the sheet out. "I'm interested. I'm fascinated. How do you know I have any talent at all?"
"I am not completely ignorant of your abilities, but if you can read McKay's math and fill in the gaps for those less intuitive that in itself would be a significant contribution," Bruce answered. "I will have you formally assessed today. I sincerely doubt that rate less than gem in many relevant disciplines, and no doubt precious levels at that. I shall brace myself for your cuffs to cost me a substantial amount."
His life could be worse -- he could have been a meta, trapped, doomed, to be owned for life. Lex nodded. "When do the assessments start? I'd like to begin as soon as possible."
"Report to Alfred when you are ready to commence," Bruce replied. "It is...an interesting experience to test yourself against the common standard."
"Have you done that yourself?" He made him wonder if he had, just to weigh his worth on the market.
"I have. If you match my score, I will tell you," Bruce answered with a secretive smirk.
"And if I beat you...?" Lex folded his arms slowly over his chest, not quite pleased with the sound of clinking cuffs.
Bruce raised his eyebrows. "Then I will owe you a favor."
He obviously did like to gamble a little.
“Well. If I'm allowed, I think I'm going to find Alfred and start the testing." Get away from Bruce, get some time to think about what he was doing, about what Bruce was doing.
"You are dismissed Lex," Bruce agreed and it was all too easy, too nice for him not to be suspicious.
He'd just *be* suspicious, and leave it at that. Lex turned, and moved to leave the green room.
Hopefully 'testing' would keep him busy the rest of the day.
Sample two:
Bruce inclined his head as Lionel left and followed him with his eyes. "Your opinion Lex," he asked softly still watching the Master of House Luthor.
"Looking for a reason to disown me." Lex lifted his chin, watching Lionel strike up conversation in the distance.
"Looking for a reason to cry retribution," Bruce added, tapping his fingers on the chair. "We will go pay our duty to the Emperor. Kal-El, return."
And just like that Clark was there. The mission to fetch food and drink had obviously been a well-worn command to him to gather information too.
"How was it?" Clark asked as he knelt to have the leash attached again. "Bad?"
"It could be worse." Lionel wasn't outright sharing what he was thinking, and that was almost a blessing. He sat up, feeling the shift of his own leash.
"And undoubtedly will be. Your father is plotting something in relation to you. I've faced off against him too many times not to see the signs," Bruce said standing. "Now is a good time, to go up there. Both of you, make me proud."
Nothing to do but stand up after Bruce had, squaring his shoulders off and dropping his eyes down. He'd never paid quite so much attention to the floor before.
"You're stunning," Clark whispered to him as they started to walk. "Don't forget that."
"Quiet Clark," Bruce murmured and Clark gave an impish grin before adopting the appropriate attitude.
Head down as well. It let Lex look more than two, three feet in front of him, and he had to keep alert because there were stairs up to the Emperor's dais coming up.
It would be unpardonable to trip up the step and face plant in the Emperor's lap or something. No he just had to hold the attitude of a Personal as if his life depended on it. The Emperor had meta bodyguards surrounding him, and his own Personal's as well lounging around the throne and he managed not to disgrace himself as Bruce came to a halt and he and Clark knelt in unison.
"I am Master of the great House Wayne, loyal bondsman to the Imperial Throne. I come at the Emperor's request and beg leave to introduce my Personals to your presence, Kal-El and Lex."
"Ah yes, your new Personal. I give you leave to gaze upon me and speak Personals of the House Wayne," the deep voice of the Emperor said with an amused tilt.
There was a murmur of surprise from around them but it was more command than permission.
Best to get it over with and hope Kal could plaster over any damage Lex left when he opened his mouth. He lifted his eyes a little, just enough to look but remain deferential. "Emperor, it has been an honor to serve in House Wayne, and an honor to support the hierarchy that serves the Imperial Throne."
The Emperor was looking amused at him. "Really? I must say, you are a pleasing sight. It strikes me that perhaps we should investigate compulsory Personal training for Bloodheirs. Ah, and the incomparable Kal-El."
"My skills, my mind, my heart are given in service to one who is loyal to the Imperial Throne," Clark said with a deeper more intense tone in his voice. There was something about it that was inherently...sexy. "I acknowledge my submission to your power."
It sounded ritualized in some way, but there was no denying the Emperor liked it. "So, Lex, speak freely to me. Have you been treated in accordance with your status?"
Hmm, as a bloodheir or as a Personal? That was a trap right there waiting for him to fall in deep.
If he said yes to explicitly either, Bruce was neglecting what was expected of him. And there wasn't much time to stall, not when the Emperor seemed so focused and amused. "I have been treated well, Emperor, and trained in accordance with Personal training, in manner that has taught me skills that will carry well when I return to my former status as Bloodheir of House Luthor. Master Wayne has imparted me with focus and control."
"Indeed?" The Emperor looked at Bruce. "Am I to understand that when the most precious treasure of your bitterest rival is placed in your hands you have let opportunity pass you by?"
"Your Imperial Majesty, on the contrary, I believe I have seized opportunity with both hands," Bruce answered calmly.
"And you have trained with the alien?" the Emperor asked and Lex could definitely detect a hint of interest there.
"Extensively, your Imperial Majesty." Because at least if he was with Clark, and that clearly interested the Emperor, then he would be all right. Let it seem like he was a cockslut for Clark.
It wasn't horribly off base.

Story Title: Haunted Whispers
Fandom(s): MCU/Agents of SHIELD
Main Pairing(s): Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff
Secondary Pairing(s): Skye/Sam Wilson, Bobbi Morse/Jemma Simmons
Current Word Count: 62,124
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Story Theme Song: Undecided
Summary:
Natasha Romanoff never talks about her past, and she prefers to keep it that way. So when her past starts to come back to haunt her, she settles for a half-truth and convinces Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers to help her search for a not-actually-dead Phil Coulson and his new team of former SHIELD agents. But unfortunately for her, secrets have a way of coming out, and soon the three of them - along with their new teammates - find themselves caught in a web of lies and betrayal and deception that goes deeper and farther back than the Hydra agents trying to bring them down, and the worst part is that Natasha is not sure she’s going to survive it (even if Steve is bound and determined that she will).
Set between Captain America: The Winter Soldier and Age of Ultron and follows most of the events of Agents of SHIELD Season 2, so includes major spoilers. Warnings for non-con and mentions of torture, violence and past child abuse (the Red Room is not nice).