#“my blood is on your hands but I will not have yours on mine’ ???”< im going to fucking.lose my mind here. who let you say this

[weekendviking]

Whoh, yeah. Historical pastimes get historical injuries.

*I stepped in a vat of caustic lye for soap making with animal fat when I was 5, that burned the surface skin off my foot.

*My older brother, who's a film armourer, gunsmith and reenactor, is missing part of a finger on one hand due to an altercation with the gun trail of a 77mm Krupp fieldgun from 1896.

*I know what it feels like to have an 1888 pattern bayonet grate on one's teeth after passing through my cheek. (The Dr congratulated us on our field medicine, quote 'I don't need to even add any sutures, this is probably not even going to leave a scar' (it didn't))

*Started getting trench foot once, but as a roadie setting up a music festival rather than a reenactment for once, but mostly wearing various milsurplus kit, again, unable to dry one's feet out after a solid couple of weeks, and my feet started swelling and the skin began to delaminate, but I remembered my WW1 vet grandfather's advice 'When it's wet, Boy, Grease your feet!' and applied my fat based boot dubbin directly to my feet, and it solved the problem (basically multiple days wet de-fats your skin oils and then you get runaway osmosis and delamination and then infection in the feet...)

*One forgets that safety glasses apply to pre modern tools as well - left the safety glasses with the chainsaws we'd been using earlier to fell the trees for a cruck beam hovel, and I had a split second of insanity when I thought 'The wedge for this treenail for the ridge beam is too long, I'll just cut a couple of inches off the end' and my second thoughts were saying 'hey, that's crossgrained, the chip's gonna bounce' but my sideaxe was already moving. You get acid to mescaline grade colours as your retina gets overpressure damage from the bleeding. Remarkably I kept the eye, and even most of the vision in it, but the macula is spattered with blindspots and I have to wear a permanent eyepatch with diffraction grid as the iris is paralysed and most light levels are too bright, and the diffraction grid/pinhole camera effect is the only way it can focus beyond the end of my arm now. But the eyepatch makes it two lines above the eye test line where they stop it being legal to drive if it's my only eye (think about that, because I do have a spare, but that means there are people out there driving with only one eye as badly damaged as mine.) Also every week I make small children believe in pirates, which is an okay side benefit but not worth part blinding an eye.

*Had a guy doing a WW1 French Poilu proudly show up to a reenactment showing off his new purchase of a near perfect mint condition WW1 waterbottle appropriate to the kit he needed, which he then proceeded to ostentatiously fill and drink from during the battle reenactments at the air show we were at. He then proceeded to get a mint condtion case of WW1 Dysentery, as he'd neglected to sterilise and clean said waterbottle (why using originals is a fraught concern, not just because of their rarity and antique value!).

*Have another friend who has a really gravelly battle field officers voice, and a scar that goes 3/4 of the way around his neck under the chin and up the side of his ear, because he was in an ECW reenactment with the Sealed Knot and Unbeknownst to a guy on the opposing regiment, his blank firing matchlock had accidentally been loaded because the wee brass washer on the end of the ramrod had fallen off, and thus blew through my mate's neck, severing one carotid artery. He went down gushing blood and would have died had not the the woman beside him been an ambulance officer and the man on the other side of him was a Gulf War vet medic.

*Jousters. There's no way to make two horses, both carrying armoured humans with long wooden spears, moving at 30kmh, safe. Enough said.

*Had the school nurse back in the seventies, who was unflappable and in her eighties at the time, regularly do 'Just test the whole little country school for various metrics to generate useful data' and she was doing hearing tests. After the testing she came back to the school had the principal call my parents to come in, and she sat down my Mum and Dad and said 'Ok, Your children are fine, but they all show a gap in their hearing ranges that I've only seen before in combat soldiers'....

You know you've fucked up when you go to a doctor and the thing you have wrong with you has been named after an occupation that isn't a thing anymore. Like imagine a doctor looking at you and going "yeah you've got ox-drawn ploughman's disease. We don't even test for that anymore. Yeah the reason you've never heard of it is because the last known case was in 1927 and happened to some guy who was like 98 years old and didn't believe in modern medicine of the time. What the fuck have you been up to."

[strang3lov3]

Jingled Balls

What has four paws and ruins not only Joel’s Christmas, but his orgasm, too?

Alternatively, you and your cat stay with your dad’s best friend over Christmas.

Tags - dbf!joel, smut, age gap, unprotected piv, creampie, cunnilingus, JOEL JORKS IT IN THE SHOWER, sexual tension, blow jobs, rough/angry sex, first aid, Joel is all grumpy and the target of all sorts of misadventures including but not limited to cat claws in Joel's balls and his butt cheeks, cats pushing shit off of Joel's counter, destroying Joel's house, etc. Some mentions of blood and injury but it’s not bad, I promise. 6.8k words. A/N - this fic is based on a true story of real crimes that have been committed by my dear Gizmo. Names have been changed out of respect for the victims. @endlessthxxghts thank you for editing babyyy i'd be lost without ya

My submission for @beefrobeefcal’s festive failure! I hope everyone has a safe holiday!!

December 20

Joel twiddles his fingers as he waits by a row of empty seats at the baggage claim area of the Austin airport, trying not to pace. He got here too early, been waiting a couple hours for your flight to land. He just couldn’t sit still at home. Already twice cleaned the house top to bottom, fluffed the guest room pillows three times each. 

You. You’re staying with Joel this Christmas. It was a last minute thing; your family, well…they forgot about you. It wasn’t intentional, all accidental. Your parents offered up every and any extra amount of room they have to extended family and in doing so, gave away your old room. Whoops. 

And so Joel got a call from your dad, his best friend. Joel was supposed to spend Christmas with your family anyway, so your dad reached out to Joel to ask if he’d be willing to take you in while you visit Austin for the week. Joel, of course, didn’t hesitate to say yes. He’d do anything for you, the sweet little girl he watched grow up. He’s missed you a lot since you left home. 

Finally, there you are. He’d recognize your smile anywhere. You wave excitedly at Joel, doing your little jog to greet him. Joel takes long steps to meet you halfway, in total disbelief at how grown up you are. Where did the time go? It was only yesterday that you were barely tall enough to reach Joel’s waist, and that was standing on your toes. He remembers teaching you to ride a bike and cleaning up your scraped knees with hydrogen peroxide, and after he bandaged you up he’d let you punch him in the arm as hard as you could to make it square. Look at you now - a beautiful woman, all grown up. 

You set your carry-on on the ground and wrap your arms around Joel, squeezing him so fucking tight it steals the oxygen right from his lungs, not that he minds. But the way you kiss his cheek makes his skin burn and his heart pound harder.

“Joel,” you whisper excitedly, hugging him tighter.

Joel lets out a wheezy chuckle. “Hey, kiddo. I missed ya,” he tells you. “S’been too fuckin’ long.” 

“Indeed,” you agree. 

Joel notices the suitcases from your flight begin to come out on the conveyor belt and squeezes your side twice to alert you, “Better go grab your suitcase, hm?”

“Oh, yeah. Duh. Here–” you laugh, pulling away from Joel to bend down. You pick up your carry on and put it in Joel’s arms, and he grunts at the surprising weight. “Hold this. Be right back.”

Joel inspects the boxy bag you placed in his hands. He turns it to the side and behind a mesh screen are two big green eyes, all wide and untrusting. “Uhhh…” Joel murmurs, further inspecting as he raises an eyebrow. It’s a cat - black fur all puffed up, growling at Joel as its eyes dart left and right. The cat hisses at Joel, causing him to nearly drop the carrier. 

You greet Joel once more, this time with your suitcase rolling behind you. “Uh, hey. Who’s this?” Joel asks, suspicion lacing his tone. 

“Gizmo!”

“Huh. Gizmo.” The cat hisses again at Joel, startling him. “You didn’t tell me that Gizmo here would be a guest of mine.” 

“Oh, I know. I’m so sorry, Joel. It was all so last minute - I found out I was staying with you and then I called kitty daycare,” you begin explaining, Joel leading the way out of the airport and to his truck. He takes your suitcase and carries both that and the carrier. “And get this - they told me they wouldn’t allow me to board Gizmo because he was too bad the last time. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, how ‘bout that,” Joel mumbles, not so surprised.

“I know. It’s bullshit. But don’t worry about Gizmo, Joel. You won’t even know he’s there.”

“M’not really a cat person, you know,” Joel says. “Pretty sure I’m allergic to the bastards, actually.” 

Joel puts your luggage in the backseat of his truck, then opens the door for you to get in the passenger side. “Watch your step,” he warns, giving you his hand as you slide in. Joel closes the door, rounds the front of his truck and joins you, promptly starting the vehicle. The loud engine makes Gizmo cry. 

“So…” Joel begins, turning onto the busy highway. “How’s it all going? How’s work and whatnot?”

“Good,” you answer. “I don’t know. You know - work’s work. You?”

“Yeah, I hear that,” Joel replies. “Work’s work and Tommy’s…Tommy.” His joke earns him a little giggle from you. “What else is new? Got a boyfriend?” You give Joel a look, and he shrugs. “What?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, old man?” you tease, talking over Gizmo’s crying. “No, I do not. What about you, Joel, do you have a boyfriend?”

“Cute. Yeah, I do actually. Your father.” Another giggle. Joel laughs too, and he has to fight himself to keep his eyes on the road. You just look so fucking beautiful. 

Gizmo whines some more, and Joel looks both irritated and concerned. “It’s okay, Gizmo,” you coo, reaching back to touch his carrier, though the effort does little to soothe him. Joel’s truck chimes when you unbuckle your seatbelt and throw your torso over the front seat, your ass right next to Joel’s head makes him cough and clear his throat. 

“What the f-”

Thump. You land in the backseat and open Gizmo’s carrier to pet him and calm him. “It’s alright, Giz- oh, Gizmo, did you have an accident?” Joel’s mouth drops as his eyes dart frantically between the road ahead and the rearview mirror to watch you in the backseat. He’s got a bad taste in his mouth about this.  

-

Now at home, Joel listens to the awful sounds of Gizmo wailing and your shrieks as you bathe the cat after his accident. He had to clean the backseat of his truck, but he didn’t tell you that. When you’re done washing Gizmo, you wrap him in one of Joel’s nicer towels, the one he set aside for you. 

It’s evening when you come downstairs, clutching your soggy cat in his towel. You’re already in your pajamas, and Joel’s at the door paying the delivery person for the pizza he took the liberty of ordering. 

“Ooh, is that pizza?”

“Sure is. Plain cheese and pepperoni. Sit down, I’ll serve ya,” Joel says. “What would you like?”

“Cheese. Please and thank you.”

You smile as you sit down on Joel’s couch, scratching Gizmo’s damp little head as he purrs happily in your arms. With hands full with plates and cans of pop, Joel makes a disgusted sort of face as you kiss Gizmo’s nose. “Here,” he says, handing you a plate. Gizmo hops off of your lap. 

“Thank you.” You take a can of pop from Joel as well, cracking it open as Joel sits right next to you. He turns the TV on, Die Hard already a quarter through on whatever channel his TV was set to. It’ll do. 

You and Joel eat pizza together, talking here and there until the conversation fades away and only pizza crust remains on your plates, which are haphazardly set on the coffee table in front of you. At some point, you’ve slid closer to Joel, now pressed against his side with your head resting on his shoulder, dozing off to sleep. He smiles warmly, you poor thing. All worn out after a long day of travel. He doesn’t mind being your pillow.

Scrrraatchk, skrecht. Joel hears the odd, rhythmic noise of…something. “Hey, hon–” Joel wiggles his shoulder. “What’s that noise?”

“Mm?”

“That sound, it’s–” Out of the corner of his eye, Joel catches Gizmo scratching on his leather recliner - his favorite recliner ever. La-Z-Boy just doesn't make them like they used to. “Oh, god bless it. The fuckin’ cat’s scratchin’ on my chair.”

“Oh, shit. Psst,” you whisper, patting the couch to get Gizmo’s attention, who gives you and Joel that deer in the headlights look. “Knock it off. You know better than that, baby,” you scold in the sweetest, most indulgent tone. Joel rolls his eyes. This is getting old already. “Sorry, Joel. He’s just nervous, trying to make himself feel at home.” 

“Mm,” Joel grumbles. “You know, this is exactly why people get their cats declawed. You never considered that for Heathcliff there?”

“No,” you deadpan. “It’s inhumane.” 

Joel raises his hands in surrender, then eyes Gizmo as he walks around the perimeter of the living room, stopping to sniff and bat at Joel’s Christmas tree. “Watch him,” he warns, voice dripping with irritation. 

You smack his arm. “Oh, relax, old man. He’s not gonna do anything. Pretty tree, though.” 

“Thanks. Decorated it myself.” 

“I can tell. It’s missing ornaments in the back,” you tease. Joel rolls his eyes, though unoffended. “Still. It’s nice to be around a Christmas tree. I don’t have one this year.” 

“You don’t?”

“Mm-mm. Gizmo’s too naughty.” 

Joel turns to look at you, baffled by your cognitive dissonance. He just shakes his head, and you go right back to almost-snuggling him. 

Gizmo loses interest in Joel’s Christmas tree and continues making his rounds, checking out the window and pawing at the blinds, which makes Joel cringe. Before Joel can say anything you shiver, tucking yourself closer into his side. “You cold, kiddo?”

“A little. But I’m fine.” 

“Bullshit.” Joel nudges you away from him so he can get up, then pulls a blanket from a basket on the floor. It’s one of those fleece tie blankets, with the repeated logo of the Dallas Cowboys patterned on one side, plain navy on the other. You made this blanket for him, actually. Years and years ago. It’s his favorite - used to be soft at one point, but it’s all scratchy and worn now, well-loved by Joel. He drapes it over his lap and holds one end up, inviting you to get cozy underneath it. But before you do, Gizmo jumps on Joel’s lap. “Awwwh,” you murmur, smiling warmly at your cat. “He stole the blanket.” 

“Yeah, but s’alright. We’ll jus’ move him,” Joel says, reaching for Gizmo. 

“No, no, he’s fine,” you insist, petting Gizmo’s back. “I think he likes you.” 

“Oh, great,” Joel says sarcastically. Gizmo curls up happily on Joel’s lap, kneading the blanket right over Joel’s crotch, which is an uncomfortable sensation. Joel winces and grunts when Gizmo paws his balls. “Watch it, you little shit.” 

“Be nice,” you scold, swatting Joel in the arm.

“Uh-huh.”

You and Joel finish the movie and start another, all with Gizmo sleeping happily on Joel’s lap. At some point, you’ve curled yourself up and are now sleeping on your side, feet pressed against Joel’s thigh. “Alright. Time for you to fuck off.” Joel pushes Gizmo off his lap, earning a disgruntled meow from the cat. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, shooing him away before pulling the fleece blanket over your sleeping form. “If it were up to me, you’d be sleepin’ in the garage. So don’t you wake her,” he warns, wagging a finger in Gizmo’s direction. “Asshole.” 

December 21

A bit of golden light peeks through Joel’s curtain, gently waking him up. He yawns and checks his digital alarm clock, though he can barely make out the time. Meh. It’s sunrise, whenever that is. 

You’re probably still sleeping, Joel guesses, so he’ll grab the first shower. If you’re anything like when you were younger - and you are - if Joel doesn’t shower first, he’ll never get any hot water. He doesn't understand your unique inability to ever shower under 45 minutes, but he can work around it. 

Groaning, springs squeaking with his shifting weight, Joel gets out of bed. He takes lazy, heavy steps toward the bathroom, hair sticking up in six different directions with bags under his deep brown eyes. He turns on the water and lets it warm up for a moment, grunting as he tugs his boxers down his thighs, erection slapping against his tummy. He’s hard as a fucking rock - morning wood. 

You. You shouldn’t be in his head, but you are. Joel dreamed of you all last night, doing all sorts of filthy things with you, to you. It’s probably nothing - you’re a pretty girl, and Joel’s not gotten laid in however long. Biology. Inappropriate. Wrong. But biology, nonetheless. 

Joel steps into the tub, facing the showerhead. He wets his hair, water trickling down his broad, freckled shoulders. He first scrubs his hair using some 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner, tangling his fingers in the sudsy strands, then rinses and finger-combs his hair back. Next, he grabs a bar of soap and lathers it in a rag, washing over the broad planes of his chest, his soft tummy, all down his legs, then rinses and wrings out the rag. 

His left hand on the wall, right hand palms his cock. Joel wraps his fingers around himself, sliding his hand all the way down, squeezing the base of his shaft. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers, dragging his hand back up. 

Joel fucks his fist with abandon, and in his head, he’s picturing you. “Oh goddamn, kiddo,” he moans, eyes squeezed shut. Your eyes are all big and wide with your mouth full of his cock, drooling down his shaft and onto his balls. Or you’re on top of him, hands on his chest as you fuck yourself on his cock. He’s behind you, big hands gripping your waist as he pounds against your ass, leaning over you to lick and taste the skin between your shoulder blades. 

With his eyes closed as he pumps his cock, what Joel doesn’t see is Gizmo. Gizmo, wedged between the shower curtain and the liner, sitting on the ledge of the bathtub, tail swinging wildly back and forth. His pupils are big as droplets of water roll down the clear liner. 

Joel’s dick is red and throbbing, his cheeks are flushed pink as he approaches orgasm. “Fu- oh,” he pants, quickly reaching for his damp washrag. He bites the fabric to quiet his noises of pleasure. His brow knits together, the wrinkles on his face handsomely defined as he grimaces when his cock begins to throb. He’s about to fall over the edge when it’s all ruined - a sharp pain in his ass cheek, dragging down his flesh. “AHHH!” Joel screams in both shock and agony, looking for the source of his pain. 

Of fucking course - Gizmo. Gizmo, with his little, fuzzy arm raised high, claws poking through the shower liner and right into Joel’s ass. He’s squirming, stuck like that of course, go figure. “Get the fuck out of here you fuck-” Joel yells, violently shaking the shower curtain. Gizmo sprints out of the shower and around the bathroom in circles, anxiously pawing for any way out. “God fuckin’ - SHIT,” he rages, stomping out of the tub sopping wet and inadvertently kicking Gizmo with every step he takes. Joel frantically opens the bathroom door, wet hands slipping on the handle. “Scram, you fuckin’ asshole,” he spits, watching Gizmo slip out of the bathroom. 

“JOEL?!” 

Gizmo jumps right into your arms, and Joel gawks at you. 

“What did you fucking do to my cat?”

“What did I do?” Joel seethes. “He clawed my fuckin’ asscheek!” 

Joel can’t believe his eyes. You’re shooting him dirty looks as you kiss Gizmo’s little head, and Gizmo’s headbutting your face in return. He rubs his cheeks on your nose and curls his furry little body into yours, and you pout as you soothe him. “Yeah, sure. Worry about the cat. I’m fuckin’ fine, I guess,” Joel bites, catching a glimpse of a small amount of blood running down his thigh from his ass. 

Joel shuts the door then, and gets back into the shower. He washes the scratch with soap and water, wincing at the sting. When he’s done with his shower - and only his shower, as it’s now too late for him to make himself come, Joel apologizes to you for losing his temper. 

“Well, don’t apologize to me, Joel. Apologize to him.”

Joel pauses, jaw twitching, balling his hands into fists as he glares at Gizmo purring contentedly in your lap. “Sorry.” It’s the most painful, undeserved apology he’s ever had to make

Between the holidays and your cat, Joel can already tell it’s gonna be a long fucking week. 

December 22

Joel’s current job site isn’t too far from home, so instead of eating a packed sandwich in his truck, he decides to come home one afternoon to make himself something for lunch.

He enters his house through the garage and sees you napping peacefully on his couch, snoring ever so quietly. Your lips are pouting, drooling a little onto his leather couch as the TV plays at a low volume. Joel chuckles quietly, shaking his head. It makes Joel happy to see you comfortable like that, so at home at his house. 

He strolls into the kitchen and opens his refrigerator, grabbing some lunch meat and cheese. He tosses them onto the counter, then grabs a jar of mayonnaise and a loaf of bread sitting on top of the refrigerator, sets those down too. Joel grabs a plate, and when he turns back around, Gizmo’s on the counter. 

“Get down from there,” Joel hisses, shooing away the cat. “Go on, git.” 

Gizmo blinks at him nonchalantly, which pisses Joel off. He knows that fucking cat speaks English. So Joel takes the liberty to shove Gizmo off of the counter, Gizmo landing on all fours with a thump and a discontent meow. “Yeah, shut up.” 

Joel pulls two slices of bread from the loaf and opens the jar of mayonnaise, spreading a thin layer on each piece. He moves the jar out of the way and begins assembling his sandwich, and Gizmo hops right back onto his spot on the counter to stare at Joel.

“Oh, you little…” Joel whispers, trailing off and shaking his head. Joel cuts his sandwich on the diagonal, then begins making another - for you, of course. You always told Joel sandwiches taste better when he makes them. You’re a master fucking manipulator, with Joel wrapped tightly around your finger. 

Gizmo reaches for the cheese. “Don’t even think about it, Heathcliff,” Joel gruffs, swatting his paw away. “Sandwich is for her. Not. You.” 

Joel puts your sandwich in a little baggy and places it in the refrigerator before writing a note for you on a post-it. When he returns to the counter, Gizmo’s surreptitiously dipping his paw into the mayonnaise. “Hey!” Joel snaps, “Get yer fuckin’ mitts outta there.” 

December 23

It’s late at night when Joel wakes up to a horrible suffocation. His eyes fly open and his heart pounds with the heavy weight on his chest, and in his hypnagogic state, he begins to panic. Fuck, he’s having a heart attack. Confused and scared, he tosses his body with the little strength he has, and that’s when he feels it - two paws rhythmically pressing into his chest, a low purr. 

Gizmo. 

“Get the fuck off of me,” Joel whispers, pushing Gizmo off his chest. 

Gizmo makes a little mrrp noise on the floor, then leaves. Joel rolls his eyes and tosses onto his stomach, then tries to drift off to sleep. 

But he can’t. Joel’s up now, as there’s nothing like a middle of the night panic to jolt the nervous system wide awake. So Joel groans softly as he sits up in bed, yanking the blankets off his body. He takes slow, sleepy steps out of his room and down the stairs, grabbing himself a glass from the cabinet above the sink. “Fuckin’ cat,” he mumbles quietly as he fills the glass with some water. Joel takes a few sips, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of his house. In his living room, he can see some ornaments are strewn across the floor, lights pulled off the branches of his Christmas tree. As if on cue, Gizmo brushes up against Joel’s leg. “I know what you did, you motherfucker,” Joel grumbles, gently pushing Gizmo away with his foot. Joel sets the glass of water down, then makes his way to the living room. 

He first puts the lights back on the tree, and then he gathers the ornaments and places them back on the branches. 

Skrrrch.

Joel looks back to see Gizmo on the counter, nudging Joel’s glass along the surface with a gentle bat of his paw, inching it closer and closer to the edge. “HEY,” Joel whisper-yells, warning the cat, “I fuckin’ dare ya, cat. Watch what happens.” 

Gizmo makes direct eye contact with Joel as he pushes it off, and it lands with that signature, awful sound of broken glass.

“God bless it.” 

Joel stomps over to Gizmo, who frantically jumps down off the counter and skitters off into another room. Joel chases him down and turns on a light, then corners him and grabs his little body. He cradles the squirming, whining cat and inspects all four paws to make sure he didn’t step on any glass, then tosses him back onto the floor, where Gizmo then runs up the stairs and into Joel’s guest room to join you in a peaceful slumber. 

Joel sweeps up the broken glass, defeated. 

December 24

Joel’s off work for both Christmas Eve and Christmas day, so finally, he gets to spend some time with you. He’s in his pajamas making eggs and toast for you at the stove, and you’re at the kitchen table, sipping on the orange juice Joel poured for you. “Vitamin C,” he’d said. “S’good for ya.” 

Joel plates your eggs, done just how you like them, and butters your toast. “Here ya are, darlin’,” he murmurs, setting down both yours and his plates at the table. 

“Thank you, Joel,” you smile. Gizmo’s weaving in and out between your feet on the ground. With the side of your fork, you cut off a small bite of your eggs and drop it on the ground, smiling at the way Gizmo darts out to eat it. Joel just watches, completely dumbfounded. 

“You and that cat,” he sighs. “You know, your cat there has been causin’ me all sorts ‘a trouble all week.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” you argue, leaning down to scratch Gizmo between his ears. 

“Well, you should. He’s the fuckin’ devil. Broke a glass last night.” 

“Did not.”

“Did too. An’ he’s been fuckin’ with my tree,” Joel adds.

You roll your eyes. “It’s just a little cat, Joel. Are you being bullied by a tiny little cat?”

“As a matter ‘a fact, yes. I am.” 

You and Joel spend the rest of the day relaxing and watching Christmas episodes of sitcoms together. Joel has you wrap his presents, claiming it’s what you owe him for allowing you and your devil cat to stay. 

In the late afternoon, you and Joel get ready to go to your parents’ house for Christmas Eve dinner. Joel wears a dark green flannel and runs a comb through his hair, and you put on a nice dress, one that hugs your curves beautifully. 

You knock twice on his bedroom door. “Joel?”  

“Yeah, kiddo. C’mon in.” 

“Just wondering if you can zip me,” you ask quietly, spinning around for Joel to pull the zipper up your dress. 

“Can do,” he answers. He puts a hand on your waist and tugs the zipper all the way up, then smoothes out the fabric. “Y’look beautiful,” he tells you. “Know that?”

“Joooel,” you murmur bashfully, elongating his name. 

“I mean it,” Joel says, spinning you around and pushing a bit of hair out of your eyes with his pinky finger and smiling at you, which makes you all flustered. Joel clears his throat then, ushering you out of his room and down the stairs. “M’nervous about leavin’ that cat of yours all alone, you know. If we get home from this and that asshole destroyed my fuckin’–”

You squeeze Joel’s arm. “Relax,” you tell him, but your words do little to soothe the man. The whole time at dinner, all Joel can talk with your parents about is how awful Gizmo is. All the trouble he’s caused, and how you think the little bastard can do no wrong. “Your daughter feeds him,” Joel tells your dad, watching your reaction. “Right from her plate.” 

The night comes and goes, much like it always does. Christmas comes so much faster than it ever used to, and it doesn’t last as long. Joel drives you both home and to Joel’s surprise, his house is in one piece. But not the present he got you. 

“Goddamn it,” Joel grumbles, seeing the gift bag he left under his tree for you in shreds. He picked out a little black cat ornament for you, and thought you’d like it. He put some cat treats in the bag too. Go fucking figure that Gizmo ruins it. 

You help Joel clean up the mess of shredded paper and plastic, all the cat treats are, of course, eaten. “Fuckin’ cat’s probably pukin’ in my bed,” Joel gruffs. 

You put your ornament on Joel’s tree and squeeze his shoulder sympathetically. “You’re thoughtful,” you tell him. 

Joel smiles with his lips pressed together. He’s so ready for this week to be over. He’ll miss you - god, will he miss you when you’re gone, but he will not miss your asshole fucking cat. “How ‘bout another Christmas movie, hm?”

“Yeah,” you agree, smiling. 

“M’takin’ requests. Got any?” Joel opens his entertainment center cabinet to show you his array of DVD’s, the Christmas movies all already set out. 

“This one.” You tap the Bad Santa DVD case. “‘Cause he’s hot.” 

“Who is? Billy Bob Thornton?”

“Mhm,” you nod, smirking. 

Joel makes a disgusted face and gives you a look, but puts the movie in the DVD player anyway. Some of the vulgar jokes make Joel blush, which is uncomfortable for him and entertaining for you. 

When the movie’s over, it’s time to go to bed. For real, too. You and Joel have to be at your parents’ house again in the morning and will likely spend the entire day there, getting no alone time or space from anyone. Joel bids you goodnight and kisses you on the cheek, then heads to the bathroom for a night time shower. He doesn’t wanna fight you for it in the morning. 

Joel keeps only the night light on in the bathroom. He’s exhausted, eyes are dry and stinging with tiredness. He pulls off his t-shirt, unbuckles his belt and slides his jeans and boxers down his legs together, then toes off his socks, yawning as he scratches his balls. In a sleepy haze, Joel gets into the tub and turns on the shower. 

He’s met with that sharp, awful, excruciating pain of claws in his skin, only it’s not in his thighs. Not in his ass. 

His fucking balls. Your cat’s claws are in Joel’s balls, and dragging down his sack. Joel feels like puking as it happens, and at the same time he’s being blasted with cold water as Gizmo panics and scratches his body further. It’s like a cartoon, when two characters fight and it’s just pure chaos - a cloud of screaming and other concerning noises, concerning noises that startle you awake.

“FUUUUUUCK!!” Joel yells, scrambling to get out of the tub. He clutches his scrotum and wraps a towel haphazardly around his waist, feeling dizzy as he bleeds into his palm. “Fuck - y–” 

You fly out of bed and sprint to the bathroom, where Gizmo is clawing at the bottom of the door. “Joel?” you knock frantically. “Joel!”

Joel unlocks the door and Gizmo sprints out, soaking wet and leaving a path of water droplets in his wake. Joel’s white as a fucking ghost. “Joel?”

“H- he-” Joel can’t even get the words out. Still holding his towel in place, Joel checks the palm of his hand and sees a mess of crimson. “Oh my god,” he says with a weakened voice. 

“Joel, what the fuck? What happened?!” 

Joel shakes his head, vision going spotty as he waddles to his bedroom and sits on the bed. You follow him, shutting the door behind you and turning the light on in his room. “Joel.” 

Joel says nothing, only peeks slightly at his crotch. He does his best to protect his modesty with you there but fuck, he’s gonna faint. And unfortunately, you might see more than you should, should that happen.

“Did he scratch you?” Joel only nods, swallowing thickly. “Okay, alright. Where’s your first aid stuff?”

“Bathroom vanity,” Joel chokes out. 

You hurry to the bathroom and grab Joel’s first aid kit, then return quickly to him. 

Joel has a strong stomach, however, the sight of his mangled scrotum is too much for his heart to take. If he looks, he might puke and faint and that’ll make everything worse. “You gotta do it,” he tells you, urgency in his voice. “I can’t look. Cat fuckin’ butchered me. I’m a eunuch.”

“Okay, okay,” you whisper, sitting beside Joel. You take his hand in yours, the one that’s clutching his towel shut. He’s shaking, trembling, and you move it to the side so you can open his towel. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” Joel says. 

“You’re fine,” you reply calmly, though in all honesty you’re pretty nervous too. “I’m gonna open up your towel, okay?”

“Yeah, go ‘head and do it. M’so sorry, kid. Jesus christ,” Joel groans. He leans back so that he’s laying flat on the bed, palms pressed into his eyes as his tummy rises and falls with panicked breaths. 

You open the towel and asses the injuries. 

It’s not bad. 

Really. 

It’s not. But you still wouldn’t trade places with Joel, right now. There’s quite a few scratches here and there, some deeper and longer than others. Nothing a little cleanup and some antibiotic ointment can’t fix. “Okay, Joel. I’m gonna be right back, I need to get a soapy rag.” Joel gives you a weak thumbs up. 

You run the water on warm and lather a clean rag with some soap, then return to Joel to wash the scratches. “Might sting,” you tell him, dragging the rag gently over his sack. You do your best to remain professional or something of the sort, to ignore how Joel’s cock thickens at your touch. His thick thatch of hair spattered around the base of his dick, gray, wiry hairs sprinkled amongst the brown. He’s thicker than you would have guessed, longer too, curved so beautifully. And his thighs - gorgeous, toned. Belly is soft, arms are strong. He’s gorgeous, all laid out like this.

Joel’s…Joel is feeling every emotion. Embarrassment, because his best friend’s daughter is between his thighs and carefully tending to his lacerated balls. Rage, because her fucking shithead cat is the reason he’s in this predicament. Aroused, because he’s only a man, and you’re too fucking pretty for him to not get hard from your touch. 

“Are you doing okay, Joel?” you whisper.  

“Ask me later.” Joel wipes some sweat from his brow. “Sorry about the…my…uh…”

“It’s fine,” you assure him. “Didn’t know you were hung like that, Joel.” 

“Jesus Christ, kid, don’t say shit like that.” 

You stifle your laughter as you toss the rag to the side, the bleeding now stopped. You unscrew the cap of some Neosporin, then squeeze a generous amount onto your fingertip. 

“I’m gonna touch you,” you warn. “Just some Neosporin. Okay?”

Joel nods. “Go for it.” He clears his throat when you touch his shaft, moving it slightly out of the way so you can dab the ointment on his scratches. Fuck, he’s struggling to conceal his moans and his stuttered breathing. 

Gizmo hops on the couch then, and headbutts Joel’s bicep. 

“Get that goddamn cat away from me before I put him through the fuckin’ wall,” Joel seethes. 

You don’t push. You know Joel means business, and Gizmo really did fuck up this time. “Psst, Gizmo. Get down. Leave Joel alone,” you whisper, swatting Gizmo onto the floor. “Gizmo’s really sorry,” you murmur, still rubbing ointment onto Joel’s balls. “He didn’t mean to, Joel. He must’ve thought—”

Joel holds up a hand to stop you. “Don’t. Jus’ don’t.”

“Okay,” you whisper. You lift Joel’s ballsack to see if you missed any scratches, but you didn’t. “You’re all done, Joel.”

Joel scoffs, and you stroke his thigh soothingly to calm him. He says nothing, only collects his breathing. His cock is still achingly hard, a pearly, pretty bead of precum at the tip. 

It’s a risk, but you take it anyway. You lean down and press a kiss right against his ballsack, conscious to avoid any scratches inflicted by Gizmo. 

“Woah, woah, woah-”

“Shhh,” you whisper. “Do you want this?”

“Yeah, but-”

“But nothing.” You kiss Joel’s sack all over as much as you can, and once you’ve exhausted that, you kiss up his hard shaft. “I’m kissing it better.” 

You lick up the length of Joel’s shaft, then circle your tongue a few times around the tip. With one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, you rest the other on his tummy. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Joel sighs, voice dripping with relief as his hips thrust up, almost as if to chase your mouth. He sits up and reaches for your head, softly dragging his nails over your scalp rhythmically. “You’re a good girl.”

You take his tip into your mouth, working your way down his cock to take him fully inside. Joel tastes salty, sweaty, heady and so masculine, just like you always imagined, and it makes you wet. And you, with your warm and wet and inviting mouth, Joel’s imagination didn’t come close to mimicking this. You bob your head up and down his shaft, bouncing your nose into his pubic hair. 

“Jus’ like that,” Joel grunts. “Attagirl.” 

His words only worsen your growing arousal, and you can feel yourself making a mess of your panties. You fuck Joel’s cock with your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and spitting down his shaft and your knuckles. 

Joel pulls your head away from his cock. “Wait a second,” he tells you. “Wanna look at the mess you’re makin’,” he mumbles, admiring the slick, wet mess of your saliva on his cock. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he murmurs, then pushes you back down onto his cock. 

Joel thrusts into your mouth a bit harshly, though maintaining a certain gentleness to it. He ruts into your mouth, grunting your name as you drool on him, just as he pictured before. 

You reach into your skirt and pull your panties to the side, the cotton is all but soaked with your wetness. Dragging a finger up and down your folds, you moan onto Joel’s cock, sending vibrations down his shaft. 

“Whatcha doin’ there, kiddo?” he rasps. 

“Nothing,” you murmur, pressing kisses against his dick. 

“Sure don’t look like nothin’. C’mere.” Joel pulls you close to him and tugs the zipper of your back down your dress, then helps you out of it. He unclasps your bra and pulls your soaked panties down your legs, clutching them in his fist before shoving them behind his pillow. 

In a swift motion that has you yelping excitedly, Joel flips you on your back, the bed beneath you warm with his body heat. Joel settles between your thighs and pushes your knees back toward your chest. “Yeah, s’it. This what you wanted, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, settling into his pillows. Joel’s hot breath fans over your hot, pulsing sex as he places his large, meaty hands on the backs of your thighs. Fuck, the way you smell has Joel’s head spinning, dizzy with lust. He presses kisses against your inner thighs first, working his way toward your center where he kisses sloppily over your clit. 

“Makin’ a mess of my sheets, y’know that, kid?” Joel teases, admiring the puddle of arousal you’re dripping onto his bed. He feels the heat of your cunt radiating against his face, inviting him in. He squeezes the meat of your thighs as he licks one long stripe up your pussy, then rubs your skin in circles with his thumbs. 

With a flattened tongue, Joel continues licking, rounding your clit before repeating the motion. He memorizes your folds, your taste, your scent. You moan his name and clutch his head against your cunt, your wordless plea for more. 

“I’ll give ya more, sweetheart. I know what you want,” he says, tongue now circling your entrance before dipping inside to taste you. He drags his tongue back up and flicks it up and down over your clit. Urgently, you tug on his graying, dark curls, pleasure blooming in your gut. You’re soaking his face as your climax approaches, thighs twitching beneath his palms. “Joel, Joel, Joel,” you chant. 

“Let go, darlin’.”

You’re about to come when -

CRASH

It’s a loud, thundering crash, the sound of broken glass and heavy objects hitting the floor. Joel growls against your pussy and violently punches the bed on either side of you before tearing himself away from your cunt and stomping downstairs with a renewed anger for your cat. 

“I swear to fuckin’ Christ,” he fumes, seeing the mess Gizmo, of course, made. You’re right behind Joel, your jaw dropped in shock. 

Ornaments all over the floor, some shattered and others still in one piece. The Christmas tree is somehow in two pieces - god only knows how gizmo managed to do that. The Christmas lights are strewn all over the place and there’s your precious cat, tangled up in the mess. Joel seethes as he makes his way toward Gizmo to free him of the lights, “You get the fuck outta here,” he hisses. 

“It was an accident!”

Joel turns around, chest heaving with his angry breaths. “Not another fuckin’ word,” he says, grabbing you by the arm and forcing you over the leather recliner. Joel laughs without humor when he sees that it’s been further scratched by Gizmo.

He parts your legs with his foot, then lines up with your slick hole and enters you in one swift thrust, the action both mind-splittingly painful and pleasurable. 

“Joel,” you moan, reaching behind yourself to grab at his thigh as he sets a quick, brutal pace. 

“You are…” he starts, “Never…bringing…that fucking cat…here…ever again,” Joel pants, fucking you with anger. “Do you fucking understand me?”

“Y-yes,” you whimper, voice muffled with your face pressed into the chair. 

Joel draws out of you all the way, admiring your milky arousal glistening on his cock underneath the glow of the ruined Christmas lights. He plunges back in, then fucks you harshly. He draws in and out of you so quickly and steadily, the head of his cock brushing over your g-spot with each of his thrusts. “Fuck,” he grunts, pulling you by your hips onto his cock repeatedly. 

He breathes loudly through his nose, fucking fuming with rage as he uses your cunt to relieve himself of the stress you - yes, you caused him. That cat may be Satan’s spawn but he’s still yours. You are responsible for this.

Pleasure builds quickly in you, and Joel can tell. He leans over you to press his fingers against your clit; he doesn’t even have to move them to make you come. Just the pressure and the motion of his rough fucking is enough to send you over the edge, pussy pulsing and gushing on Joel’s stiff cock, making a mess of him.

Joel pulls you against his chest and bites your ear as he pounds into you, chasing his own orgasm. His balls tighten and his body tenses before release, and then he’s spilling into you, spurting milky white ropes of his hot come inside you. “Fuck, goddamn,” he grunts, fucking himself through his climax. When he’s finished, he pulls out of you unceremoniously, your combined arousal spilling onto the ground. What’s another fucking mess to clean up.

Joel rounds the chair and plops onto the couch, pulling you down with him. You yelp as you fall but he catches you in his strong arms and hugs you close against his body, kissing your forehead and cheeks. “I fuckin’ hate that cat,” he tells you, panting. 

Gizmo mrrps then and jumps onto Joel’s lap with you, walking over both of your bodies to greet Joel specifically, bunting Joel’s face as he purrs. 

“He’s really sorry,” you giggle. 

“Yeah, m’sure.” Joel surprises you both and brings a hand to Gizmo’s face, gently petting his head. “I mean it,” Joel warns. “Never. Again.” 

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 7: Lightning and Rust]

A/N: Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), babies and parenthood, blood and violence, character deaths, I really cannot summarize this chapter you just gotta experience it, I'll pray for you 🙏

Word count: 6.8k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

You’re curled up in bed with a velvet pouch of hot stones that have gone cold, bloody rags bunched between your thighs, trying desperately to sleep, and outside a storm is brewing over Blackwater Bay and bringing with it dark skies and strikes of lightning that stalk ever-closer. Through the open window, the air tasting like late-summer rain, you can hear Helaena and the maids corralling the children back into the Red Keep. They are laughing because nobody is dead yet, not even the ailing and absent King Viserys, not even doomed little Luke Strong.

Aemond lets himself into your chambers and stands over your bed, staring down at you with some combination of annoyance and concern. You have failed him. You were not where he wanted you to be. “Why weren’t you at the beach?” Playing with your niece and nephews, collecting your seashells.

“Because women are cursed.”

Aemond smiles, perhaps a bit relieved; he has his answer. “And you more than any of them, because you’re so wicked.”

“Maester Orwyle says I can’t have more milk of the poppy for two hours.”

“Then we must listen to him. It is a powerful remedy, and we cannot endanger you.” He takes off his boots and climbs into bed, lying behind you, one hand following the curve of your waist to settle on your lower belly. “I can relax the muscles. It might ease your suffering.”

Right now? “Oh no, no, you don’t want to do that,” you warn him. “It’s very messy.”

“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” Aemond says, amused. “Everything we’re built of is the same.” He lifts the hem of your silk nightgown and reaches underneath the nest of rags, sliding there in the coppery wetness as you inhale sharply, startled but not unwilling. When Aemond removes his hand, the carnage he is stained with is bright crimson but dotted with clots. Then he licks the blood from his fingers and paints his tongue red. You can’t keep the shock from your face. Aemond grins, wets his hand again, draws a heart on your left cheek just beneath your eye. You laugh and pretend to try to shove him away.

“You’re deranged, you’re a monster—”

“Let me help you,” Aemond whispers, nuzzling blood from his lips into your silver hair. “Let me take your pain away like you quiet mine.”

And you surrender to him like you always do—worn down, overpowered, intoxicated, bewitched, seduced, perhaps all at once—and as Aemond’s hand works and the gory metallic ether of blood fills both of your lungs, the cramps dissolve into nothingness and then build to desire, and you’re opening your thighs for him and the rags are whisked away, unnecessary, forgotten, and now there is blood on the bedsheets and your fingers are twisting into the pillows strewn around you, and it doesn’t feel shameful at all anymore, because what is blood if not made from the same minerals as coins and blades and ocean and ash, and what is lust if not a fire that burns the constraints of the world away?

You kiss him as you come, moaning into his bloodstained mouth, biting his lower lip, and if the careless pressure of your teeth makes him bleed then that’s just more iron and copper and steel to add to the molten sea you are marooned in, more magma, more rust. “Enough,” you gasp when the last of the waves have passed and you are emptied and too sensitive, and Aemond knows to listen. Then you reach for Aemond’s trousers, where you can see he is hard. You are abruptly and ruinously exhausted—you struggle to keep your eyes open—but it feels wrong to not take care of him in return.

It shouldn’t take long, he’s already flushed, he’s already dripping sweat—

“No need,” Aemond says, gently stopping your hands. And as you burrow into the pillows and your eyes dip closed, your skin and hair still splattered with red, he slips away silently so you can sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jace says, knowing that he has to anyway. “Either of you.”

You are nursing the baby in a chair by the fireplace; you needed a change of scenery from the bed. The upholstery is pale blue velvet. The blanket the baby is swathed in is embroidered with pine trees and foxes, and far beyond your skill; Lady Caro made it. She is nearly as gifted with a needle as Helaena. On the walls of the bedchamber you share with your husband are mosaics you’ve pieced together over the past nine months here at the modest castle of Heart’s Home in a cold, remote corner of the Vale. The fractured faces look in on you like curious gazes through clear windows: Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Criston. You aren’t any closer to them now, but you feel like you are. The world seems softer, warmer, smaller.

You smile as you ghost a fingerprint over the baby’s faint dark eyebrows. He’s half-asleep as he suckles, hushed and content and entirely helpless. He has Jace’s coloring, but something about the shape of his eyes reminds you of Aegon. “We’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“I think he looks a lot like Luke,” Jace says, admiring the baby. He’s standing with one arm draped over the back of your chair and the flickering firelight from the hearth on his face, turning his skin from snow to sunstone. “And Joffrey. His face is rounder than mine.”

“Have you been to the Eyrie to see them since the war began?” Joffrey, Rhaena, Rhaenyra’s young white-haired sons Aegon and Viserys.

Jace shakes his head. “I never wanted to be away from you for longer than necessary. I didn’t want to risk being spotted and revealing where they’ve been hidden. And I didn’t know what to say.” About us, about our marriage, about our baby.

“You should visit them, Jace. I would visit Helaena and her children if I could.” You leave out the others intentionally; Helaena is your only sibling that Jace considers blameless. You miss Aegon and Daeron just as much, but in the solitude of your own heart—in the stillness, in the silence—you aren’t sure if you want to see Aemond again. You don’t know if he will be soft with you, or vengeful or cold, or if he has filled the void of your absence with a lover, something that you cannot think about without your stomach lurching and your skull aching, and so you put him out of your mind as much as you can and stay here with the baby instead.

Jace rests a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, then strokes your cheek. He says, meaning the baby: “We’ll have to get him his own egg.”

“I hope he won’t inherit my affliction,” you murmur somberly. “I hope he’ll have a dragon someday.” Without them, we are powerless. Without them, we aren’t real Targaryens.

“Maybe there’s something you need to do first.”

You look up at Jace, not understanding.

“I’ve spent a lot of time considering what inspires a dragon to bond to someone,” he says. And you think, feeling a fleeting stab of betrayal before you stitch the wound closed with invisible thread: Because you’ve been helping the Blacks search for riders. “It seems that each creature has their own preferences. Meleys favored women who were spirited and highly intelligent. Dreamfyre has chosen two riders, both gentle, shy, and fond of animals. Seasmoke bonded to two sons of Corlys Velaryon with similar temperaments, agreeable and charismatic, Quicksilver to a father and son who were both considered weak and died young. Caraxes seems to have an affinity for warriors.” It does not escape you that Jace neglects to mention Vhagar, as if through his silence he can make the beast and her rider vanish. “And Vermithor…” Jace offers you a small, sympathetic smile, remembering that you once wanted him. “The Bronze Fury bonds to riders who are imposing in body and ambitious in spirit. And I suspect he only likes men.”

“So it was always hopeless,” you say gloomily. You recall the miniature Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you out of oak wood. You hope that Aegon is still alive somewhere, scarred but lying in wait, always underestimated, always so much deeper than he seems, an ocean that Mother and Father mistook for a puddle, messy and marginal and inconvenient.

“I believe dragons often gravitate towards riders who are mirrors of themselves. Even Vermax, he is…” Jace considers this. “He’s proud, and he’s clever, but he’s not as formidable as he imagines himself to be.”

“Like you,” you say before you can stop to consider whether Jace will be offended by it, and he gives you an amused smirk. The baby has stopped nursing and fallen asleep; you fix the bodice of your gown and cradle him against you. There are maids to take him when you’re tired, and Jace loves holding him, and Lady Caro steals him away often, but right now you don’t want your freedom. You don’t want your mind to be untethered and to wander to all the places you’re not supposed to be.

Jace continues: “What I mean is, perhaps there is some quality you must cultivate within yourself before the beast you are meant to have judges you worthy.”

“Hardly any unclaimed dragons are left now.” Then you tease: “Do you suggest I become quiet and timid so Grey Ghost will like me?”

Jace laughs. “No, I fear that’s a lost cause, princess. You could never be timid.”

You are intrigued. “Then what am I?”

“I think you’re hungry,” Jace decides. “I think you always want more.”

“I never wanted that many things.” Aemond. My family to be safe. And I wanted Vermithor.

“Every line that is drawn, every place you’re told not to go or act you’re not supposed to do, you insist upon overreaching.”

Is that why Aemond and I were so drawn to each other? you think doubtfully. Because it was forbidden? Because it horrified people who climbed high enough to live alongside Targaryens but could never understand them?

“I think Meleys would have been a good match for you,” Jace says after a while. “If she hadn’t already been claimed by Grandmother.”

“And now the Red Queen is dead.” Like Arrax, and Moondancer, and Seasmoke, and probably Sunfyre too. How many dragons will be left when this is over? How many Targaryens? You clutch the baby closer to you; he stirs in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. “What sort of rider does Silverwing favor? What could this illiterate drunk Ulf the White possibly have in common with Good Queen Alysanne?”

Jace snickers. “That’s a good question. I’ve been ruminating on it. My theory is that since Silverwing was never ridden into battle, and has always been relatively docile and accustomed to living peacefully near humans, she was attracted to Ulf’s…how to describe it? His lack of military prowess. Or, alternatively, once Vermithor was claimed Silverwing was very, very lonely.”

You smile, and then it dies. It must be indescribably painful to be separated from one’s mate after a century together. Unsurvivable, even. “Can Silverwing fight, do you think?”

Jace heaves a sigh and shrugs. “I’m not sure if either of them can. Ulf will try, at least. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and Vermithor is enough to protect King’s Landing. Hugh Hammer is an inexperienced rider, but he’s brave and he’s committed. Each time I see him he’s better than he was before.”

Hugh Hammer is a bastard blacksmith, but he has more power in this war than I do. Ulf the White is an idiot and a drunk, but he’s a true Targaryen and I’m not. You rock your sleeping child in your arms, quieting the voices that flutter in your skull like bat wings. You kiss his wisps of dark curls and breathe in his warmth and newness and blood that is interwoven with yours.

“You could learn how to hate your own kind and claim the Cannibal,” Jace jokes.

You chuckle. “I don’t hate anyone.” Not here, not now.

Lady Caro arrives in the doorway carrying a tray of cinnamon tea. “I have come offering a trade,” she says, grinning, and shuffles excitedly across the room. She sets the tray down on the table by your chair and holds out her hands. Reluctantly, you surrender the baby. Lady Caro coos and beams at him as you and Jace sip cinnamon tea, sweet and loosing steam like morning mist into the air. “Surely by now you’ve made the logical decision to name him in my honor.”

“Carolei would be a very strange thing to call a boy,” Jace says.

“Caroson,” she jests.

You add: “Carogon. Carocaerys.”

“Awful!” Jace says, laughing.

“Have you been feeding the baby again?” Lady Caro scolds you. “We have wetnurses for that.”

“They get him all night. I want time with him too.”

“You’re barely even producing any milk. You’d make for a terrible goat.”

“Then I’ll nurse him for as long as I can.”

“You’ll end up with pitiful floppy breasts like mine.”

“Isn’t this what they’re for? Nourishing children, not being gawked at and tugged on by some man?”

Lady Caro turns to Jace, exasperated. “She has some disease. She can’t listen to anyone.”

He smiles. “She’s an untamable beast, I’m afraid. Burns up anyone who makes the attempt.”

Lord Corbray walks in, and nestled in his ancient arthritic hands is a sword in a sheath. There is a large heart-shaped ruby in the hilt. “Prince Jacaerys, I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it has been not only to host you and the princess here in our humble castle, but also to have a future king of the Seven Kingdoms born within our walls.”

Jace stands up straighter, as his mother would want him to. He’ll never look like the heir to the throne, like a Targaryen, but he can act like one. “We continue to be grateful for your hospitality.”

“To commemorate this happy occasion, I wish to gift you a cherished heirloom of my house. This is Lady Forlorn, made of Valyrian steel. She came to House Corbray over a century ago, and now I bequeath her to you. I hope she will aid you in your victory in this unjust war, and that all the realm will soon be at peace and under competent rulership.”

Jace looks at you uneasily; you pretend to be preoccupied drinking your tea. You ignore Lord Corbray’s slight against the Greens. You don’t have much choice, and you’ve had plenty of practice. Jace takes Lady Forlorn from Lord Corbray and unsheathes her, studying his reflection in the cold smoke-colored grey of the blade. His face is grave. Now he feels the weight on his shoulders of being not just a prince, an heir, a soldier, and a husband, but a father as well, something he himself never had in a way that was truthful and pure. You are alarmed to see tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Jace?” you say, touching his arm.

He regains his composure. “Thank you, Lord Corbray. I will treasure Lady Forlorn, and I will endeavor to always use her wisely.”

Lord Corbray smiles fondly at the slumbering baby in Lady Caro’s arms. Across the Riverlands, their sole surviving child, Jessamyn, is in hiding with her husband and children. At Lady Caro’s insistence, they fled from the Mallisters’ castle at Seagard in case Aemond and Vhagar descend upon it. He is still burning. A monster? you think. “I assume you’ve named your firstborn?”

You and Jace exchange a glance. You haven’t yet; you are afraid to discuss it with each other. There are so many possibilities—Targaryen or Velaryon or Strong—and none seem to be without some unspoken allegiance or condemnation. There are so few guiltless names left. But you think you know what Jace would choose if he dared to speak it aloud.

“We should name him after Luke,” you say. A boy, an innocent. A victim of a horrific accident that started this war.

Jace is surprised, but there is relief in his face too. “Lucerys?” he says, trying it out. Then he is solemn again. “It feels wrong to use the exact same name. Like I’m trying to replace him.”

“Lucerion,” Lady Caro suggests, still holding the baby. “It sounds like a prince’s name. It sounds like a king’s.”

Jace attaches Lady Forlorn to his belt and then takes the baby, obviously against Lady Caro’s will. “Lucerion,” Jace murmurs, smiling down at his son who is stirring awake and beginning to whimper. “Is that your name? Is that what we’ll call you?”

“Perhaps Luca for short,” you say from your chair, feeling drained and like you need to lie down. You’ll have to change your rags again soon, or you’ll bleed through them.

“Luca, the littlest dragon,” Jace proclaims, touching his fingertip to the baby’s puggish nose. Then he turns to you. “Did you have a nickname as a child? I always did and still do, of course. And Luke…” Jace trails off, thinking of his dead brother, murdered by yours.

You see your red bat traveling around the board; you feel the warmth of blood on your cheek. “They called me Red.”

“Red?” Jace is baffled. “Like the color?”

“There was a game we played when we were young, and my piece…” You close your eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel the weight of their absence. “It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.” And you fear that Jace will hear the evasiveness in your voice and ask you more questions; but he is absorbed with the baby, and he has already forgotten.

Two days later Jace and Vermax fly south to King’s Landing, and you and Luca are left in the care of the Corbrays and the maids and the ghosts that haunt the drafty stone corridors of Heart’s Home, soldiers killed in the Riverlands and the Reach, women and children burned and starved, bones devoured by dragons, generations of names forgotten.

Sometimes you giggle with Lady Caro as you drink cinnamon tea in the Great Hall. Sometimes you stand in the castle rookery listening to the ravens caw and stare out into the cold mist of the mountains, wondering what is happening in the world outside. And sometimes you have Luca nestled in your arms and walk with him around your bedchamber, introducing him to the faces of the people you left in your old life, when you were called Red and you believed you could be someone like Visenya. But you never mention Aemond, and not just because there are no mosaics of him on the wall.

You wouldn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t know where to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~

You learn Jace is back when he climbs into bed just as you are drifting off one night, silver moonlight spilling in through the glass of the window, his body folding into you, his arm skating over your waist to find your hand and weave his fingers through yours. Two months have passed since he left, moons that grow full and then vanish, milk that dries up and blood that ceases flowing and rebuilds inside you for the next child, if there will be one, when there will be one. Luca is sleeping in his own room with his maids and wetnurses. Jace’s curls tickle your throat as he nuzzles into you as if he wants to disappear.

He says: “The littlest dragon is much bigger than I remember.”

“How was Helaena?”

“Troubled, as is to be expected, but in good health. Jaehaera and Maelor are well too. King’s Landing is cold some days now. I think they’ll have snow soon. The taxes, the riots, the stockpiling of food as the Reach and the Riverlands burn…it’s a disaster. Mother is desperate. She misses Luke, I think. And Baela, and Daemon. She’s lost so much weight I barely recognized her. But she was very, very happy to hear about Luca. Hopefully she can meet him soon. Although we’ll have to be careful traveling with him while he’s so small, we’ll have to ensure he’s warm enough.”

Winter is coming, you think, remembering Cregan Stark’s army under the protection of Daemon and Caraxes. “Did you see Rhaena and the boys at the Eyrie?”

“I did,” Jace admits, as if it was a fraught experience.

“And what happened?”

“Rhaena called me a traitor.”

“For marrying and fathering a son with me?”

“No, that she understands,” Jace says. “But it is treason to love you.”

You turn around to look at him in the shadows, in the moonlight. “You told her?”

“She could tell. I cannot hide it. I am a glass jar and you and Luca are the butterflies inside.” And Jace kisses you softly, his fingers hooked beneath your chin, his flesh coming alive again after so long away: managing and conciliating, lifting Rhaenyra’s spirits, pawing through the heaps of bastards in King’s Landing for dragonriders, flying on Vermax through storms and snow.

When you kiss Jace back, when your hands go to his chest and his jaw and his face, when you open his tunic so you can feel the heat of his skin underneath, you are aware that parts of you are waking up again as well. There is a dull but definite ache of lust beginning to bloom like a blood drop soaking into white cotton.

“Are you…” Jace begins. “Do you think you’re healed enough, I mean…have you stopped bleeding?”

You hesitate. “I have.” You think of your first time with him and how painful it was, the sensation of burning, of tearing, and you can only assume it will be worse now. “But I’m rather terrified too.”

“No, no, don’t be afraid,” Jace whispers, he pleads, running his fingers through your long unbound hair. “We don’t have to do that. I won’t hurt you. I’ll wait for as long as you want.” His dark eyes travel down the white nightgown that clings to your body, your breasts, your belly, and then lower. “Can I…can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, bewildered. Then as Jace begins to push the hem of your nightgown up over your hips to your waist, you grin and kiss him again in the dim celestial light, cool night air rushing up over your bare legs, blood surging through your arteries to where he bends low to taste you once—a long, slow, tentative drag of the tongue—and then moans quietly and pushes your thighs further apart so he can bury himself there and lick, suck, swallow down your clear mineral wetness as it pools for him.

Something isn’t quite right—not enough pressure, not the ideal angle—but it’s exquisite to be reacquainted with this side of yourself, to know you can feel this way again, insatiable and desired. When you reach to touch Jace, there is a moment when you are startled to find dark curly hair in place of silk-smooth silver, and there is a ghost in the room like a voyeur watching, and you think dazedly: If Aemond knew about this, would he kill me?

“There,” you gasp, jolting as your husband stumbles upon the perfect place and rhythm. “Jace, right there…”

He listens, he is groaning with desperation for you, and you roll into a climax that is brief and sharp and a little painful, but good. Instead of being extinguished, you are a kindled flame. You turn over, straddle Jace, and unfasten his trousers. You begin kissing your way down his belly, nipping at him, your palm kneading his hardness, and you know he wants you but for some reason when you go to take him in your mouth, he pushes you away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jace says, alarmed.

“I know. I want to.”

“No, seriously. Stop.”

You look at him, wounded, rejected. “Jace, I’m not doing this out of obligation. I enjoy it.”

He is staring at the wall. “I just…for you to…I’m sorry, it just feels wrong.”

“I can do things you believe are only for whores and still be your wife.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is gentle but his face is pained. You think of something Criston once told you when you were collecting bones from the Godswood of the Red Keep: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. Are you cursed to disappoint people, to repulse them, to be eternally misunderstood? “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

Jace gets out of bed and fetches a small wooden box he must have brought into the room with him when you were still half-asleep. He opens the box, debates whether to reach in, decides against it and passes you the whole box instead. “I asked the castle maester to procure some while I was away…”

You squeal with delight when you see what’s inside: three black and white bats the same breed as Sapphire was, large fanlike ears and wiggling noses and small black eyes that peer curiously up at you. When you offer them your open palms, they immediately scramble into them.

“I hope they’re good ones.” Jace chuckles nervously. “I don’t really know what makes a bat suitable or not.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, smiling. “I’ll build them a roost. I’ll introduce them to Luca.”

Yet you cannot stop yourself from thinking: Aemond wouldn’t have cared if I was still bleeding.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are snuggled up with Luca in your chair by the fire, cool midday light—the color of steel, smoke, rainclouds, ash—streaming in through the windows. The baby’s eyes have turned dark like Jace’s, and his curls grow longer. He is only half-awake and blinking drowsily, his diminutive hands clasping your fingers. He doesn’t cry often, but he doesn’t smile either. Lady Caro believes he already has the temperament of a good king, a calmness, a graveness. She says: How improper would it be for him to be full of complaints or cheerfulness, the way the world is right now? No, he ought to be serious. He ought to be grateful he’s not starving or being roasted alive.

“I have some new friends,” you whisper to the baby like a secret or a myth. “They’re asleep right now. They sleep all day, kind of like you do. But then at night they come alive and they’re free, and they fly around like hawks or dragons.”

You speak for Luca, a soft bird-trill of a voice: “What are their names?”

“Good question,” you say, smiling. “Iris, Shark, and Flood. And you’ll meet them soon.” Your eyes go to the mosaics on the walls. Jace hasn’t asked you to take them down, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either, except for the mosaic you made of him that hangs by the headboard of the bed. He beams at that one and calls it fine work. “You’ll meet the people I grew up with too. Aegon will make you wood carvings. Helaena will sew you blankets. Daeron will take you on adventures. Jaehaera and Maelor will play games with you. And Mother and Criston will love you because you won’t be like me. You’ll be sweet-tempered and honorable, and when you’re old enough you’ll have a dragon to help protect us with.”

There is a knock on the doorframe; one of Luca’s wetnurses has arrived to feed him. You regret that you can’t anymore. Lady Caro was right; you’d be a terrible goat or cow or yak.

“Princess,” the wetnurse says, curtsying before she takes the baby from you. You watch her leave with him for his own bedchamber—Lady Caro has already filled it with toys and children’s books—and as soon as they are out of sight, the darkness of your losses creeps back in like spiders scurrying down the corridors of your veins and arteries, like rust growing over steel. Then you hear the rumbling of voices downstairs in the Great Hall.

You stand and swish in your gown—one of the Vale’s anemic colors, a faint dusky rose—through the hallway and down the spiral staircase of the tower. In the belly of the castle, the commotion is louder, and you sweep into the Great Hall to find men gathered around the table closest to the roaring hearth, Lord Corbray and his knights and the maester, and Lady Caro too looking on anxiously. Jace is holding a piece of parchment in his hands, presumably just delivered by a raven. He shakes his head as he reads it. Outside, snow is falling.

Lady Caro is saying: “Well you’ll have to tell her. Oh, the poor dear, as if everything else isn’t bad enough. And only the gods know where Aemond is, he hasn’t been spotted in the Riverlands for days…” Then she spies you and shoos Lord Corbray and his men from the room. They bow to you as they depart, swift little bobs of the head. They have to; you are now both the wife and mother of future kings.

“Jace?” you say when the Great Hall is empty except for the two of you and Lady Caro.

Jace’s face is stricken. Lady Forlorn hangs from his belt. The letter is still clutched in his left hand; the right grips the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” you ask, immediately horrified. Aegon dead of his burns, Daeron killed in battle, Mother executed for treason, Aemond…? “What happened?”

“You have to believe that I had no idea about any of this, I never would have given Hugh the order if I’d been there, or let Mother do it—”

“Jace, please tell me.”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond??

Instead, Jace says absurdly: “It’s Helaena.”

You stare at him. “Helaena isn’t a warrior.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she got to Dreamfyre somehow and tried to escape the city.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That’s impossible. She wouldn’t leave Mother and the children. “No, she couldn’t have, she—”

“She took flight,” Jace insists. “And my mother sent Hugh Hammer after her on Vermithor.”

Vermithor was supposed to be mine, you think numbly. “And Helaena, she…she was…?”

Jace is trying to keep his voice steady; his dark eyes gleam, begging you not to hate him. “Dreamfyre attacked when Vermithor flew close to her. She wasn’t an especially aggressive dragon, but she was large and formidable, and she fought to defend her own life and that of her rider. Vermithor ripped out her throat, though Hugh was burned to death in the saddle. Then Vermithor flew eastward, and no one knows where he is now. Dreamfyre crashed to the earth, and Helaena with her. Their bodies were found on the beach outside the Red Keep.”

She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone. She just wanted to be with her creatures and her family. She embroidered my blankets with red bats, she put ladybugs into my open palms. “Why would Helaena try to run, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

You think nonsensically, as you have no way of knowing this: Because she was trying to stop something terrible from happening. “I told you to give her more freedom. And that freedom allowed her to sneak away to the Dragonpit.”

Jace reaches for you. “This isn’t your fault—”

“All of it ismy fault!” you shout at him, and Lady Caro shrinks away and covers her mouth with her hands. “If I’d had Vermithor, the Greens would have been unstoppable! And Rhaenyra never would have tried to claim the throne, and Aemond wouldn’t have been sent to Storm’s End, and Luke and Jaehaerys and Baela wouldn’t have died, and Aegon wouldn’t have been burned, and Aemond wouldn’t be destroying the Riverlands, and Helaena would still be alive, but instead I’ve always been useless!”

“You aren’t useless,” Jace pleads.

“Not normal enough to be a good wife or daughter, not extraordinary enough to have a dragon!”

Again, Jace tries to touch you, to soothe you. “Please don’t—”

You fling his hands away. “What was our marriage for if not to stop this from happening?! To end the dying, to protect the people we have left?” You whirl away from him and flee from the Great Hall, the castle, yourself. Behind you, Lady Caro is comforting Jace with soft tenderness you’ve never been capable of.

“Let her go, my prince,” she is counselling. “Give her a moment to grieve…”

You throw open the first door you pass and trudge out into the snow, no fox fur coat, bare feet. The cold stings and then your skin goes numb and it doesn’t bother you anymore. The icy mountain wind tears at your hair, flowing in long waves like the women of the Vale wear it, delicate and feminine, pretty and powerless. Tears cascade down your face; currents of red magma scorch your throat. When you close your eyes, you see the yellow butterfly that was once Helaena’s game piece.

She never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong.

Now you are under the shadows of the soaring pine trees, their green needles so thick you cannot see the grey of the sky.

She never met Luca.

You gaze up into the branches, covered with tufts of white snow and icicles like fangs, and you have the overwhelming, ravenous feeling that you need to go home. You don’t belong in the Vale. The Vale almost killed you when you were a child, Aemond’s hands shoving you into a rushing stream freckled with ice.

And then all at once—like you’ve been hit, like you’ve been stabbed with a blade—you are flying high above the castle and the wind is raking over your cheeks, but it is not your face but Aemond’s, half-blind and half-scarred, torrential red waves of a sea of blood in his skull.

He’s here, he’s here—

And if he’s able to see through your eyes that you are outside in the forest…

The castle!!!

You bolt through the trees back towards Heart’s Home, your bare feet leaving tracks in the fresh powdery snow that is nearly up to your knees, and you stumble out of the shadows just as Vhagar soars overhead and unleashes her flames on the castle, wood burning, stones collapsing, people inside shrieking as they incinerate. You’re screaming for Aemond to stop, but he does not hear you and he does not see you either, he is high above in a place you’ve never been and never will be, he is flying, and he is hearing only devastation and he is breathing in its dark, intoxicating smoke, and as Vhagar swoops by the stable and it bursts into an inferno—horses galloping loose and engulfed in fire, dead but not knowing it yet—you run into the crumbling castle.

“Jace?!” you shout, but the air is full of smoke and the sounds of wood cracking and stones caving in are deafening. You feel blindly for the spiral staircase that leads up to the tower where your and Luca’s bedchambers are located. From the part of the castle that was once the Great Hall, you can hear Lord Corbray and Lady Caro screaming as their skin blisters and sloughs away and their flesh is cooked and their bones are charred black, and when the flames reach their lungs the screams go quiet. You cannot think about them. You don’t have any time; you must think of Luca and Jace. “Jace!” you bellow through the smoke.

And then there is a weak reply: “Here.”

You follow it into the stairwell. Parts of the wall have been blasted away; you can see the pine forest outside, the cold barren sky, the Mountains of the Moon. Jace is halfway up the steps, slumped against the fractured wall and pinned there by stones that have rained down on his legs. His bones must be broken; his face is bloodless and his curls matted to his forehead by sweat. His right hand fumbles futilely for the hilt of Lady Forlorn. Now, dimly, you can hear Luca crying.

Jace rasps as he stares vacantly up at you: “I tried to get to him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jace, I can do it.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

You climb over him and chase Luca’s wails up the staircase. Vhagar is back, and the ruins of the castle tremble when she roars, and you feel the heat of her flames radiating up through the floor. You lose your footing and clamber up the last few steps on your hands and knees, then manage to stand again and careen into Luca’s room. Half the roof has collapsed; a wetnurse is sprawled on the floor and half-buried in fallen stones, blood hemorrhaging out of her mouth and ears. You grab the baby out of his cradle and quickly bundle him in his blanket patterned with blue dragonflies. His tiny hands grasp at your face and your hair as you rush back down the spiral staircase to help Jace. Smoke needles your eyes; you and Luca are both coughing as you try to clear your lungs.

You reach Jace and kneel beside him, holding Luca in your left arm and using your right to try to roll the stones off Jace’s legs, but he’s not helping you.

“Jace, please, we have to go now,” you say, but when you look at his face he’s not there. His dark eyes are glassy, his chest doesn’t rise and fall with the tide of air.

He’s gone, you think. Like Father, Luke, Jaehaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, Helaena. And you are struck by an excruciating pang of fondness for Jace more forceful than anything you ever felt for him when he was alive, and you cannot leave him here. He was your husband, he was Luca’s father. And he loved you. He must have. He said it over and over again.

“Jace?” you sob. But outside Vhagar is still flying—the gales churned up by her wings gust into the jagged holes in the castle walls—and she could be coming back, she could be returning to burn you, and Jace is dead but the baby is still alive.

You clutch Luca to you as he cries and you race down the steps, following the smoke-filled, twisted passageway. The heat is suffocating, the sounds of a dying castle engulfing, Heart’s Home turned into a graveyard, into a shattered skeleton, charred and cursed like Harrenhal. You crash through the door at the base of the stairwell and into the ground level of the castle, and you are almost out—

Something ignites, something explodes, and stones from the castle wall you are feeling your way along rip out of their centuries-old mortar and collide with you. Your ribs crack, you are thrown to the floor, but even as you scream and claw your way out of the rubble you don’t let go of the baby. You force yourself upright and stagger with Luca towards a gaping chasm where there was once a wall. There is a tremor like an earthquake. Outside, Vhagar must be landing.

Now you are in the snow again, bare feet and a gown covered with soot and wreckage. The baby isn’t crying anymore. When you glance down at the blanket he is swaddled in, the white space between the blue dots of dragonflies is turning red with blood.

Blood?

You can’t look. You can’t allow yourself to feel it; it will consume you until there is nothing left. The last vestiges of the castle are crumpling. Across the field, Vhagar is devouring Vermax’s small, broken corpse, crushing his bones in her massive, monstrous jaws.

Blood??

Aemond’s footsteps are behind you, crunching in the snow. His cloak cracks in the frigid wind like the sails of a ship. His words are full of dark, euphoric, lethal triumph, a high like nothing he’s ever known, not even when he claimed Vhagar, not even what he imagined he would feel on your wedding day when you’d be bound to each other with fire and blood in the tradition of Old Valyria. “I said I would find you, and I did.”

You hear your own voice as if from a very far distance, lightning strikes miles away but moving closer. “You killed him.”

Aemond is puzzled. You are supposed to be happy. You are saved, you are home. “Killed who?”

“He’s dead, and there will never be another. Not like this one. Jace was his father, but Jace is gone. You killed him too.”

And you turn to face him, and Aemond sees what you are holding in your arms, and only then does he understand.

[daisymbin]

Hello, I hope you are doing good... Well, it's my first time requesting, so please bare with me. Can you do prompt number 1 and 39 from the suggestive genre? Regency AU would be amazing for this story!

Perhaps strangers to enemies to lovers (no FWB twist, honestly speaking, I am bored of that twist coming in so) Omega reader and Alpha Cheol...

I'll be honest this is my first take on this type of au and this one took me quite awhile but I tried my best so please go easy on me 🥲

full prompt list!

check out my masterlist! // cheol's m.list

suggestive prompt #1: "if you keep looking at me like that, I might kiss you." +

suggestive prompt #39: "you're mine, remember that."

the grand ballroom was filled with laughter and the soft hum of conversation, but your attention was nowhere near the polite chatter or the dancers gliding across the polished floor. your eyes were fixed on seungcheol, who stood across the room, looking far too at ease in his perfectly tailored coat, his sharp gaze never wavering from you.

alpha. that’s what he was. and you, an omega, were the last person he should have his eyes on, especially not in this setting where wolves like him ruled the land with their dominance and their power.

but that didn’t stop you from feeling the heat of his gaze, pulling at you in a way that made your heart race, your instincts stirring against the careful mask of composure you’d worked so hard to maintain. you hated how much it affected you, the way your body betrayed you every time he so much as glanced in your direction.

"you look like you're about to rip my throat out," seungcheol's voice broke through your thoughts, low and teasing as he appeared at your side, a wicked smile tugging at his lips.

you glared at him, turning slightly to face him. "maybe i should," you muttered, trying to keep your composure, but he only chuckled, as if the very idea amused him.

"careful, sweetheart," he warned, his voice darkening. "if you keep looking at me like that, i might kiss you."

you felt the blood rush to your cheeks, your heart hammering in your chest. it was impossible to ignore the tension between you two—seungcheol, the proud alpha, and you, the omega who had been taught from a young age to avoid provoking alphas like him.

but there was something about the way he carried himself, something in the way his scent—earthy and rich—clung to the air around him, that made it impossible for you to ignore.

"you’re bold for someone who knows nothing about the consequences," you hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention.

seungcheol leaned in closer, the scent of his dominance enveloping you, making your pulse quicken. "oh, don't worry,i know exactly what i’m doing, omega," he murmured, the word tasting like a challenge on his tongue. "and i think you like it."

his presence was overwhelming. alpha energy rippled from him in waves, and despite yourself, you could feel your body responding; your scent slipping in the air, a subtle betrayal of your desire.

he caught it. of course, he did. his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, and his eyes darkened with something that made your breath catch.

"you can’t hide it, sweetheart," seungcheol whispered, his hand brushing lightly against your arm. "you’re mine. remember that."

your heart stuttered at the words. it was a claim, a warning, and an invitation all at once. his dominance was undeniable, and no matter how hard you fought it, you felt yourself being pulled in, the magnetic force of his presence drawing you closer, making your instincts rise to the surface.

"i’m not yours, i'm not anyone's," you shot back, though your voice lacked conviction. you tried to pull away, but the alpha wasn’t finished yet.

seungcheol’s grip tightened on your wrist, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your inner arm. "you don’t get to decide that," he growled softly. "you can fight it all you want, but you can’t deny the way your body reacts to me."

he tugged you towards him, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body seeping into your own. the scent of his arousal filled your senses, and you cursed the way your body reacted—how your omega instincts flared, how you couldn’t stop the flush of heat that crept down your neck and settled in the pit of your stomach.

"stop pretending," he whispered, lips brushing against your ear as he held you in place. "i can smell how you feel. you're mine, whether you want it or not."

before you could respond, seungcheol pulled you into a secluded alcove, away from the prying eyes of the ballroom. his hands were on you immediately, tugging you closer, his scent wrapping around you, overwhelming you.

"careful, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick with desire as he pushed you against the wall. his lips ghosted over your neck, where the pulse of your omega scent was strongest, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body, burning you alive.

"seungcheol," you whispered, but the protest was weak, barely audible. he just chuckled darkly, one of his hands sliding down to your waist, the other tangling in your hair to hold your head in place.

"you want this, dont you?" he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl. "i can feel it. i can smell it."

he was right. the pull, the undeniable attraction, the way your body seemed to crave him—it was impossible to deny. your omega instincts were screaming for submission, and your heart was thundering in your chest, torn between pride and desire.

"admit it," he coaxed, pressing his lips against the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "you want me. you’ve always wanted me."

you gasped as his hands slid down to your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, pulling you closer to him.

"say it," seungcheol demanded, his voice laced with both hunger and command. "say you want me, sweetheart."

"i want you," you breathed, your voice trembling with the weight of your confession.

his eyes gleamed with triumph, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. "good girl."

and then, without warning, his lips crashed onto yours. it was all fire and hunger—no more games, no more teasing. he kissed you like he’d been starving for this moment, and you kissed him back, every ounce of your body finally surrendering to the pull.

and in that moment, you accepted it. because there was no escaping him now.

his hands slid under your dress, pulling you onto him, his body fitting against yours in a way that made your head spin. “you’re mine, remember that,” he repeated again, as if reminding you of something you already knew, as if trying to ingrained it into your brain.

[of-toussaint]

"We shall disguise that hideous scar on your face with an illusion," Sheala spoke again, tugging at her boa apparently indifferently. "You will be beautiful and mysterious, and Tankred Thyssen, I assure you, will lose his head for you. We'll have to invent some personal details for you. Cirilla is a nice name and is by no means so rare that you would have to give it up to remain incognito. But we have to give you a surname. I wouldn't protest if you chose mine."

"Or mine," said Madam Owl, smiling with the corners of her mouth. "Cirilla Eilhart also sounds nice."

"That name—" the silver bells of the Daisy of the Valleys jingled in the hall again "—sounds nice in every combination. And each of us, sitting here, would like to have a daughter like you, Zireael, O Swallow with the eyes of a falcon, you, who bear the blood and bones of Lara Dorren's blood and bones. Each of us would give up everything, even the Lodge, even the fate of the kingdoms and the whole world, to have a daughter like you. But it's impossible. We know that it's impossible. Which is why we envy Yennefer."

"Thank you, Madam Philippa," Ciri said a moment later, clenching her hands on the sphinxes' heads. "I'm also honoured at the offer of bearing the name Tancarville. However, because a surname is the only thing in this whole matter that depends on me and my choice, the only thing that isn't being imposed on me, I have to gratefully decline and choose for myself. I want to be called Ciri of Vengerberg, daughter of Yennefer."

- The Lady of the Lake

If Ciri doesn’t introduce herself as Ciri of Vengerberg in TW4, the name she chose for herself at the end of the books, then what even is the point

[ay4tou]

when the time comes | samuel seo x reader

summary: you rush home just to find samuel bloodied, his calm only fueling your anger. as he makes a promise you’re unsure you can trust, you wonder how long you can wait for him to choose between this life and you.

tw: mentions of blood (and samuel idk he just seems like a whole trigger warning)

author's note: it's my first time writing samuel i'm not sure if i made him nonchalant or just a bitch

i kinda want to make a part two of this.... and i may or may not plan it to be smut 👀 | masterlist

The door to the apartment creaked open, revealing Samuel leaning heavily against the frame. His shirt was torn and bloodstained, knuckles were bruised and swollen, an evidence of a fight that had gone far longer than it should have.

He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him, and trudged toward the bathroom without turning on the lights. He barely glanced at his reflection as he grabbed a towel to clean himself up.

Your phone call interrupted the silence. His phone buzzed insistently on the counter, your name lighting up the screen. He sighed and answered, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Yeah? What's up?” His tone was casual, as if you were just calling to ask what he wanted for dinner.

“Samuel?” Your voice was sharp. “You home?”

“Mm-hm.”

Something in his tone set you on edge. “Are you okay? You sound… off.”

“I’m fine, no need to worry.” he said, brushing the question off like a fly on his shoulder.

“Fine?” you repeated. “Hey, fine doesn’t sound like this. What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he replied.

That was all you needed to hear. “I’m on my way.”

“You really don’t have t-"

But the line had already gone dead. He set the phone back on the counter and returned to dabbing at his wounds, muttering to himself,

"Guess that's happening."

“Are you kidding me, Samuel?” you snapped, storming over to him. “What the hell happened to you?”

He looked up at you, completely unfazed by your outburst. “Long day.” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

“...Long day?” you echoed in disbelief. “You’re covered in blood!”

He shrugged. “Most of it’s not mine.”

The way he said it so casually made your blood boil.

“Do you even hear yourself right now? You look like you walked out of a war zone, and you’re just sitting there like it’s nothing!”

“It’s not nothing,” he said, leaning back against the cushions with a faint wince. “But it’s not worth freaking out over, either. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

You crossed your arms, glaring down at him. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He smirked faintly, raising an eyebrow. “You love it.”

“No, I tolerate it,” you shot back, grabbing the first-aid kit. “And only because I don’t have a choice.”

You knelt beside him, your hands moving with practiced precision as you cleaned his wounds. Despite your anger, you couldn’t stop the worry gnawing at your chest. “You can’t keep doing this, Samuel. You know that.” you said quietly.

He sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” he replied, his tone annoyingly nonchalant.

“Do you?” you snapped, glaring up at him. “Because it sure doesn’t seem like it.”

His smirk softened, but his eyes stayed steady. “I do. But I’ve got my reasons.”

“Yeah? And what are those?”

He shrugged again. “Unfinished business.”

“Ugh. That’s not an answer,” you said, sitting back on your heels.

“It’s the best one I’ve got for now.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Fine, keep your secrets. But this can’t go on forever, Samuel. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to make a choice.”

His smirk reappeared, but it seemed gentler. “When the time comes, I’ll stop.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“And I’ll mean it every time,” he replied. “When the time comes, I’ll marry you. And when I do, it’ll be over.”

You stared at him, torn between anger and disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That's just me.” he said with a lazy grin, his tone almost teasing.

You stood up, shaking your head but refusing to let him see the small smile threatening to break through. “But if you think I’m just going to patch you up every time you come home looking like this, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Sure you will.” he said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh.

And damn it, you both knew he was right.

[goreandbunnies]

⛧☾༒︎ 𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 ༒︎☽⛧

Sukuna x Reader, Toji x Reader

Summary ๋࣭ ⭑⚝"Almost six months after meeting him, I had finally managed to escape. At least that's what I thought, hidden in that alley, holding my breath and waiting for the search party to get further away from my spot. But this city was his, he had eyes everywhere. I needed to leave as far away as I could."

Warnings ๋࣭ ⭑⚝ Explicit language, sexual explicit scenes, sexual assault, drugs and alcohol, explicit violent scenes, gun violence, emotional and physical manipulation, dub-con, mentions of cults, blood and blood play, knife play.

Word count ๋࣭ ⭑⚝ 28k (in progress)

Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more & @cafekitsune

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 3

“Where’s Brad?” I sit up, wrapping the jacket tighter around me.

The pink haired man and his friend looked at one another and smirked. I noticed the first one didn’t have his jacket anymore and my cheeks flushed. He then stared at me, head tilted to the side.

“Why? You miss him?” He smirked. His voice was pure sensuality and devilish. “Thought we were doing you a favor,” he said as he dropped heavily on the couch next to me.

“I… Thank you,” I breathed, glancing at the ice pack on the couch.

“I was messing with you, no need to thank us,” he sat back, winking at me. “I won’t let a rapist inside my club.”

“Oh, you’re… right,” I sighed, a little relieved. “I’m friends with Ben and Amy, I’m here with them tonight,” I stuttered, unable to focus on anything but his eyes. I had never seen a pair of brown eyes that looked like that, an odd shade, almost red.

“I know,” he nodded, eyebrows raised. “You weren’t the only one staring earlier, right, Toji?” The pink haired man readjusted the rolled up sleeves of his black shirt, showing off more lines tattooed around his wrists, the blood on his knuckles had already dried.

“Right,” Toji replied stoically, leaning against the wall across from the couch. I felt cornered by two predators.

“Forgive him, he doesn’t talk much,” the man next to me smirked playfully at his friend.

“And you talk way too fucking much, Sukuna,” Toji spat back. Reading between the lines, I understood that these two went way back. Just like Amy and I. Opposites yet inseparable. Both snickered at their inside joke and I took that as my cue.

“I should go back to the party, let them know I’m okay,” I tried to stand up but both my nerves and the head injury got the best of me.

Sukuna’s strong arms were around me in a heartbeat, gently helping me back on the couch. The proximity between our two bodies instantly raised mine’s temperature, mostly because of the feel of his skin against mine. His jacket smelled good but the source of that scent itself was intoxicating.

“They know you’re here,” he reassured me, now sitting right next to me, so close I felt his breath brushing my cheek. “And you shouldn’t move. We have someone on their way to check that injury,” he grabbed the ice pack and gently replaced it at the back of my head. “Hold that for me, okay?” He smirked again, my heart missing a beat, making me wonder if he knew how to give a simple smile.

My hand cupped his hesitantly as I placed it over the ice pack, but instead of withdrawing his completely, he replaced it over mine, his gigantic palm firmly keeping both my hand and the pack in place. My cheeks warmed up as I looked away, still too conscious of Toji’s inquisitive look on me.

“You’re lucky I wasn’t busy tonight,” a woman said as she crashed into the room, breaking the ongoing tension, looking bored and annoyed already.

She was a small, elegant looking girl with bags under her eyes so dark you could’ve mistaken them for smudged makeup. Her overall look screamed casual, not detached but rather in a ‘I don’t give a fuck anymore’ way.

“We both know you have no social life other than Toji, me and the guy who sells cigarettes down your street, Shoko,” Sukuna said mockingly, readjusting the cold pouch against the back of my head, my hand still trapped under his.

“Fuck you too, Kuna,” the woman named Shoko replied as she came towards me. “I usually deal with injuries on dead people but I can make a few exceptions. What happened?” She asked, looking at both men, not at me.

“I-” I began, thinking that I was being asked. I was wrong.

“Our friend Elle here had an unfortunate encounter in the bathroom, someone knocked her against the wall and her head hit rather hard,” Sukuna chimed in, the sound of my name momentarily bringing me back to reality. Shoko shook her head.

“The girl can speak for herself, surely,” she muttered, but if the two men heard her, they didn’t comment. “Can you move over? I need to examine her,” she said clearly to Sukuna who only removed the ice pack from my head and sat back, arms splayed out as Toji kept watching us all like a hawk.

“Surely you can do it from here,” he nodded at her, not moving an inch.

I noticed her jaw tensing up ever so slightly before she turned to me and silently asked for my consent before doing her job. While she gently felt the back of my head and flashed a light in my eyes, I couldn’t help but take glances at the two men in the room with us.

Everything was surreal, why would they bother with me at all? Why not just call for an ambulance and send me away? How the fuck did they know my name? Why wasn’t I allowed some privacy as I was being asked about my symptoms? The questions kept coming as Shoko - who smelled like forbidden chemicals and tobacco - stepped away from me at last.

“You should be good to go, get some rest tonight and see your usual doctor if that headache doesn’t fade in the next twenty four hours,” she put away her flashlight and fished out a cigarette from her pocket. “Kuna, Toji,” she nodded politely before heading out, the door closing behind her reviving the tension in the room.

“I’ll call an Uber for you,” Sukuna said with a smirk, standing up to get his phone from a table nearby.

“Wait,” I raised my hand. “I’m thankful you two took care of my situation but I’m here to celebrate with my friends, I’m not leaving yet,” I frowned, feeling the headache fading already.

“You’re not going back,” Sukuna said, typing away on his phone.

“All due respect, that’s not your decision to make,” I stood my ground and stood up carefully. I snatched my sash and headed for the door.

But before I could lay a hand on the knob, an overly massive arm blocked it. I stepped back instinctively, looking up at an annoyed Toji. He towered over me like a mountain, his piercing gaze even scarier up close. Sukuna chuckled behind me.

“You heard her, she wants to go,” he said mockingly and I wondered if he ever got serious at all, that smirk seemed to be a permanent feature on his face.

Toji kept staring at me, his jaw tense and his eyes scanning mine before he eventually removed his arm from the door and even opened it for me. Somehow, I sensed the annoyance in his gesture - he was offended.

Well, so was I.

“You know you didn’t have to get rid of Brad if you were going to act like two patronizing assholes too,” I spat before strutting out, a little worried they’d come after me too.

* Half an hour later, after telling Amy many, many times that I was okay and after insisting I would sit in our booth just to be sure, I was about to give up and go home. The entire night had been exhausting and all I wanted was the comfort of my bed.

Amy and Ben were still very much awake, not showing any tiredness signs. My head was still sore but it was definitely improving. I had been sipping sparkling water, witnessing everyone around me getting drunk, including my best friend who still came around every ten minutes to make sure I wasn’t fainting. To sum it up? I was bored out of my mind. All I could think about was the two men who had saved my ass only to act like entitled assholes about it. I made sure never to look up at the damn balcony above us, but I felt like they were watching me.

My feeling only got confirmed a couple of minutes later when Ben cheered loudly out of the blue. I shrunk in my seat, trying to become invisible but the group was too close to the booth for me to ignore them. I looked up from my glass, only to see crimson eyes staring back at me as Ben hugged their owner.

Amy came to sit next to me and held my hand as Ben and Sukuna - followed closely by his massive bodyguard - joined us in the booth. I pressed Amy’s hand, a desperate attempt to make her understand my situation, but she only pressed it back and grinned happily. She was way past drunk, so I let that one slide.

“How are you feeling, Elle?” Sukuna asked, that smirk still glued to his lips. I ignored how perfect they looked and smiled politely.

“Much better, thank you,” I replied, a little too harshly. I still had no idea how he knew my name. He had probably checked the guest list Ben had given to him, or asked either of my friends earlier. Stalker. He turned to Amy.

“Your friend here refused to take an Uber earlier, even if she felt tired and had a headache from her injury,” he aimed his shot and hit the bullseye because I saw Amy’s eyes widening instantly.

“What?” She shrieked, looking at me, overly concerned. She’d make an incredible mother.

“That’s right, I offered but she insisted on staying,” Sukuna sat back and I saw his lips trembling ever so slightly. The manipulative bastard was trying not to laugh.

“Elle, it’s my party,” Amy said, a hand over her chest. “And I want you to go home to rest. I can’t have my maid of honor at the hospital for the big day,” to my horror, she turned to Sukuna and smiled at him. “Can you please call that Uber for her? I’ll pay for it if-” “No need, my dear. It’s already paid for and waiting outside,” he looked at her for a second before turning to me, all traces of sass gone from his face. This wasn’t an offer anymore. It was a threat.

“Come on, Elle, I’ll take you and you better text me when you get home,” Amy got up, no idea how given her state and gently pulled on my hand to drag me along.

“I’m fine, Amy. I can stay a little longer,” I said to my friend but she shook her head vehemently, leading me towards the stairs.

“You heard your friend, she wants you healthy for her wedding,” Sukuna stood up as well and walked Amy and I out of the VIP section.

I held onto my best friend’s hand tightly, focused on my feet as I walked downstairs. However, my safety net didn’t last long. Not ten steps down, someone called for Amy and, in her drunken haze, she promised she’d be back later.

“You can hold onto me,” Sukuna’s smirked reappeared in the club’s lights, mischievous and threatening as he offered his hand. “Toji wouldn’t mind either.”

I looked on the other side and saw the mountain standing a couple of steps above us. I smacked Sukuna’s hand away and kept heading downstairs, ignoring them both. They clearly didn’t care about my consent or my decisions, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of being polite or even acknowledge them at all.

We passed by the lobby and I headed for the desk to grab my jacket and purse, impatient to get the Hell away from my new friends. When the clerk appeared with my belongings, the pink haired man took them from him and handed me my purse before holding out the jacket to slip it around my shoulders.

For a second, I held his gaze, defiant, wanting to rip my free will back from his greedy hands. Whatever he saw in me had him entertained, no doubts about it. But the defiance triggered that dark look I had caught a glimpse of earlier at the booth. And that look did two things to me. Scared and turned me the fuck on. Annoyed, I snatched my jacket from his hand and hurried to the front door, my heels clicking on the black, shiny tiles. The faster I’d be away from him and the quiet one, the better.

The June night was chilly still and I regretted not wearing my jacket but I wouldn’t let either of them win. I was too damn stubborn for that. A single black car was waiting by the driveway so I assumed it was the Uber and headed for it, only to be stopped by a warm and strong hand holding me back by the arm.

Sukuna spun me around, my body pressed tightly against his, one arm wrapped around my waist as his other hand gently caressed my cheek and his thumb brushed my lower lip. I was frozen, unable to move or look away from his softened gaze and the lines inked on his face. He looked mesmerized and mirroring my own fascination, he grinned and bit his lower lip.

“We’ll be seeing you soon, Elle,” he whispered, intoxicating before gently removing my hands from his chest.

Realizing I had been holding onto him this whole time, I frowned and abruptly stepped away, staring at him and Toji, both looking very amused. The annoyance took over again, leading me back to the war waiting for me.

I didn’t look at either of them as I jumped in the Mercedes, or when I slipped on my jacket at last. But as the car drove away, my curiosity got the best of me and I discreetly checked through the tinted windows, only to see both men - one with his hands in his pockets, the other with his arms crossed over his chest - staring back at the car as I headed home, away from the weirdest - and hottest encounter of my entire life.

Copyright © goreandbunnies, bitchcraft18 2024, all rights reserved, do not repost, use or plagiarize. Do not translate.

Taglist ♥ @sweetlandspos @tojislittleprincesss @paradisestarfishh @unheavenlypacked

[myveryownfanfiction]

Rickmas day 21: heartfelt confessions

continuation of days 8 and 17

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen, @deepperplexity, @smilingformoney

warnings: swearing, death, snake attack, voldemort

I paced the boathouse, waiting for Severus to arrive. Voldemort had sent word to him and left me as bait. I turned as Severus entered.

“professor?” Severus asked as he saw me, a small twitch in his fingers as he scanned the room. Voldemort emerged from the shadows and smiled at the two of us. “My lord.” He bowed his head as Voldemort came to stand in front of him.

“Severus. Thank you for joining us.” Voldemort said. “There have been some…revelations of late. One that involves our lovely charms professor here.” Severus gulped as he looked between us. “I do believe you dared to defy me, saying you’d run away to join the muggles if it meant I wouldn’t find you.” Severus didn’t move, not emotion on his face at all. I bit the inside of my cheek hard to keep my face blank. Severus glanced at me and I noted the glimmer of fear in his eyes.

“my lord…” Severus started but stopped when Voldemort held up a hand, circling him.

“I must say Severus. I never expected you to choose a pure blood. Given your status and the unfortunate choice of a bitch you originally made.” I felt the shiver go up my spine at the mention of lily. “How much do you love our little professor? Hmmm? Enough to die for them?” Severus went pale, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he glanced at me.

“Die my lord?” He asked. “I…what…are you…” I stepped forward and stood in front of Severus. His hand came out to grab my arm, push me out of the way should anything happen but I grabbed his other arm and squeezed.

“you can’t kill him!” I cried. Voldemort looked at the two of us. He laughed darkly.

“I can’t can I?” He asked. “You little bitch, I think you forget your place. Unless you want to die alongside him.” I stood to my full height and stared down the most dangerous man in all of the wizarding world.

“better to die together than live with the pain of losing a loved one.” I shot back. Severus tightened his grip, still intent on pushing me out of the way. ‘Bastard thinks he killed Harry right?’ I thought. The brief squeeze of my arm confirmed it. I took a deep breath as Voldemort raised his arm.

“then you shall die alongside him.” Voldemort warned me. I stood defiantly in front of Severus as we watched nagini come closer. I counted down in my head, pulling Severus into apparition at the last possible second. I pulled him down just outside the boathouse as Voldemort roared with anger. Nagini was hanging off his arm, body falling at the wave of energy Voldemort gave off as the horcrux in the snake died. Voldemort stumbled against the wall as the venom coursed through his body, no horcuxes left to bring him back. I breathed out and leaned my head against Severus’ chest as a tear escaped my eye.

“How did you know that would work?” He breathed out, arms wrapping around me tightly. “How did you…”

“I didn’t.” I said, looking up at him with tear filled eyes. “I just wanted this to end.” Severus cupped my cheeks and kissed me deeply.

“you brilliant idiot.” He whispered, leaning his head against mine. “You absolute brilliant nut case. I love you. So so much.” I giggled and wrapped my hands around his wrists.

“I love you too.” I breathed out before kissing him again. He hugged me to him before rising. “Is he…”

“he should be.” Severus nodded, slowly making his way into the boathouse. He kept a tight hold on my hand as I trailed behind him. “Free. Finally free.” Severus breathed out, tears of his own rolling down his cheeks. “We’re free.”

“oh Severus.” I cried as I covered my mouth. Severus swept me up, spinning me around before kissing me again.

“let’s go. Let Harry find him.” Severus breathed out. “I have a mind to apologize to Minerva and then disappear to spinners end until this all blows over.” Severus looked at me with shining eyes. “If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll always have you Severus.” I confirmed before following him back up to the castle.

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Sacrifices (Book 2 of 3 BTR Series) a Jhea Fanfic.

Chapter 28: Mamba.. why?

Jey led Morris through the quiet halls of his and Rhea’s home, his jaw tight as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He could still hear the faint sounds of the party outside—the laughter, the music, the sense of family and celebration—but it felt distant, like a memory slipping away as the tension in the house thickened.

As they neared the stairs, Jey came to an abrupt stop, noticing Morris lingering behind. He turned to see the man standing in front of a photo on the wall—a framed picture of Jey and Rhea. In the image, Jey stood behind Rhea, his arms wrapped protectively around her, his hands resting on her stomach, a symbol of their future together: their first child.

Morris’s lips curled into a faint smile as he reached out, his fingers hovering near the glass. “My Mamba,” he murmured softly, the words laced with a kind of wistful possession that made Jey’s blood boil.

“Don’t,” Jey snapped, stepping between Morris and the photo. His glare was sharp enough to cut. “You don’t get to call her that. Not here. Not ever.”

Morris raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk widening. “Relax, Joshua,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “It’s just a memory. Nothing more.”

Jey’s patience was hanging by a thread. “This ain’t about memories,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now move. My office is this way.”

Morris lingered for a moment longer, his gaze flicking back to the photo as if he were burning it into his memory. Then, with a slow nod, he followed Jey down the hall and into the office.

The room was quiet, the weight of the conversation to come pressing down like a storm cloud. Jey took a seat behind his desk, his posture rigid, while Morris remained standing, his demeanor calm but unsettlingly confident.

For a moment, neither man spoke. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, until Morris finally cleared his throat. “I took care of Mamba’s problem,” he said, his voice steady, almost casual.

Jey’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, you took care of it?”

Morris leaned slightly against the edge of the desk, his hands resting casually at his sides. “My snakes,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “They’re gone. I made sure of it.”

Jey’s stomach churned. He didn’t need clarification to know what Morris was implying. Still, his voice was sharp as he responded. “We didn’t ask you to do that.”

Morris shrugged, as if the decision had been obvious. “You didn’t have to,” he said simply. “I would do anything for Mamba. You know that.”

Jey’s hands curled into fists on the desk, his knuckles whitening. “So why are you here, Morris?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. “If you’ve already done what you came to do, what’s the point of this visit?”

Morris’s smirk faltered, his expression shifting to something more serious. He straightened, his gaze locking with Jey’s. “Because there’s a snake that isn’t mine,” he said, his tone grave. “And I can’t find him.”

Jey felt a cold chill run down his spine. The weight of Morris’s words hung heavy in the air, their meaning clear but their implications even darker.

“And what exactly does that mean?” Jey asked, his voice steady despite the unease growing in his chest.

Morris’s eyes hardened, his calm demeanor cracking just enough to reveal the intensity beneath. “It means you’ve got a problem of your own,” he said. “And if you’re not careful, that problem’s gonna strike when you least expect it.”

Jey’s mind raced, but his face remained unreadable. “You know something I don’t, Morris?”

Morris smiled faintly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Maybe,” he said, pushing off the desk, “Or maybe I’m just giving you a friendly warning. Either way, watch your step, Joshua. Not all snakes hiss.”

Jey’s eyes followed Morris, his movements calculated, his expression betraying nothing. “This isn’t a game,” Jey said firmly, masking the unease bubbling beneath his calm demeanor.

Morris tilted his head slightly, the faintest of smirks tugging at the corner of his lips. “But it is, Joshua,” he replied, his voice cool and deliberate. “A game of chess. Only our pieces are snakes, and the stakes… well, they’re everything.”

Jey’s jaw tightened, his hands resting on the edge of his desk. “What are you trying to say? Speak plain.”

Morris moved closer to the bookshelf, idly trailing a finger along its edge, his tone measured. “Someone had whispered to my snakes. Told them lies. Told them that Mamba… could be touched.”

Jey froze, his breath catching for a split second before he regained his composure. “Touched?”

Morris turned, his expression dark. “Yes. Someone planted that idea, Joshua. They wanted my snakes to test the waters, to see if they could reach her. They wanted to see how far they could push before the beast woke up.” He chuckled bitterly. “And they found out the hard way.”

Jey’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room. “Who whispered to them? Who told them that?”

Morris let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “That’s the thing—I don’t know. But whoever it was, they knew exactly what they were doing. They didn’t just want to rattle the cage. They wanted to set it on fire.”

Jey’s fists clenched, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the implications. “So, what? You’re here to tell me you’ve got no answers? You’re supposed to be the guy who knows everything, Morris.”

Morris raised an eyebrow, his expression cold and calculated. “I know this much: whoever it is, they’ve moved their piece. They’re gambling everything on the idea that I’ll clean up their mess. But this isn’t just only about Mamba anymore, Joshua. This is about you and Mamba.”

Jey narrowed his eyes. “Me?”

Morris nodded slowly. “You’re the knight. The piece that protects the queen. And as long as you’re standing, the game stays alive. That makes you a target.”

Jey’s voice dropped, calm but dangerous. “And what about you? What’s your role in all this?”

Morris smiled faintly, the kind of smile that sent a chill down your spine. “I’m just a player who knows how to read the board. But whoever’s pulling these strings isn’t here to win. They’re here to destroy the game entirely. You think they’re after Mamba, but they’re aiming for the king.”

Jey took a step forward, his tone sharp. “What’s their next move?”

Morris shrugged lightly, his demeanor maddeningly relaxed. “That’s for you to figure out. The best chess players don’t just react, Joshua. They anticipate. Know your enemy’s next move before they make it—or this whole thing collapses.”

Jey stared at him, weighing every word, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Protect your queen, Joshua. But don’t forget about the king. Without him, there’s no game left to play.”

“Jey, baby, are you in—” Rhea’s voice trailed off as she opened the door and her eyes landed on Morris. The shift in her demeanor was immediate; she stood still, her gaze locking on him with an intensity that only deepened as Morris’s familiar smile spread across his face.

“The Black Mamba,” Morris said softly, his tone reverent as his eyes settled on her. His attention lingered on the curve of her stomach, his expression flickering with something almost tender. Slowly, he reached out his hand toward her.

Jey, still seated, stiffened, his sharp gaze darting between the two. “Morris—”

But before Jey could intervene, Morris spoke in Polish, his voice smooth, carrying an air of familiarity. “I trust he has taken care of you.”

Rhea’s brows furrowed slightly, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she placed her hands gently over Morris’s, guiding them away from her stomach. Her response, spoken in fluent Polish, was calm and measured. “He has.”

Jey stood, his presence commanding, as he stepped beside Rhea. “What the hell is this?” he asked, his voice low but laced with authority. “You speak Polish now?”

Rhea glanced up at Jey, her eyes soft but steady. “It’s from… a long time ago,” she said, her tone holding a weight that Jey immediately recognized as something she wasn’t ready to explain fully.

Morris, unbothered by Jey’s rising tension, chuckled lightly. “She is full of surprises, isn’t she, Joshua?” He stepped back, folding his hands behind him. “Mamba always had a way of commanding a room.”

Jey’s jaw clenched, his protective instincts flaring. “Enough of the cryptic talk. Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here, Morris? Because this sure as hell isn’t a social call.”

Morris tilted his head, his eyes flickering between Jey and Rhea before he finally took a step back toward the door. “I’ve said what I needed to say. The snakes are quiet—for now. But remember what I told you, Joshua. This game of chess isn’t over.”

He turned to Rhea, bowing his head slightly as if she were royalty. “Mamba,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of finality before he exited the room, leaving the tension behind him like a coiled spring.

The door clicked shut, and Jey immediately turned to Rhea, his eyes searching hers. “What the hell was that about, Rhea? Polish? Morris acting like he knows you better than I do?”

Rhea sighed, stepping away and placing a hand on her stomach, her expression troubled. “Jey, it’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it,” Jey said firmly, his tone softening as he moved closer. “I need to know, Rhea. Especially now.”

She looked up at him, the conflict evident in her eyes. “It’s not something I can explain in just a few words. But… I’ll tell you. Just not tonight. Tonight’s about Jaciyah. Let’s not ruin it.”

Jey exhaled heavily, clearly unsatisfied but respecting her request. He pulled her into his arms, placing a protective hand over hers on her stomach. “Fine. But when Jaciyah and Daya leave for their movie date, we’re talking. No more secrets, Rhea. Not now. Not ever. I’m getting sick of it.”

She nodded, leaning into his chest, her mind spinning with thoughts she wasn’t ready to face. But deep down, she knew the truth wouldn’t stay buried for long.

—

12:11 AM

Jey, Trinity, and Jon sat in the living room on the couches, their expressions unreadable as Rhea stood at the center. Her hands fidgeted nervously at her sides, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Jey’s piercing gaze didn’t leave her face, his silence urging her to speak.

“What I say here tonight,” Rhea began, her voice steady but heavy with emotion, “could get me thrown in jail for life.”

The room remained silent, the tension thick.

Rhea inhaled deeply before continuing, her eyes flicking between the three of them. “When I met Demetri, he was just a small-time drug dealer. He started taking me along on his runs, introducing me to his world. That’s when I first met Charles—his supplier.”

She paused, her voice faltering slightly. “At first, Charles was just a name to me. But he started noticing me, talking about how I could ‘tap into the wrestling world’ to expand their operations. I didn’t know what he meant at the time.”

Trinity interrupted, her voice sharp. “Wait—are you the reason we had to take drug tests every month from 2018 to 2022?”

Rhea’s face fell, and she nodded reluctantly. “Yes. I only dealt to Tegan and Bayley at first. They started sharing it with others on the roster, and it spread.”

Trinity leaned back, crossing her arms in disbelief. “Unreal…”

Rhea sighed, forcing herself to continue. “Once Charles realized how much money I was making, he had Demetri ‘train’ me.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Define ‘train.’”

“Let me finish,” Rhea said, holding up a hand. “Demetri taught me how to shoot—precisely. He called it ‘preparation,’ but I didn’t understand why at first. Then he talked to Morris about my aim, and Morris brought me on. That’s when I became The Black Mamba.”

Jon exchanged a wary glance with Jey, but neither interrupted.

“Demetri was Viper,” Rhea continued, her voice growing steadier. “His friends—Thomas was Cottonmouth, Adam was Copperhead, and Brent was Ball Python. Morris… Morris was our King Cobra.”

Trinity gasped softly, but Rhea pressed on.

“Me and Demetri would make monthly runs to Phoenix, moving product and completing jobs. We always got paid when we came back. It was good money, but…”

Trinity raised her hand again, this time more gently. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but why did Demetri start hitting you?”

Rhea’s expression darkened, her voice softening. “I made a pass at Dustin,” she admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. “From that moment on, every time I tried to stand up for myself, Demetri would ‘correct’ me.”

Jon’s voice broke through the tension, his tone laced with anger and confusion. “Why would you even do this, Rhea? NXT pays well. I don’t see why you’d need to get involved in this kind of mess.”

Rhea hesitated, pain flashing in her eyes. “Because my mom got diagnosed with breast cancer,” she said, her voice breaking. “At first, I sent my salary to help with her treatment, but it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t getting by, so I kept doing it.”

Trinity’s face softened, but her voice remained firm. “So you did this… for four years? From 2018 to 2022?”

Rhea nodded, her shoulders slumping. “Yes. It’s what you do when you want to keep your mom alive.”

The group fell silent, the weight of her confession settling over them like a storm cloud.

After a moment, Jon urged her softly, “Go on.”

Rhea swallowed hard, her voice trembling slightly. “In 2021, Morris and I…” She paused, the words catching in her throat.

Jey’s voice cut through, low and steady. “Finish it, Rhea.”

Rhea exhaled shakily, her gaze locking with his. “In 2021, Morris and I made a pact. He promised to protect me from Charles and Demetri, but in return… I had to make sure certain shipments got through. Clean and untouched.”

Trinity’s eyes widened. “What kind of shipments?”

Rhea’s hands fidgeted again, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Weapons. High-grade ones.”

The tension in the room thickened as Rhea's words hung in the air.

Jey's voice broke through the silence. "Anything other than weapons?"

Rhea exhaled heavily, her hands gripping the edge of the table, her fingers trembling. "Morris' personal shipments of his money," she said, each word weighed down with the gravity of the confession. "I had to make deposits in Switzerland. In total, I moved around... 800 million."

The room went still, the weight of what Rhea had just revealed sinking in. Jon's eyes widened.

Trinity blinked, her mouth slightly agape. Jey, however, stayed quiet, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the numbers.

"800 million?" Jon repeated, voice barely a whisper.

Rhea nodded, her gaze flickering around the room. "It wasn't just money. It was the logistics of it. I was a runner. But then, something went wrong."

She paused, gathering her thoughts.

"Morris was raided by the feds. I didn't know it at the time, but Demetri told me-and everyone else-that he had been named King Cobra," Rhea continued, her voice faltering. "But the truth is... I was actually supposed to be in charge. I never knew. I never got the chance."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean you were supposed to be in charge?"

"Demetri stole from Charles," Rhea went on, her eyes flickering to the ground. "He killed him during one of our runs in Phoenix. Demetri took over everything. And then..." She looked up, her voice breaking. "You know what happened after that. I ended Demetri's life in May."

Jon leaned forward, pressing. "But you ended his lite because he sold you as a sex slave, right?"

Rhea's lips parted, but no words came out. The silence stretched painfully.

Jey, unable to hold his emotions any longer, shot up from his seat. "That's why those Polaroids said YOU LIED!" he snapped, his voice raw with fury.

Rhea struggled to find the words, her body tense as she shook her head. But before she could speak, Trinity stepped forward, her hand held out to Jey in a gesture of calm.

"Jey," Trinity said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You need to let her speak."

Jey stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving as his anger simmered just below the surface. He shot a glance at Rhea, his eyes filled with frustration, before finally sitting back down.

“I didn’t lie… I just saw a way out.” Rhea said.

Trinity looked at Rhea, her eyes soft but determined. "I know you have your brain injury, Rhea, but... what do you remember? What happened?"

Rhea exhaled slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ever since Titusville..." She paused, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I remember everything."

Jey's heart clenched at her words, but he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

"The three men," Rhea continued, her voice cracking, "they were the ones that raped me. Thomas—he was the one that broke into the house in Titusville. But there's one thing I don't know..." Her voice trailed off, as if even speaking the words pained her. "I don't know who put them together. I thought it was Matt, but it wasn't."

Jon's expression hardened. "What do you mean, it wasn't Matt?"

Rhea's face twisted with confusion, her brow furrowed. "I don't know. I thought it was him. But the way everything happened... the way they were put together? It wasn't Matt. I don't know who it was. But they had been planned, had been brought to me... to us."

The room was eerily quiet, everyone processing the enormity of what Rhea had just revealed.

Jey's fists clenched at his sides as the implications of her words washed over him. His heart twisted at the thought of her pain-of all that she had endured without him knowing.

Rhea wiped her face with her sleeve, tears freely falling now. "I never wanted to bring this up. I thought I could protect you. I didn't want you to see me like this... broken. But I don't know who to trust anymore. I don't know who I'm dealing with."

Jey's voice softened, a mixture of concern and pain. "We'll find out, Rhea. We'll find out who's behind all of this. And we'll take care of it."

Rhea looked at Jey, a mix of uncertainty and relief in her eyes. “You’re not mad?” she asked, her voice emitting worry.

Jey studied her for a long moment before responding, his tone even but serious. “Is this the last time? No more surprises?” He paused, looking at her closely. “Cause you speaking Polish threw me off.”

Jon and Trinity, who had been silent until now, exchanged confused glances. “Polish?” they both asked in unison, their eyebrows raised in surprise.

Rhea sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. She glanced at them before answering, her voice carrying the weight of years of hidden truths. “I speak it fluently,” she said, a hint of frustration in her voice as if the revelation had somehow exhausted her.

Jey, still processing everything, leaned in and kissed her gently, his hands cupping her face. “Whatever happens, we will stay together,” he said, his words firm but full of emotion. “Jeremiah, Jesse, and Jeremy will stay here as long as they need to.”

Rhea nodded, her breath catching as she held him tighter, grateful for his reassurance. Their hug lingered, a moment of comfort in the midst of the chaos.

Trinity, breaking the silence, spoke up, her voice casual yet probing. “I mean… what happened to Demetri’s brother, Dustin?”

Rhea’s gaze shifted to Trinity, her expression hardening slightly as the memories flooded back. “He went with his girlfriend, Valerie, to Texas after everything,” she explained, her voice cold and distant.

Trinity nodded, her face thoughtful. “Well, that crosses him off the list,” she said, as if putting a mental mark on Dustin’s name.

Rhea exhaled, the weight of everything she had been carrying now more apparent. “Yeah, but there’s still so much left to figure out,” she murmured, her mind racing through the tangled web of lies and betrayal.

Jey rubbed her back comfortingly. “We’ll figure it out,” he said with quiet determination, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice too.

Trinity raised an eyebrow, looking between the two. “I think we need to keep a closer eye on things. We can’t let anyone slip through the cracks.”

Rhea nodded slowly, her resolve hardening. “We can’t afford to trust anyone anymore.” She looked at Jey, her eyes softening. “But with you… with all of you… I think we stand a chance.”

—

8:11 AM March 8th, 2025

Somewhere outside of Raleigh, NC, Morris sat in the back of his SUV, his mind racing with thoughts of the past and present. The world that he had carefully crafted around him, the empire built on fear and bloodshed, was suddenly feeling fragile.

The hum of the engine and the quiet of the morning did little to settle the unease gnawing at him.

Instead of his trusted bodyguard, Ken, it was Brandon, another bodyguard that use protect Charles. Brandon's eyes flickered nervously in the rearview mirror, his grip on the steering wheel tighter than usual. The silence in the car felt heavy, like something was about to break.

Brandon suddenly pulled over into the agreed upon gas station. The engine cut off, and the headlights cast long shadows across the empty parking lot despite the sun gleaming. Brandon unlocked the doors to the SUV.

He turned to Morris with a look of guilt in his eyes.

Morris raised an eyebrow, his irritation rising.

"Why'd you pull over?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Brandon hesitated, swallowing hard before responding. "I'm sorry, boss."

Before Morris could react, the door on the opposite side of the SUV opened silently. A figure in dark clothing stepped inside, moving with calculated precision. In one fluid motion, the figure produced a cheese slicer, its blade glinting under the dim light.

Morris' eyes widened in shock, but there was no time to react. The blade was pressed to his throat, cutting deep, swift, and lethal. His body went limp, blood pooling beneath him. The once-feared drug lord of Orlando, FL, was now nothing more than a lifeless corpse.

The figure stood over Morris' body, their eyes cold and unreadable. They turned their gaze to Brandon, who was frozen in shock, his face pale.

"Let's start, shall we?" the figure said, their voice calm, almost detached. The words carried a chilling finality.

[candy-fae]

Not to rant on a side blog but I just found out in mufasa they retconned scar and mufasa to NOT be brothers and like. That was my first hyperfixation so I am upset about this for a few reasons!!! Incoming rant.

I'm gonna call it the princess Luna effect. Scar is getting princess Luna'd and let me explain how.

Disney would never make a villain kill someone now. Maybe in the background have it be implied. Maybe IMPLY some degree of violence. But they would never put on a production of hamlet in a different font, because killing people is bad, and Disney doesn't WANT parents to be mad and not give them money. We already know this, and yes, it severely limits them giving their villains credible weight, thus struggling to make us engage in a conflict that isn't environmental. But aside from the fact that this is an OBVIOUS crab for cash and their copywrite, they've managed to try and make scar more palatable.

Hmm. Let's see. I want to be a king. I was born the spare, to my stronger, prouder older brother. I now have to wait for him to die to rule. But I can't fight him. He's too good. Oh! He has a son. GREAT. now I'll never be king. Unless the little hairball dies. Hmm. And he'd do anything for his son. I know! I'm going to kill my son by putting my nephew in danger, then when he's dead, just for SHITS AND GIGGLES- I'm gonna tell him it was his fault. I plan to kill him anyway. But I'm just such a devious asshole and don't wanna get my hands dirty, it would be easier to send him the wrong way, then send my guys on him.

And so he does. And was it jealousy, horrible and churning an corrupting that did it? Absolutely. And is it mufasas fault? Not at all. People hate you because you are loved by others and that a shitty of them. Scar is a murderer, and responsible for one of the greatest betrayals of animation.

What I'm having the issue with is- there's old canon that I'm pretty positive straight up gives them canon parents. They are blood related and surprise!! Siblings look different sometimes. Hamlet was a stage play and animation is like a mask. They drew the fucker like a snake because he is one.

And secondly- I get the feeling they did it so we could empathize with him. But he doesn't need empathizing!!! He has one purpose in the story and that IS to be horrific!! It's FUN to think about "what if the bad guy...... WASN'T the bad guy!!!"

But he is. And attempting to add more depth by retconning and making it so mufasa STOLE the throne in someway- just weakens his original betrayal. We are suppose to be horrified. We are suppose to cry when mufasa dies. I saw some people saying it's to set up love and Kiara but- kovu is stated in the lion King 2 to NOT be scars son. So the only thing I can think here is "oh. They want to make scar palatable. That's stupid."

What do you think?

"You are my blood brother I've known since I was born. But I will kill you and my nephew if it means I get what you have."

Or

"This thing was SUPPOSE to be mine and you STOLE it from me. I'm taking it back!"

Scar is no suppose to be justified. He's just suppose to be cruel. Let your bad guys be bad. I'm so sick of watering down evil. Makes the story much less about overcoming it.

[herheartonmysleeve]

It's driving me wild, thinking about her.

Tied to our bed. Wrists locked above her head, legs tied wide apart.

The perfect defenseless present.

A camera perched between her silky thighs, projecting a magnified view of her perfect pussy onto the screen mounted on the wall.

Every fold visible in glorious detail. The texture of her skin all mine to study and look at. Her perfect intimate depths open for the pleasure of my viewing.

I think I'd clamp her pussy lips apart to get a better, unobstructed view.

"Watch," I'd say, "look at yourself on the screen. Can you see the beads of moisture beginning to form? This is turning you on, isn't it? Being put on display for me?"

It's driving me wild, thinking about continuing the dirty talk and watching the effect it has on her pussy. "Let's play a game, shall we? I'd ask your pussy, not you, some questions and we'll see how your pretty pussy answers them."

Her moans and whimpers would be music to my ears as I'd cup her pussy gently, "This pussy won't lie to me, I'm sure." I'd tease her little clit to come out to play, letting it engorge with blood and become extra sensitive to my words.

"Now, time for the test." I'd move my hand away. "Focus. Question one. Who owns this pussy?"

A throb. A contraction. "Y-you do!"

It's driving me wild, thinking about asking her filthier and filthier questions, taking note of every single twitch, throb and flood of moisture. Edging her with my words.

She's got nowhere to hide, and I have got every single humiliating and embarrassing question up in my arsenal. Questions she'd never answer truthfully, but her pussy will. Her face red with shame she'd admit every depraved thought. Everything exposed. Everything on display. Mine to play with.

It's driving me wild, thinking about how she'd be absolutely soaked and ruined by the time I finally decide to let her out of her misery. I'd rub her shy yet honest clit hard and fast till she'd explode into an orgasm, every throb and flutter projected on the screen for me to witness.

It's driving me wild, thinking about her.

[noircheols]

˗ˏˋ  AS THE SUN HITS ; l. seokmin ´ˎ˗

she'll be waiting, with her cool things, and her heaven. (7.6k+)

⋆ SYNOPSIS. ― you were his muse, the motivation behind every note he strummed on his lyre, and every verse he sang. but now the air that would rush through his lungs as he'd sing could only be pried from your cold dead hands.

⋆ INFO. ― angst, fluff, ancient greece!au, historical fantasy!au, greek mythology!au, hurt no comfort

⋆ PAIRING. ― orpheus!dokyeom x eurydice!reader

⋆ PRNS. ― they / them

⋆ CW. ― MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, blood, seokmin can carry the reader, seokmin is afraid of dying cus of hubris, hades!minghao and persephone!jun take on gender fluid-esque forms for my sake (dont question it), mentions of starving, s3xu4l 4ssault mention (verbal), alcohol, food, kissing, pet names (my love, darling), possible historical/mythological inaccuracies, mentions of a beheading, mentions of poisoning, mentions of vomitting, light smut mention (if u blink u probs won't notice)

⋆ 💬.  ― special thanks to @seokmn for proof-reading!! inspired by a post which quite literally stated "orpheus seokmin x eurydice reader" BUT I LOST IT I WANT TO CRYYY. basically op wanted somebody to write something along those premises so i done just that (not shocked if somebody else got to it first tbh...) IF SO THIS WAS NOT COPIED FROM ANYBODY INTENTIONALLY THIS CAME OUT OF MY TINY BRAIN. i forgot who the original poster is but if anybody figures it out PLEASE TELL ME IMMIDIETALLY !!! this idea isnt mine i just wanted to bring it to life :(

Seokmin's favourite pastime was to have you running your hands through his hair. He loved the way your fingers gently brushed through his scalp, as you coaxed him with sweet nothings after a long day. It's what kept Seokmin going, his knees buckling as the musician climbed the hill to your cottage. Every day followed a very specific routine, you would be diligently looking over your garden, and he would wrap his arms around your waist from behind. It was your voice that renewed his love for music. Every word you spoke perfectly pieced together like a song. The way the corners of your mouth curled into a cheeky smile, the shape reminiscent of his lyre. Everything about you sounded right. It's why you made so much sense as his fiance.

Domestic life, despite his rich imagination, was something Seokmin never envisioned. He had travelled across the globe, seeing all that grew upon Gaia's skin. Kings had discovered his talent from messengers, and out of curiosity, invited him to perform. Everybody that heard his voice was bewitched, with rumours spreading that he was Apollo, the God of the Sun and Music taking on a mortal disguise! For his performances, Seokmin had been offered sparkling gems from the King of the Sea, pearlescent ivory from foreign lands in the South, and olive oil that flowed like honey from the finest of orchards. But Seokmin believed the best gift he had received was the gift of song. The gift of your song. With your song came his most stunning melodies. Melodies which tell the story of a wandering bard’s love for a valley nymph, an auloniad. The bard had only hoped the auloniad would notice him. Fortunately, Seokmin could conclude that the bard had a happy ending, because he was living it.

"You've been working too hard, Minnie."  you giggled as you gently tucked a flower behind his ear. You two sat quietly on your shared bed. Seokmin felt his body sink deeper into the linen with how gentle you were, treating him like he was made from the finest glass. Even with his eyes closed, could feel the warmth of your gaze. "You should tell the King to give you a day off, spend it with me, no?" you winked at the man, whose head rested on your lap. A blissful smile rested on his features. He looked angelic with the way the sunset cast its glow upon him.

"My love, he's invited to our wedding tomorrow! I can't afford to accidentally disrespect him. You know how these things work. There are too many stories of courtesans being beheaded; you don't want your fiance dead just before the fun starts!" he laughed. "Wait— are you planning on getting rid of me!?" his eyes looked like they were about to fall out of his sockets.

"Well, your big brother Wonwoo has been looking so good after becoming a scholar in Athens. It would help if you were out of the picture," you smirked, eager to see your fiance's reaction. Seokmin scoffed loudly, getting up from your lap.

"I'll kill Wonwoo before he can even see you!" Seokmin jokingly yelled before tackling you into the bed to be tickled mercilessly. You squealed "stop" repeatedly as your laugh filled the small house. Seokmin was pleased with your reaction, and finally released you from his grasp. He was hovering on top of you, hair falling in front of his eyes. You wanted every day to be like this. You wanted to see that same hair of his turn white and his face aged with time. You wanted to drown in his neverending love. Marriage would finally make you one being, an entity that shares a future and a past, and two breaths walking.

"I can't wait for us to get married tomorrow," Seokmin sighed, as he reached for your hand to kiss. You smiled as his lips brushed against your knuckles. You had heard from fellow nymphs that marriage was a poison that seeped into your bones, immobilizing you and keeping you trapped in a moment. Nymphs were born to be nothing more than bargain pieces, their names alone meaning "bride". However, you begged to differ.

When it came to Seokmin, you felt free. Never did you feel that you were inferior. Waking up next to him peacefully sleeping, as he spooned you. His soft pleas for you to "stay in bed a little longer". When he'd come home from a long day of performances and litter your face with the sweetest kisses, where he would thank you for "being his muse". Looking into his eyes after a long day felt like staring into the wide skies in the valleys you would live in.

You couldn't wait for tomorrow to come.

"You look good," Wonwoo chuckled as he placed a wreath of gold leaves on his younger brother's head. Seokmin took a good look at himself in the mirror, the gold illuminating the spark in his eyes. It was Wonwoo's wedding gift he brought with him from Athens. His brother supposedly enlisted the best of the best goldsmiths with the very little money he had left to his name to make the stunning crown. The gold metal felt heavy on Seokmin's head, but your love was something he would proudly wear.

It was the day of your wedding. Seokmin had invited his human friends he had met on his adventures, and you invited nymphs of every kind. It was still early in the morning, much before the ceremony would commence in the evening (a personal touch Seokmin included; he remembered how you would get up in the middle of the night to stargaze). Still, the garden was bustling with life. He could hear the joyous hollering of well-wishers from outside his thin house walls.

"Look at you, getting married before me." Wonwoo teased. "I thought you were going to die in a tavern as a spinster— thank the Gods that you found [Name] before you met your fate drunk in a random street."

"Please, I'm not THAT miserable." Seokmin pouted at his brother's remarks. Seokmin's chest heaved. He wanted to see you, he wanted to kiss the bridge of your nose and tell him he was honoured to be your companion in life. He wanted to lift your veil off your face and see your doll-like eyes stare into his.

"Do you think..." Seokmin began to trail off. "Do you think they will love me forever? I know I will love them forever, but what if they become too good for me?"

"Well, Heraclitus had famously stated 'you cannot step into the same river twice' with his Doctrine of Flux—"

"Please don't go all scholar on me! I'm going to my wedding, not to school,"

"All I'm saying is, love never remains constant. It's a dynamic entity, but then again, you and [Name] are pretty dynamic too. You match each other perfectly, it's like Aphrodite blessed you. Although, my little brother has always been loved by the Gods." Wonwoo smoothly explained.

Like Aphrodite blessed me.

Seokmin gave himself a proud smile in the mirror before putting on the rest of his wedding garments.

Brushing the blackened ash of incense over your lashes, you grinned satisfied with your reflection in your hand mirror. You didn't previously imagine marriage or starting a family because you had heard so many stories from fellow nymphs of their nightmare affairs. But once again, Seokmin was different. He had the sincerest of emotions for you, and you for him.

You took a good look outside of your window, inhaling the fresh air. The air was particularly sweet today, maybe it was from the plethora of figs and wine available. Or, maybe it was because your heart swelled so much with excitement from the wedding all your senses were being overshadowed. The cottage you and Seokmin resided in was looking exceptional today, with the bouquets of wildflowers and candles. The cottage was a gift bestowed to you and Seokmin by the King of Aeolia, who adored Seokmin's music. The orchards were bountiful, the fruit plump and sweet. The garden was your favourite place, as you were previously a follower of the nomadic forest deity, Pan. You remember vividly how you first met Seokmin.

You were stringing flowers up from the Earth when you heard a scream ripple through your valley. You chuckled softly to yourself. Humans. Still, there were many stories of them searching for greatness, ignorant to the fact that they were designated to ultimately become the dirt they walk on. Your previous lover, a minor God of trickery, would boast about his status and the inferiority of humankind. You’d laugh at his stories of luring humans to their death, but you were aware that nymphs were just as weak— if not weaker, than humans. Really, nymphs and humans were two different sides of the same coin— two entities that were used by the Gods as playthings to pass their time as immortals. However, a key difference was that humans spent their time locked away in their big marble palaces and scriptures, and nymphs would be imprisoned by the freedom of the wilderness.

What would a human be doing out here in auloniad territory?

You tracked down the origin of the sound, finding yourself deep in the forest. "STAY BACK!" the man shrieked. You peeked behind a willow tree, its long branches acting as a disguise, and you cracked a wicked smile. The man, clutching his lyre, was cornered to the back of a tree by a boar. The beast snarled, showing off its sharpened and bloodied teeth. Boars, to auloniads, were like what puppies were to humans. If this were any other human, you would have allowed the beast to have its way. But something about this man, with his big doe eyes and perfectly sculpted face made him seem... different. He held an aura— no, a glow, that made you interfere.

"Alright, Sherman, please don't eat the nice guest." you stepped out from your hiding spot, cooing at the beast. The boar stopped its hunt once it heard your voice. It trotted over to you, for you to cup its face. "Aren't you just adorable!" you gushed, ruffling with its fur.

Seokmin's eyes fell onto you, fear evaporating from his body. You were... magnificent. He had seen beautiful people before, when he was entertaining royalty. Princes and princesses would throw themselves on him, begging to take him to bed. But you were beautiful like the waterfalls he'd see on his journeys, birds chirping signalling a new day, the rocky steppes of mountainous terrains in Crete.

"His name is Sherman?" Seokmin began to laugh.

"Her." you giggled, as the beast revelled in your affection. Seokmin began to laugh to himself, wondering how the same vicious boar, who had chased him from across the forest, could resemble the same characteristics as a harmless puppy under the right touch.  You released Sherman, letting her go to run off into the wild. 

"Thank you for saving me," Seokmin spoke up, drinking in the nymph's beauty. You laughed— goodness, how could somebody be so charming? "Next time when you come into this neck of the woods, I'd advise you to not play any instruments. Boars are extremely sensitive to noise. Rather, go to the Pineios River to practice." you advised. "What were you playing, anyways?" being a nymph, curiosity bested you. It’s not always you get a human in your hand.

"Oh, just this old thing!" Seokmin brought a rather strange thing from his dilapidated satchel, a gold tubular instrument.

“And… what is it?”

“A salpinx! Its pretty loud though, soldiers use this in battles. Maybe this thing is why Sherman wanted to kill me…” Seokmin thought out loud. You giggled at the human's cuteness. He was endearing, like a fawn.

“Well, I should get going now, back to doing absolutely nothing.” you chuckled. As you began trekking up the forest, you heard Seokmin call out to you.

“Wait!— Why don’t I play something for tomorrow, just the two of us? At the Pineios River!” Seokmin offered.

He was composed when it came to playing in front of giant cyclops to convince them to let him live, at weddings of huge political significance, impressing the Goddess of Arts and Crafts, and setting wild lions to sleep with gentle lullabies. But to have you in his audience was the most nerve-wracking thing to him. To feel your eyes bore deep into him was… tantalizing. To be the object of your attention, as you spend your days together lazing in each other's company. He had never felt stage fright before. But that only motivated him to perform the best he could.

Grinning, you turned your head around. “I’d love to.”

He knew at that moment he wanted to marry you, and that feeling only grew stronger every time he played for you.

The festivities were in full swing. Guests took it upon themselves to feast on the multiple honey-flavoured sweets prepared and the platter of goat's cheese with cucumbers and figs. There was an overwhelming amount of wine available to wash it down. "Eat it all up and vomit it all out" was the Ancient world's favourite way to pass the time. Amongst all their excitement, Seokmin was oddly quiet.

"You aren't eating anything," Wonwoo observed, eyeing his brother's untouched plate.

"Something feels wrong," Seokmin responded, voice hushed so only his brother could hear.

"How?" Wonwoo asked before going for a second lamb rib.

“It feels like… my life is going to change tonight.” Seokmin solemnly spoke. “I mean— aside from the fact I’m literally getting MARRIED. But, I don’t know, something is telling me I should check in on [Name].”

"Maybe you’re just experiencing pre-wedding anxiety. It's common.” Wonwoo explained. Wonwoo was Seokmin’s polar opposite, in that he viewed convoluted situations as simple problems with logical answers. Wonwoo was reasonable, a characteristic all scholars possessed. Growing up, in difficult situations, it was Wonwoo’s brain that triumphed over Seokmin’s heart. “I'm sure [Name] is alright, they have all their friends. Just trust me on this and eat your food." Seokmin gave a weak nod before picking up a fig to eat.

Seokmin wishes he had listened to his heart before it was too late.

By evening, Seokmin was expected to have wed you already. By now, you would be dancing to his lyre with a careless smile with the stars smiling down on your union. But as Seokmin searched tirelessly for you, he could hear the stars laughing wickedly.

“My love?!!” Seokmin called out for his love. "Please, answer me!" Seokmin's eyes frantically scanned over the almost endless rolling hills. He felt like he was staring into the ocean. At first glance, the ocean was inviting and almost harmless, but the danger was in its infinite grasp over the world. But Seokmin would claw through the waves if it meant he could be with you.

"No sign of them here!" one of his wedding guests shouted.

"Over here!" one of your nymph friends called out, waving at him. Seokmin ran over to see what was happening, and his heart sank. You lay peacefully on the tall grass, as though you were just in a deep sleep. The earth was waiting for you to finally return to its arms. It had yearned for your return ever since you left the valley to travel alongside Seokmin. Now that you have returned to it, Seokmin knew better than anybody it wouldn't let you go. 

"We were all just dancing, like we normally did and—" another nymph choked on her tears, rolling down her cheeks at the same tempo of the beads of blood rolling down your ankle and staining the lush bed of grass underneath. "We were startled by an entourage of hunters, threatening us with all sorts of crude things, because that's all nymphs are good for. But [Name] wouldn't take any of it, and soon enough, it delved into an argument— and the huntsman just shoved them so hard that they stumbled onto a stupid venomous snake."

Rage.

There had never been a moment where Seokmin felt so much rage.

What was even more bitter was that your blood was trickling into the Pineios River, the same place he had given his first performance to you. The sounds of the water gently crashing against the shore did nothing to soothe him. His world, you, had just stopped. But the rest of the world still flooded past your body, reminding him that he was just another pebble in the riverbed that was life. The river, which was supposed to be a natural monument to your love, was now stained by your death. You had deliberately chosen to get married by the Pineios River and to have your cottage here, because this is where time would stand still for you and him.

"Where are those hunters?" Seokmin questioned, as he scooped you into his arms. It hurt him that you were so perfect. Even in your final moments, you chose to remain generous and protect the people you love most. How he wished you could have been more selfish.

"They ran off into the woods, laughing to themselves..." another responded.

Seokmin's fingers clung to your figure, hoping to feel your blood rush. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to bring you back and finalize his vows with you. He was supposed to carry you into your shared cottage as blushing newlyweds, staring up at the ceiling together because that was your favourite thing to do. But here he was, carrying your cold lifeless body. That same body which he spooned to sleep. Just moments ago, he woke you up with a kiss on the forehead. How did moments seem so distant?

Burying his face in your chest, Seokmin sobbed. Maybe he could hear your heart beat once more? Maybe you could feel his warmth, and then you would regain your spark and miraculously come back to life. Your eyes would flutter open, and you could spend your last moments with him in the sweet bliss of domesticity. Seokmin thought that if he wailed loudly enough, the Gods would hear his pleas and give him his greatest love. His big brother's words, "Beloved by the gods," echoed in his mind, ringing painfully in his memories.

No human could ever be loved by a god. Not the same way he loved you, at least.

He loved you. And that's what was going to be his undoing.

It had been days since the wedding. Seokmin hadn't been eating regularly. Some twisted part in his mind lashed at him for not being there to protect you. He should have been the last thing you saw. He should have held you so as you shut your eyes and left this world he could have been able to say goodbye. He wishes he could have been able to say goodbye. Or maybe, he wouldn't need to say goodbye, because he would keep you away from those hunters and you would have never tripped. It doesn't matter now, because while your breath was faltering and your heart slowed he was feasting without a care in the world.

Seokmin also stopped sleeping. It's grown to hurt him too much. Every time he would close his eyes to rest, he hoped that when he woke up, it was all a part of a cruel trick his mind was playing on him. But it never was. It then grew to become him trying to sleep forever, so that time would pass by seamlessly and he would shrivel and find himself in the Underworld with you. But it would never work. It was because he was selfish. He would wake up in the middle of the night, his chest heaving and gasping for air. As much as he was terrified of losing you, perhaps most importantly, he nursed a fear of dying. He was a coward who turned his back on death, the only time humans are treated equally. But he was not like the rest, he was a jewel amongst the rock garden of humanity, and you were supposed to adore him. He was vain, but any artist with self-respect was. Why should he be treated the same as other humans, when he was a hero of far-off kingdoms and Apollo's champion?

Rather than disappointing himself, he took to roaming the gardens you tended to so ardently. "I'm still a nymph, after all! I’m good with plants" your voice rang clearly in his head like a bell.

Staring mindlessly at the flowerbed, meddling with the strings of his lyre, singing to himself. All he could think about was how spring was treading forth on its heels, bringing flowers in their bloom. But when you died, you left him none of the bright colours that dotted your shared world. Maybe, he could catch the Goddess of Spring, Persephone, and beg her to convince her husband to bring you back to him. The Goddess of Spring, or as he likes to appear to humans, Jun.

Seokmin knelt before the once flourishing bed of flowers, singing once more. Louder. With more strength. Maybe Apollo won't fail him, and will take his golden chariot mounted by swans to pluck you back from Hades and return you back home. You would emerge from the shining beams of sunlight, and you will both laugh about this cruel dream. If Apollo could gift him his lyre, surely he could gift him his love?

Seokmin's eyes fluttered, feeling those restless nights catching up on him. His exhaustion made him mistake the dirt as a gigantic pillow. Seokmin's shoulders sank, as he lowered his head. Maybe the dirt will consume him and crush him into a fine dust that will leave nothing but his soul, free to travel between worlds and free to reunite with you. But— then he would be gone. He would be nothing more than the dirt people stepped on. He could no longer hear the music of the world he loved so much.

"No!" Seokmin shook himself awake. His eyes slowly enlarged. That once large brown pillow suddenly had flowers sprouting out of its barren surface. Soft pink blooms with thin twig-like stems, native to the craggy stony steppes of Aeolia, called evia. Your favourite flowers. There was only one possible explanation of how this could have happened.

A figure walked towards the bard, long pastel pink silk trailing to the ground and flowers from every part of the world woven into his hair. Jun. The manifestation of the Goddess of Spring.

"A nymph was sobbing in the Underworld about you, mortal." his voice echoed.

"How did you find me?" Seokmin bowed in front of the Goddess, making sure to keep his eyes glued to the ground.

"Please, enough of these formalities! I'm not going to drag you down to the Underworld." Jun chuckled, finding Seokmin amusing. The Goddess of Spring was much kinder than his husband, that's for sure. Although, that didn't mean they didn't share the same sense of gallows humour. It makes the Ancients let out a sigh of relief that it wasn't Hades allowed to crawl the service and take all who frustrated him back underneath the Earth's crust to never be seen again. "As one finds all champions of Apollo, find where the sun shines brightest and where the music sounds sweetest."

"What are you doing here, then?"

Jun merely laughed at that question. "What gall you have, mortal! Asking why spring goes where it wishes?" Jun stopped laughing, catching his breath.

"Normally, I don't care about the dead. That's Minghao's job. It's so glum, don't you think? Listening to whining brats isn't really my forte, thank goodness he's so patient." Minghao was the chosen mortal name of Hades, the malevolent ruler of the Underworld, waiting for the fall of every being from the shadows. “Patient” was certainly one way to describe him.

"But this one was special. Wailing as loud as possible so Apollo could hear them, but alas! His home is high up in the sky, he's too brilliant for us! Minghao told me that this was the soon-to-be spouse of Apollo's champion. Naturally, I was curious about them, since they had managed to capture the attention of one who is in Apollo's favour."

"I'm honoured to have caught your attention, but..." Seokmin paused, wondering what to say. "Will you please bring them back?"

"Bring out your hands, mortal." Jun sighed, reaching down to pick up an evia. Reluctantly, Seokmin laid his palm flat. "Minghao always explains to me that mortality is chained to time. The second a mortal is born, the clock never stops ticking. Second after second" Jun tears off a petal. "day after day." and another. "Year by year." and another. "Your darling was already dying. Until finally—" SNAP! Jun rips the stem in half. "The clock stopped." Jun brushed off the broken flower into Seokmin's palm. "Now if you excuse me, my curiosity has been satiated."

"Forgive me for my intrusion, but you're immortal. I don't think you should be explaining how death works to me." Seokmin spoke up without thinking. What had gotten into him!? Why was he challenging a goddess!? Guilt sunk into him. "I'm so sorry! I— I was speaking without thinking!" Seokmin got on all fours. Jun once again laughed.

"Mortal, do you think I'm enraged? On the contrary, I'm amused!" Jun smiled, kneeling to grab Seokmin's chin and make him look into his eyes, bright like flowers emerging from the cold winter snow. "I'm nothing like those old hags on Olympus! I like your attitude. I was worried that Apollo favoured idiots, but I'm glad he finally chose somebody with a mouth!"

"I— Really??" Seokmin was at a loss for words, getting back up on his feet. "All I ask is, I have a word with Hades. I'm sure he will understand my plight."

"Are you saying you want to challenge him?"

"I mean, you are his bride. You have his affections, surely he will listen to you!" Seokmin pleaded. "Please, I need to see [Name]. Every day has been worthless for me. Food has no taste, music has no rhythm." Seokmin stumbled on his words, his mouth clogged by the emotions plaguing his heart.

"You do understand, mortal, that the dead is not my kingdom. Once we head to the Underworld, I won't be able to protect you." Jun explained. Seokmin sighed, weighing the options.

"I've travelled oceans and fought monsters, talking with the King of the Underworld seems like nothing if I can have [Name] back," Seokmin answered.

Jun wryly smiled, his eyes mischievously glinting with the opportunity to witness a game, as he began his long walk back home. "Well, onwards we go then. It's a long way back." Seokmin firmly nodded, picking up his lyre, as that was all he'd need. "Seriously? That's all?" Jun quirked an eyebrow. Seokmin nodded. Jun scoffed. Maybe all of Apollo's favourites were idiots.

Finally done climbing up the stony steps, Seokmin arrived at the large entrance of Hades's palace. Dark obsidian columns with silver accents and a large door handle of bone, except large bouquets crawling down its walls (courtesy of Jun).

"Let's go over some basics before you meet him, alright?" Jun turned to Seokmin. "Number one, don't touch anything! Otherwise, you're stuck here for good. Instead, let me open this door for you." Jun leaned against the cool frame of the door. "Number two, Hades isn't nearly as cruel as you mortals make him out to be. He's actually quite fair, as death should be."

"Death wasn't fair to my love." he huffed, letting his true feelings show. Jun knew this feeling of resentment toward Minghao wasn't uncommon. So many mortals beg for his forgiveness, to make their deaths as seamless as the flow of time. But even then mortals resent death for taking their loved ones away.

"That's what they all say." Jun rolled his eyes. "Third, play by his rules. Minghao normally finds you mortals championed by the arrogant Gods of Olympus to be so prideful, so it'll be refreshing to see something opposite of that, and you'll be in his graces." Seokmin's ears perked at the last bit. Could he wager immortality, then? Could he have you and him enjoying the future without the fear of it ending?  "Number four, and most importantly. It's easier to get into the Underworld than to leave it."

"Alright so no touching, Hades is nice, listen to him, and it's hard to leave." Seokmin recounted.

"Exactly!" Jun gave a thumbs-up before the gates opened for him.  "Now put your game face on, Champion of Apollo." Seokmin quietly followed after Jun, his eyes glazing over the palace. Each wall held engraving of different stories, all stories which shared an ending in the Underworld. The final destination for all.

"Hao!" Jun called. "I brought you somebody!"

"Leave them at the front desk, the clerk will sort them out!" Minghao replied, his voice booming. Seokmin covered his ears, he forgot how loud the voices of Gods appeared to regular people. Jun opened the last gate, and into the throneroom. Seokmin's jaw dropped. He could only imagine being back at the cottage with you, composing a song of Hades and rescuing you. The large throne perched upon stairs of what looked like sizzling magma. Seokmin gulped looking at the throne, composed of skeletons, all of them belonging to those who had mocked the King of the Underworld. Most importantly, was the very king that sat comfortably on his throne. Seokmin imagined the king to be hot-tempered, like the fires which scorched wrong-doers. But it was very much the opposite. Cold. Cold like a corpse when it stops breathing.

"I bring to you, a Champion of Apollo! This is the one we were talking about earlier, the fiance of the nymph." Jun turned to Seokmin, signalling for him to follow.

"Um, uh— greetings, your... awfulness? I would say highness, but we are at the lowest part of the Earth. Would your lowness work better?" Seokmin mumbled, awkwardly, kneeling in front of Hades.

"Isn't this exciting!" Jun forced a smile, mentally face-palming.

"He isn't dead." Minghao finally spoke, a chill piercing through the room. "Stand, mortal. I want to look at the one who dares challenge me." Minghao stepped down from his throne as Seokmin's legs struggled to stand up without wobbling. Jun sighed, knowing this was where his power over Minghao ended. As Jun walked up to his own throne adorned in flowers, he turned to Seokmin and mouthed "Good luck."

"Mortal, you dare mock me? Using my bride as a bargaining piece, breaching my palace, and all while your heart still beats?" Minghao threatened, analyzing the man in front of him. Minghao was perfect. Perfect in the way all Gods are. But he was impressed with Seokmin, that even compared to a God he was able to stand proud. "It makes sense that you caught Apollo's attention, but I detest the Gods of Olympus. They keep me underground, send me humanity’s worst, and expect my generosity." he scoffed.

"I— I only have one wish for you." Seokmin finally spoke. Minghao raised a brow. "I suspect it has something to do with shipment #50A194. The auloniad." Minghao thought out loud.

"You assign numbers to everybody who comes here?"

"People die every day, I have to keep track somehow." the God casually shrugged. "They were nothing like other nymphs. Normally, nymphs are relieved to come to my arms, as humans and gods alike toy with them. But this one was upset. This one says you have shown them something special, something that makes my kingdom pale in comparison. I wonder what it is." Seokmin's answer of “music” hung in the air.

"All I ask from you is that you return my love to me." Seokmin blurted. A beat of silence. Seokmin felt the air around him suffocate him, his body growing numb. Another beat of silence.

Minghao stepped closer to Seokmin. "Are you afraid of dying, mortal?" Seokmin froze.

"W-what?" he tried playing it off, but Minghao knew the living just as well as the dead, and the racing of his heart gave him away.

"You champions are all the same. You lead fruitful lives, you find great loves and great riches. But you all are terrified of the end." Minghao smoothly explained. "Just because the sun bends in your favour, doesn't mean death will. You are a coward, is what you are. A coward that fears his end! You will not do what is natural and wait for death to find you. No, instead you will mock death. You will find death, and you will demand it give you what you deserve. Your love for [Name] is not true!"

"OK ENOUGH!" Seokmin roared back, tears dripping down his face. "I love [Name]. More than anything. You can call me a coward, I don't care." Seokmin spoke. From the corner of his eyes, he could see a satisfied Jun enjoying his performance. His vision began to obscure with tears falling once more from his eyes. "Yes, I'm scared of dying. I hate the idea of it. I know it is everybody's fate, but the journey has to be completed alone. I cannot bear the idea of being alone. I cannot bear the idea of being without [Name]." Seokmin looked at the god, gaze unfaltering and filled with rage, the same that filled him on the day of your death. 

"Fine. I admit, I empathize with your cause." Minghao reluctantly sighed. "I shall retrieve your love, and dress them in the finest of Underworld garments and jewels so you can have a wedding ceremony even better than the last." "Really?" Seokmin blinked.

"There is an exit out of the Underworld only Jun and I know, you two can hike up it and will be back home in the blink of an eye. However, I have a condition"

"Anything!" Seokmin grinned, already imagining how he would hold you the second you two reunite. You two will exchange stories of brushing with the Underworld and the sights. He’ll tell you about his encounter with Persephone and her husband, and you will tell him about your trip across the River Styx. 

"You by any means cannot turn around. Not even go as far as to check on the nymph that will be right behind you. You will only have one chance. If you fail, you shall be separated from each other in eternity." Minghao sternly spoke. Seokmin's smile dropped as quickly as it quirked up. "You are forbidden from communicating to them, as well as touching them. You will also be unable to hear them."

"But, how will I know they are with me!?" "Not my problem." Minghao sighed. "This is the most you're getting from me. Now, shoo." Rolling his eyes, Minghao made his way back to his throne. "The next time I see you, you better be dead. If not, I'll make sure of it."

Seokmin waved goodbye to the kind Goddess of Spring and bowed to Hades to signal his respects to the Underworld. He took a deep breath in, looking up at the glittering light seeping through the cracks. The only exit out of here, and his ticket to freedom. He could imagine the sweetness of your lips kissing him. Your voice sighs in relief that he came to rescue you from oblivion. Standing in his way was a long, steep and rocky path, its width shrinking the closer it was to the exit.

"My love, how I missed you!" you grinned. "You can't believe how abysmal it is here! God, it felt so lonely, I just– I couldn't stop crying."

As he gently stepped forward, he could feel the loose soil underneath him shift and slip. Normally, he would have no concern. You're an auloniad, for crying out loud. Rocky terrain dotted with grass is your home. But the snake bite that pierced your ankle was bound to compromise your movement. He figured he'd just move slowly, for your sake.

"Ah, I fear my leg still hurts from the bite. Could you go a little slowly?"

As Seokmin carefully climbed the rugged steps, a thought popped into his head. Hades did not specify that he was forbidden from singing to himself. It just happened to be a coincidence that you overheard him. Humming to himself (and maybe to you, as well) he strummed the strings of his lyre.

"My favourite song!" you gushed. "Do you remember the first time you performed for me, at the Pineios River? Goodness, you just get better every single day!"

Normally, his song would penetrate through the deepest of depths, and his voice would triumph above all. But it all felt hollow like the darkness of those depths was consuming him whole and slowly pushing him back into the Underworld. He wished, so desperately, to know you were listening. Seokmin couldn't hear your steps or your breathing. It was haunting, how you weren't here on this long climb, yet he could vividly remember you. Grief is strange. How you must restrain yourself from looking back on memories of loved ones corrupted by their death.

"Please, turn around so I can get a good look at you. Don't you think I deserve that, at least?"

Maybe he was doomed. How could he know that Hades wasn't mocking him? The light which had guided Persephone to him and the passion which motivated him was being waned.

"Seokmin, why are you ignoring me?" your voice grew softer. "Is it something I said? Have I upset you? Please, just answer me already. You're making me nervous." You reached out for his hand, but he moved it away.

Feeling the chill of a cold wind brush past his palm, Seokmin moved it closer to his chest, hoping the Underworld hadn’t drained him of his life. When will he get to hold your hand again?

Knees buckling, he let out a sigh of relief that he was finally halfway up, already smiling knowing Apollo was waiting for him with the way the light grew even brighter.

"Darling, please, just talk to me. Say something." you huffed. "Why can't you just turn around!?" You hobbled on your ankle, trying to keep up with your lover, watching him disappear as he moved closer to the light. "I don't understand, what is wrong with you!? Please, just turn around already!" Your eyes began welling with tears, raising your voice as much as possible.

As Seokmin treaded higher up, he noticed the crack enlarge just enough so that he could pop his head through. He let out a long sigh of relief, as cold sweat dripped down his forehead, his knees stinging from exhaustion. What would be the first thing he would do with you on the Overworld? Roll in the grass? Breathe in the fresh air? Hoist you up and listen to your heart beating in your chest? Seokmin tries to think, but the Underworld is unforgiving. The air felt thick and heavy, gravity dragging him down as he tried to tear himself away from its clutches, taunting him that your death was inevitable and that he would soon be ensnared in the Underworld’s net. It casts doubt upon him. Does his music have the strength to pierce through the darkest of moments as he prides himself on? Was his passion enough? Was Hades and Persephone lying to him? The Gods are not exactly above toying with mortals, as that is their favourite pastime. Doubt settled in his mind. 

Seokmin shook his head. He must stay firm. He mustn’t listen to the doubt in his mind and push through. He feared death. He feared the cold wind brushing behind his back, echoing how his story would end. Cold. Dark. Alone. He needed you back with him. He needed your body’s warmth, your light. He needed to die in your arms.

The grating sound of a rock falling off the ledge and into the abyss below obstructed Seokmin’s train of thought, realizing the sound could mean only one thing. “I got you!” he snapped his head back. Seokmin’s jaw dropped, realizing the horrible mistake he had made. “You finally turned around.” you weakly huffed, tears sparkling in the dark. Minghao had kept his word. You were otherworldly. Contrasting against the darkness, you were a bright star, shrouded in a bright white glow. Your beauty only made him even more upset, as his eyes grew wide with the realization he had squandered his last chance. This was easily a pardonable offence, if the spirits knew how to pardon. In their long-spent immortality, never could they empathize with Seokmin’s plight. 

“I… thought.” Seokmin slowly blinked, tears dripping down his face. Breathing heavily, he tried to calm himself down. He thought you had fallen, and your body would crash against the ground like a fallen star. It wasn’t that his love for you was small, but that it was too much. It was overflowing and reckless, just like the nature of youth. He couldn’t resist turning around to help you, especially with the knowledge of your snakebite. The same stupid thing that sent you here. You frowned, heart hurting at the sight of your lover in disarray. Stepping forward, you cupped his face, your touch still lingering with the frost of the Underworld. “Darling, what’s wrong?” You tried to make eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry.” he choked on his sobs. “I wasn’t supposed to turn around… but I just got so nervous, I thought you fell,” Seokmin confessed. “I’m an idiot. I failed you. I’m so… so… stupid. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” Seokmin screwed his eyes shut, unable to muster the strength to look at what would happen to you now that he failed. Minghao hadn’t specified what would happen if he had failed. Would he send furies to tear you apart? Would he force him to drink poison?  

“No! You’re not an idiot. Don’t be so cruel.” swiping your thumb against his cheek and wiping away his tears. “You’re so brave, coming all the way to rescue me… all because you love me. You failed… because you love me. I’m happy knowing that.” You smiled, knowing the bitter end that was to come to you. They needed to kill you twice for him to let you go. But you had to be strong, for his sake. He was strong enough to challenge the Underworld, the unforgiving end. He was strong enough to face death, his greatest fear, challenging its irreversibility. He was strong enough to defy the laws of nature. The least you could do was comfort him. “I’m so… proud of you.” your touch felt feather light against the heavy mortal flesh weighing him down. “Please… just look at me.”

“But, you’ll be gone!” Seokmin wailed. “I… I’m not strong enough for this! I can’t go on!” 

“You are strong enough. So open your eyes.” your words gently coaxed him. Seokmin inhaled one last time, bracing himself for the horror he was about to witness. As his eyes fluttered open, you were gone as quickly as you had appeared before him. There was no dramatic murder, just a hazy glow left in where you were standing before him. That was how mortality worked, in the eyes of Gods. Mortals come and go on this Earth, in the span of a blink. Mortality, which feels like entering a room and just finding the exit. Mortality, which weighed Seokmin down, and held you in its clutches. It was a signal to him that it was time to wake up from the dream that was you. It was time for him to grow up and to accept mourning the loss of his muse. Falling to his knees, Seokmin sobbed, the noise drowned by the hollow abyss of the Underworld. His voice, which set him apart as a champion of Apollo, was indistinct from the rest of the wailing of the Underworld. 

Maybe you will have a greater fate than him. You will drink from the River Lethe, whose waters flowed through the God of Sleep's cave, causing one to forget the mortal world. Sure, it meant you would forget the blisses and joys you shared above the surface, but it also meant you would forget the pain and sadness. You would wake up, yawning as you ponder the strange figure in your dream named "Seokmin". You would be reborn and would carve a path through the foreign wilderness of the underworld. You would be trapped in a moment, a distant memory of a time of idealistic, passionate, youthful bliss. You would be free. Like you were destined to be. Free from mortal anguish. Free from him. Your skin could never wrinkle, your hair couldn't gray, and your health wouldn't deplete.

Who knows what would have happened if you had returned to him in the mortal realm. Would the love between you dry up? Would your love only be immortalized in a contract, and not in real life? Maybe life will ravage your happy marriage and shred the love that once existed. You would part ways and leave him behind, as you could never truly be his. When would be the last time in your unhappy married life you tell him "I love you"? Would he bar the door when you got sick of him and tried to leave? Would he welcome your newfound hatred of him and show you the way out?

The memory of you would be his prized possession, something to draw inspiration for his music, to know he had the pleasure of experiencing such a love, and to wonder the many possibilities if he were successful in bringing you back. He was fine if you could just stay. It didn't matter if you only stayed in his memory and never talked to him again. But please, stay.

thank you so much for reading — @noircheols do not copy or translate ♧ mlist

[popculturebuffet]

Transformers More Than Meets the Eye Season 2 Retrospective: World Shut Your Mouth Parts 1-3 (Pateon Review for Brotoman.EXE)

Hello all you happy autobots and after nearly a fully year and a crossover.. welcome back. It's been a long road but it's finally time to get back on the lost light for TRANSFORMERS MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE SEASON 2 BABY

For those just embarking, More Than Meets The Eye was a long running Transformers comic by James Roberts, a fun trek to the stars where a bunch of Autobots allegedly quest for the mythical cybertron while in actuality figuring themselves out, cracking jokes, getting traumatized and saving the unvierse. It's one of my faviorite comics ever and thanks to my good patreon brotoman.exe I finally got to cover it. I complied season 1 into two posts (thanks tumblr) you can find here to get up to speed

Over the break I started a look at Boom! Studio's power rangers that continues in feburary i'll be doing on and off, then a bunch of fun side quests including Transformers One which you can find my gushing review of here

But I missed these guys and i'm excited to get back to this series. In fact with my Giant Days retrospective starting up in january, that means i'll be covering two of my faviorite comics of all time simultaneously. Also that time the Government decided if they ignored gotham maybe it'd go away. Lots of fun plans for next year.

A big reason besides just the joy of this series is simple: Out of the three seasons Season 2 is my faviorite. I loved it the most reading the comic the first time. Season 1 is great.. but also makes a lot of assumptions in some places, assuming the reader didn't start with this comic and will just know what the dead universe is or who overlord is. It make sense for the time as Chaos was the last thing to happen chronologically and last stand of the wreckers was a hit: it's not a bold assumption that most transformers readers still on board know all this. But it is a bold assumption to not ease readers who might NOT have been there for the previous volume or noped out after it was bad and felt bad, or who are coming in fresh because "hey look hot rod! cool space adventures! queer robots! sign me up'. I'm in the latter category in case you were wondering.

Season 1 is good.. but Season 2 feels more accesible while continuing the great plotting, paying off a lot of season 1's setups, adding a few of it's own and generally being pretty damn awesome. It also adds some fresh faces to shake things up with Chromia being a faviorite of mine, Nightbeat being fun, and Getaway being one of the most intresting characters they've added for reasons I won't spoil but if you know your already booing him.

The biggest and best though and the one I feel helps pull the series together... is Megatron. The former leader of the decipticons, the big bad of most transformers media... joins the autobots and the lost light. It brings the series themes of war and it's cost into focus: Cyclonus is CONSIDERED a decepticon, but while he shares the philosphy he wasn't there killing our heroes friends. One of the things I feel the season 1 cast really lacks for it's post war themes is any deceipticons.. and putting the most infaomous one of all, a man with so much blood on his hands he could fill a swimming pool more than makes up for it. Megatron is TRYING to do better as we'll get into, geninely wants to do something.. but struggles both with being better and EVERYONE hating him. At least to start EVERYONE is understandably hostile to megatron, who dosen't help by being his usual standoffish self. It's a fun situation... and also great for comedy as he both makes a good straight man and pisses Rodimus off as he's not happy about his new "co-captain" and the duo's banter is pitch perfect.

IT also allows for megs to be thorughly explored: why did he do this, what does he regret. Dark Cybertron hinted at this, but now he's a full time cast memmber we relaly get into why Megatron is the way he is. He feels so critical to the series it's a shocker that he's there because Editorial wanted him in one of the books.. yet it works so perfectly. The lost lights established issues with seeing the cons as automatically evil, their war trauma nad moving on are tested by putting the biggest symbol of all thier issues and the reason many exist at the helm. It's an engaging , hearbtreaking thought provoking season and we can finally kick it off under the cut as we find out HOW Megatron got this sweet gig, how everyone's dealing with it and just how drunk trailbreaker can get.

We begin

And we're back, with Nautica, now mostly settled in hurrying up to talk to her new bestie Brainstorm. And right away the series already has a new charming character dynamic: Chromia finally provides someone genuinely intrested in Brainstorm's work when it isn't on fire and a foil as she finds his newest idea a tad questionable: COLOR CODED LASERS, so you can tell who the baddies are. Ahhh how I missed James Roberts addiction to taking goofy parts of the franchies and making them an actual thing. This one dosen't quite take off as Chromia points out just how bad it is while Brainstorm just says.. maybe change the color. It's also a nice little peak into his character through some wacky nonsense: depsite the war having passed.. he still sees it as the good guys and the baddies. Granted a good number of decepticons were pieces of shit, but as prowl has proven time and time again and will somehow be allowed to keep proving, just because your on the right side of history dosen't make you a good person. It's something Chromia fully grasps and adds some fresh perspective; she's TECHNICALLY an autobot, but her home planet wasn't in the war and it gives her a diffrent perspective.

The two notice a pile of people outside Rung's office as he has a very special patient.. and it's here it's revealed whose the captain now. I spoiled it a tad early out of necisity but it's still such a great panel

I just notice the little cubes of energon and the energon equilvent of a water jug for the first time. I love that Rung has refreshments. Such a good therapist.

So we flash back six months and get used to it as we'll be going back and forth to explain well, how did we get here? Rodimus is prepared to leave, understandably as he was just through some shit before the whole crossover.

Optimus however dosen't want ANYONE leaving till after the trial. And naturally Prowl dosen't want a trial but a public execution. He even says it twice, proving that Magnus should've just let Chromedome finish him. Optimus points out WHY they need one: the public needs to trust the autobots again so the trial needs to be transparent. Granted Optimus still makes some fumbles in setting it up: while he makes the wise decision to apoint magnus as the defense, as he knows even with every reservation Mags will do the right thing, he appoints PROWL to proscution. Prowl who the NAILS could easily point to as biased. Prowl who Optimus knows from the crossover as Rodimus damn well told him set up the whole overlord fiasco out of paranoia. Prowl who SHOULD STILL BE AT THE BOTTOM OF A CLIFF INSTEAD OF IN THIS PRIVATE COUNCIL. I get it's not asshole free, Starscream is also there, and Rodimus has some thoughts about that that sadly feel all too relevant

Just that feeling that you can't grasp WHY something very stupid and horrible happened... or why they elected it to office.

So the trial is set, and Rodimus reveals why he's so twitchy: the matrix. Granted Optimus once again comes off as a bit of a prick, and unlike the prowl thing where Roberts hands are tied by the sister book having Prime weirdly trust the guy, Optimus just.. seems grumpy at Rodimus breaking the matrix. Despite ya know DOING SO TO SAVE THOUSANDS OF SENTIENTS. I love this book, with all my heart.. but sometimes it forgets our heroes can and have actually done shit.

So Rodimus is going to thunderclash for help, which frankly is a hell I wish on no one. But he has a reason for being so twitchy besides "everyone is being a dick to him today and the planet is ruled by a smooth talking facisit now": Thunderclash hasn't responded which given who we're dealing with is not exactly good. Still Rodimus being present gives Optimus an idea to speed things up.

Back at therapy Megatron is annoyed Rung has made his fusion cannon a penis thing, a gag I love but Rung points out why: Megatron is being evasive

So Rung tries something diffrent... great encounters. Who he met that had the most impact on him. Megatron deflects by pointing out how they met, the incident at the Macaddams from Chaos Theory. it's a major reason why I wanted to cover it, the other we'll get to as we go. Megatron dosne't begrudge him from forgetting and tries to use his usual rhetoric and deflect.. but Rung's found an opening: See he brings up Megs biography.. and specifically that he found a rare first edition, the others all wiped.

It's a quote I deeply love and shockingly haven't had a use for till now. But it's not only once again precisent.. but also gets to the heart of things. Rung tried finding the change, found nothing.. and then spotted the deidcation and asks whose terminus. Before he can dig in on that, the lights go out. Megatron takes that as a sign to leave to go refuel and then get back on deck so Magnus doesn't get too comfy. He does point out why he edited it out though: Terminus was a friend. and taught hims omething important. Okay it's vauge as hell. Rung is curious though as we find out MEGATRON asked for the session. Also btb, Ravage, one of soundwaves cassets is lurking on board. It dosen't come up in this half of the story and I almost forgot to mention it but it will naturally be important later.

Back in the flashback we get a brief bit of levity as Swerve holds fake "Crewditions" to fuck with people. It gives us a look at the adorable nerd Nautica is and nightbeat eventually shuts it down. It's a fun bit and leads us into what Optimus was getting at: letting Chromedome extract testiomny. Probablem is.. Megatron has a deathly fear of mnemosurgery, reacts harshly and assumes their coming to take his brain instead of you know, trusting optimus. I mean I can't blame him for not wanting to take the needle. Rodimus.. takes the chance to mock him and say megatron will end up where he started: under rock deep under ground with nothing to show for it. And this.. will be a mistake. Not for the whole of cybertron as it leads to some good things, bu tfor Rodimus as it's going to be a pain in the ass in the short term as Megatron has Rodimus give Magnus a box.

Back on the ship Skids and Nightbeat are hanging out. Their buddies now. And Chromedome is.. not doing well just sitting in his cell replaying rewind's message having ALMOST recovered a little.. but then you know, he didn't get to kill prowl so back to depression he goes. Nightbeat is curious though.. the last number on Domey's hab suite is missing.. something... is up.

Speaking of.. I don't have a transition. Whirl is doing what he does best: pick a fight to mask his deep issues. In this case he sucker punches Megatron

It does not. Once again Whirl not only picked a fight with someone stronger, but someone who did not want one. And unlike Cyclonus who simply threatens to murder him some day, Megatron cuts to Whirl's core. Whirl brings up the fact he tried to murder Megatron in a prison celll... and Megatron reveals in gratittuude for setting him on his path, he ordered his men to never actually kill Whirl. I like the ambigiuity: Megatron is usaully straight forward.. but he's also smart and knows this kind of lie, or even worse truth, would damage whirl way more than a fight he did not want or ask for and lets the fight go while Whirl looses an arm in Megatron's insides as shockwaves use of him as a space bridge means his stomach's all kinds of freaky.

After this we flashback as Megatron explains the why of his therapy: he explains the editing that life is all edits, slowly piecing things out of your life, changing yourself for better and worse and sometimes the wordk you've done.. is unsalvagable. You need to start over. And that's what Megatron is doing here, why he threw his past away on Luna 2 where the trial took place. We'll find out what that means later for now the issue ends as the crew finds a mysteroius coffin with an autobrand in space.

We open our second issue with the return of Tailgate! I missed him.. I missed all of these guys granted but still I forget sometimes he was in a coma between seasons. But he's back and Cyclonus smiles upon seeing him coming. He's then massively confused as Tailgate tries to jam his finger in his head as his new signature move, but still it's clear he's happy for a change. Tailgate gets caught up to speed on just about everything.. only to see Megatron hauling a coffin and wearing the autobrand. They both have one as Tailgate got his as a present while in stasis , with Cyclonus feeling it dosen't fit either of them. We do get a cute moment though that after a drunk autobot you da man now dawg's tailgate, Cyclonus assures Tailgate he was missed.. by him. He says it about as directlya s he can without just saying "I missed you dawg now let's go have robo sex".

Back in the past, Rodimus is watching the trial with tons of victim testimony.. too many. In a nice bit to show his depth he does feel it's necessary, the bordedom comes from just how the same it is: so much trauma in a pile. So he's greatful for a break as Atomizer asks him. You remember him right? The red one? has a visor? Hasn't been plot relevant till now o clock?

Well now he is and he's suspiciously giving Rodimus a keypad with the names of every person that voted against him when he called for a vote on his captinancy. Rodimus does the right thing shrugs it off.. twice even.. but Atomizer knows his audience... he knows even at his lowest and most regretful.. rodimus still thrives on attention... and simply says he'll stop pushing.. if Rodimus says it one more time.

Back in the present everyone's at swerves and Swerves now has a bouncer, 10, one of the legislators left over and reporgrammed. He only says 10. While he deals with that and Swerve is grumpy over the new captain, though frankly should be greatful megatron let him keep his bar given what a stickler he is, Natuica, Skids and Riptide, a new crewmember whose less important than Nautica are watching Trailcutter slowly drink himself into a coma. His crippling self esteem issues and alcholishm have lead him down the darkest hole imaginable and it's sad to see, sadder this time around as having read his spotlight and seen just how shabbily he's treated by everyone but Whirl, whose busy patching up his pride, you can see why he's drunkely spiraled. And it only gets worse as Riptide mentoining Megatron drinks some kinda super fuel gives the poor shambles an idea.

Back to the past, and Starscream is being starscream, going on a long rant first describing how much he's acomplished and how much he loves his poeple and exactly what you'd expect till Magnus tells him to knock it off, then a long stew of lies painting Megatron as a mistaken blundering fool whose revolution got out of hand and whose been lead by others. This.. is what gets Megatron to activate his escape hatch to the suprise of no one. While part of it is genuinely good impulses as we've seen. he still has an ego. It's not as big as Starscream's as tha'ts just not physically possible, but it's enough to get him to say "fuck this time for plan b" after pleading guilty and intended to just.. give up.

Chromdome goes to visit Nightbeat. Turns out as he's been rewatching Rewinds's last words again.. and again and again, and again, and again and again and again and you get it, he's noticed a change...Rewind screaming. A change that's now gone and understandably Nightbeat think's it's just grief and Chromedome refuses to see the naunce in that and plans to storm off... till Nightbeat sees something... REWIND.

So it's back to trailwhatevers drunken escapades. Nautica leves as she's tired of water man and skids egging this stupidity on as Trailbreaker breaks into megatron's room.. well rather the door goes missing. This issue does a nice job of amping things up.. that something IS seriously wrong with the ship and the sign on chromedome's suite was just the start.

So he breaks into suplies, checks the energon and finds megatron.. and finds megs, magnus, ratchet, some white guy, guy with a visor and cool red guy with a visor starring him down. Trailbreaker responds by busting out his new move a "panic bubble" that lasts 90 minutes. While he huddles and his enablers have no idea we go back to the past.

Starscream is doing what he does best: celeberating prematurely that he's won, he's the true leader of the decipticons. er cybertron...

The Autobots also got an autobump. But the real meat is back in the present. Nightbeat has figured out what Rewind might be. A g-g-ghost! Specifically a data ghost. Information has a life of it's own, and Rewind was constnatly recording... and him stopping when his spark stopped. Sidenote I just realized transformers sparks are where their hearts are and i'ts a consitant thing in this comic. Like no matter the side the spark tends to be at the center... I know this because of all the impalings. So many impalings. I'm not haunted at night you are.

Point is Nightbeat is fun, on a tear if not exactly senstive as Chromdome is both depressed he didn't bring his partner back with the power of love and thinks it has ot be revenge since he hasn't been contining the quest for dominus ambus like he promised. They have bigger issues.. which i'm saying a lot this review but is true as the wall of nightbeat's habsuite is GONE. Somehow their not in the vacum of space. or something.l the art really isn't clear.

So back with Trailboy, he's coming down and is ready to go to prison or be sent home or whatever just as long as it isn't a beating. The bad news is he's still getting a beating as Megatron thunks him on the head. The good news is Megatron.. is a good leader now. He recognizes the problem and activated Trailbreakers fim chip. Basically he can drink he just can't get drunk. Disabling it is how robots get drunk in the first place. It's a violation of space.. but something necessary as this coudl've gone so much worse. It's also a job opportunity: Megatron admits this shoudln't of been even possible: even with the door going missing someone breaking in this easily and this drunkenly is impressively sloppy. He needs a new cheif of security since with all these extras and all this chaos.. no one.. no one thought to hire a new head of security since Red Alert's breakdown. Especailly given it was proven he was entirely sane and hearing a serial killer in their walls, but we'll get to his fate later. Point is Megatron sees this drunken breakdown for what it is: a very depressed man with a disase who badly needs a purpose and gives him the job. It shows already that while Megatron is still coarse and arrogant.. he's also a better man. In the past he probably woudl've just killed trails and does threaten to murder him.. but here he empathizes seeing that he's just a bot at the very end of his rope with no one actually supporting him but given the panic bubble with actual talent. Sending him home or locking him up helps no one. Giving him a job, a purpose and what he wanted most of all: recognition.. that ... that's a good thing Megatron did.

So Trailbreakers rock bottom did help though: it opened the casket and since no's eyes are leaking out of their skull, Megatron opens it to find RODIMUS BODY. Yup apparently he's been dead this whole time.

TO find out how we... should go back to the flashback. And we do but get no answers: Megatrons pleading not guilty now, while Rodimus did the thing we all expected and reads the data pad.

We being our final issue for now where we left off: on trial. Yeah this bit isn't BAD.. but feels like it woudl've been better as it's own issue in the middle or at the end of these three. A whole flashback to explain. It's how most comics do it and while that can get tedious I now see why: you can thread flashbacks with a story well, see the first arc of the most recent captaina merica run. JM Stranzki nicely synchs up Steve's past trying to stop american nazi's with the present. Here it synchs up a little but it feels like two diffrent stories that are important but keep interupting each other.

I do like the trail as it helps set megatron up: why he's here where his heads out etc and I like his prewrittne response he has magnus read out

Now the mentally violate part is fucking bullshit. That's.. entirely made up and not at all what happened and footage from the cell could easily prove that. That's just megs being a dick. But the rest.. isn't wrong. They didn't pull any witnesses from the decipticons, any of his loyalists left alive who might speak for his character, and while Magnus did his best he really didn't make an actual defense, his judge is his archenemy and his prosecuter is a known war criminal. It's very clear Megatron only let this go as far as it did because he planned to just sit and rot and was fully taking the kangaroo court.. but hot rod and starscream woke up his ego: his desire to not have the story end in shame.. but in doing SOMETHING right.

More on this soon. For now everyone has some drinks and kicks back, riptide studies a bit and we get back to the past where exactly who you'd expect are reacting exactly how you'd expect.

Look starscream isn't suprising.. but at least he's entertaining. Of course he's going to pout his evil plan isn't going the way he wanted. Prowl is also unsuprising.. but a giant fucking dick i'm still baffled john Barber couldn't see as a monster. Maybe it's roberts writing but you can't just..conviently ignore that one of your main cast commited war crimes in the other book or is saying shit like this. Or blame it on constructicons as he'll end up partially doing. Prowl is arguing they should basically have a show trial and trying to imply it's us or them and not "everyone even monsters deserve a fair trial. " Ratrap cuts through this very RID argument with a simple point: Ask megatron what he wants.

Back with the corpse First Aid is examining and has NOT been doing well. Ratchet primarily asked for his help because Ambulons' death hit the poor guy hard and he's been in his room barely engaging with anyone sense. Seems to be going around. Still calls need to be made.. and thus after a three issue absence, kinda... it's the return of the king

Yeah a rare full page here as everything about this is great, Rodimus clear grief... and it being interputed by a petty argument. I like that like Ultra Magnus Megatron just.. cuts through Hot Rod's bs.. that he's now tag teamed by two people who won't take his shit. And both have a point: They are co captains. Made up rank or not optimus judgment stands, but Rodimus was sulking for what was implied to be several months, kinda proving WHY maybe they needed a new captain.. co captain. Whatever. While Optimus taking the reigns from Rodimus is cruel as this is Roddy's quest, he acomplished little and let a serial killer on board on a dare. Megatron has done FAR WORSE.. but has far better motives than his own deep seated insecurity.

So back in prison Megatron is wondering about the people who tried to spring him. By the way some decpitcons tried to free him. It.. it sure did happen. I nearly forgot to mention it but in doing os realized just HOW superflous it ends up being. It shows Megatron isn't going to flee but like.. we got that.

And this proves it as Megatron explains why he' squesting and wants to change things to being judged by the knights of cybertron. He dosen't want his epitaph to be written by starscream. He wants to do something right

He's trying to atone for what he did. this isn't just an escape hatch: he had one ready, unsuprisingly, but his reasoning... is good. he just wants to make a better world after ruining this one.

Optimus agrees. While he could just throw megatron in the brig till Rodimus finishes the quest, He sees the genuine nature of this request and asks for two non negotiables first

Second we'll naturally get to later, as for now Rodimus is freaked out and thus calls for TEAM RODIMUS WHAT WHAT. Specifically nightbeat, nautica, chromedome, brainstorm and skids, all people who are smart and can deal with weird shit. He ignores Night beat about to tell him shit is weird and instead has chromedome once hack into a dead body

Yeah Rodimus is a bit of an ass this arc even by his standards. Nautica finds specteralist symbols, chromedome only finds curosy memories left and first aid confirms via enermost energon that it's him. Sometime in the near future he apparently dies after they reunite with drift again.

So Rodimus has a resonable adult reaction to his impending death: CUT OFF HIS ARM. After all if his corpse has two arms, he has one it can't happen. Perfect plan! Megatron points out the flaw and I just.. love how these two bounce off each other. We've never really had someone on the same level of rodimus point out his stuidlty. Others have but with those bellow the command trinity he can tell them to shut up and respect the captancy and magnus and drift were both weird in their own ways: drift was new agey by cybertronain standards and magnus would marry the rules if that wreen't against the rules. Megatron is megatron.. but he lacks the quirks whiel still being megatron enough to be funny. He's straight with roddy like magnus but unlike magnus has no clear issues he can push. Roddy can pull out the "your a monster card" and does frequently and will call megatron out on a lower moment next time, but it's not something that works when pointing out basic logical falicies and when the person isn't trying to be space hitler these days.

Thankfully rodimus mental breakdown is interuppted as a large portion of the ship disappears behind him. So Nightbeat's right while Brainstorm's latest invention has the right idea

Meanwhile our other new castmate finally reappears: Getaway. As Tailgate is hot doggin and grandstanding at the bar, Getaway comes up and starts flattering him, calling the little guy a hero and blatantly hitting on him in a way that's obvious to a grumpy cyclonus and anyone with eyes, but also comes off creepy... the way he just... butters Tailgate up it seems wrong. And it is but we're a long ways away from that. The alarm goes off and we go back to the flashback. Megatron denounces deciptconism and everything he stood for, a bit mopey.. but understnading

Speaking of MOpey rodimus shows Ratchet the pad.. and finds out Megatrons going to be assigned to his ship. And his pissy ness.. is entirley justified. Now his months long mope sesh isn't, he didn't act like an adult and unlike first aid and chromedome he's not dealing with severe trauma and depression: he's just sore his ship got taken away and if he wanted to prove he's still captain, fucking act like it. Be a leader.

That said it wasn't within Optimus' rights to fucking do this. It's not his ship, not his mission, not something he's been involved with apart from a brief team up. He has no authority over the lost light and should've had no authority to keep it here for the trial. He's not in charge of anything but the autobots. not cybertron, and frankly shoudln't of been judge. His intentoins are noble: keep megatron honest and in the public eye and watched and under fools energon so his strengths down, it's why the special diet. But his actions are simply selfish and not how a leader acts: While sometimes you HAVE to ignore the will of your team to do something right in fiction, to give someone a second chance even if they sucked before, this.. isn't his team. He was autobot commander but he RESIGNED. Bumblebee is dead. This decision is not his to make. He didn't set out on this mission. He changed an entire ships mood, put the crew with a leader they truly hate simply because he knew they'd listen to him and wouldn't contest it and that... that's not good leadership. That's not being superman tha'ts being a dick. It works out long term, but it's an example of the rest of the autobots dismissing the lost light crew's autonomy. They stopped being one united all together faction the second they split and while they'll be there when cybertron needs them, the autbots left on cybertron have to accept they aren't one big army anymore. He's not THE SUPREME COMMANDER. He deserves respect I get asking for favors but this is a unilateral decision tha thas horrific consequences.

Anyways Rodimus feels bad as he was considering generally using the pad as Atomizer suggested, to cull the herd.. but can't. Ratchet points out what a stupid thing this would be but lets its lide given bout the cirucmstances and the fact Rodimus agrees to destroy it. That said.. he also points out it's fake. his name isn't on the list.. and that clearly wounds Rodimus.

So we end act 1 of the story as everyone scrambles to exit the lost light. We get some great banter as Megatron gives a classic villanous unhand me.. and Rodimus points out good guys don't really do that and I love their bickering on the escape pod

Now kiss... but maybe later as the lost light is gone. And that ends part 1

While splitting it in half this was was just circumstance, and it's late release was just me having a massive cold the split fits as while I consider this is a 6 part arc and all of it's collected in the same volume, it really is two acts the first slowly building up to the big event and explaning "why megatron here" while part 2 leans more on the sci fi high concept now we're all caught up. It's why I wish we'd gotten a flashback issue. Maybe DO rodimus as a corpse then the flashback.. then reveal he's alive. I dunno. This stretch of issues is decent but the trial stuff makes it drag slightly. I'm not reading this book for a self righteous asshat to hold a trial for his arch enemy whil ea war criminal screeches to just kill him already.

Having to spend time with Prowl did not help, as .. it's Prowl. he sucks. And I admit a large part is how the series ends, with Prowl somehow surviving all this, yes, really, and getting to dismantle the lost light. I'll get to the context in a few years, but that knowledge just makes me hate him more. Every panel is him just being the smugest most uncomfortable dickweed and it really pisses me off he's allowed to be involved in this trial AT ALL. That he's not HAVING A TRIAL or in a cell. I mean I get doing megatron first but i'm shocked starscream didn't throw him in one as he has every reason just to piss optimus off. I get so tired of the heroes throwing their hands up at prowl being a dick, arguging with him but doing nothing, something that will lead to a whole ass crossover event. And yeah you could blame his current combiner status but it's clear from the flashbacks before his brainwashing or his time as bruticuis, he was a DICK. An authortarian asshat who thought the ends justified the means. He's the Transformers verison of amanda waller but without the comptence or style... so absolute power era amanda waller, but I digress. He's a bad person and while Rodimus actions involving overlord haunt him I notice somebody never gets tried fo rit, exiled or just... plain.. kicked out. Optimus should NOT have brought him to earth or even talked to him. He gives Rodimus so much shit, and the shit over his not resinging was deserved.. but he lets PROWL get a fucking free pass till it's too late only punching him after he's comitted more war crimes. The more I think about it the more prowl's presecnce just drags down this whole affair and I didn't think i'd be ranting about him AGAIN but here we are.

This first half is fine, as while season 2 is my faviorite it does have a bumpy intro with the flashbacks, everyone being a tad grumpy and the first arc really being everyone adjusting to a war criminal being made captain. The levity the series needs to ballance it's deep sads isn't there often and it's only when Rodimus returns the series equilbrium comes back, his man child nature perfectly setting up comedy again with Swerve in a grumpy mood and Trailcutter's breakdown being more sad than the shennigan the series tries to play it as partly. He's a constantly negelected and unseen person lashing out and doing a drunken stupid that only dosen't end in his death because Megatron is a shockingly cool guy. But once you get Rodimus and Megatron arguing and our cool star trek style high concept of the week going, things feel like the comic I feel in love with and thankfully the second half is way stronger for it.

Next Time: We find out where the lost light went, Megatron gets a cat, and a former member of the crew returns! Kinda! Multiverse theroy is a bitch! I'm pulling for ya we're all in this together

[yeet-me-dad-dy]

The Arcane - Chapter Five - Changing Faces

Summary: Viktor gets a preview of your research. You and Viktor visit the local hospital to get the scans you need, and Viktor gets a peek at the rougher side of your personality.

Characters: Viktor x Male Reader (Doctor Raven) x Jayce (Eventually. Maybe)

Words: 1,978

Blood. You lived it, breathed it, drank it, saw it when you closed your eyes to sleep. It was everything you were. You had mastered it, and yet… you were not its master. It had been two days since your trip to The Lanes, and in that time, you had contacted a doctor at the nearest clinic about getting some scans and x-rays of Viktor’s body. They wanted you to consult one of their doctors, however, and that just wouldn’t do. You didn’t need a consult, you needed free reign of their facilities and equipment, which you had hoped was included in the deal you and Heimerdinger made.

Apparently not.

The door to your lab hissed open and Viktor stepped in. He stopped to stand beside you, gazing up at the once bare blackboard. It was now covered in scribbles, diagrams, and… doodles. Your doodles. You were gazing up at the chalk marks intensely, brow furrowed, deep in thought. He watched as your eyes flit from one side of the board to another, from one diagram to the next.

“The equations aren’t going to go anywhere, Doctor,” he nudged you gently with his shoulder. “You’ve been standing there staring at them all day.”

You sighed and rubbed your tired eyes.

“I’m missing something…” you mumbled.

“Your sanity, perhaps?” Viktor smirked.

You chuckled and shook your head.

“I gave up on recovering that long ago. No, I’m missing something else. A component, a proper mixture… I don’t know.”

He stepped closer to the board, studying the foreign symbols. There were photographs of blood samples taped above drawings of three separate chemical structures. Beside each structure was a small drawing; a flower, a lizard, and a crystal of some sort.

“I didn’t know you were an artist, doctor.”

You scoffed.

“Hardly.”

“Hmm. And what are these?” he asked, referring to all of the scribbles.

You stepped up next to him and pointed at the blood samples from left to right.

“Your blood, human blood, my blood,” you said.

Then, you gestured to the chemical structures, again from left to right.

“The root of a Snowbell Flower, found only in high elevations up north. The secretions of a Violet-Bellied Gecko, usually found underground in damp caves. And an Aetherite Crystal – that’s what I call them, anyway - which used to be mined by house Ferros, but have since become more difficult to get a hold of. I’ve tried so many different combinations. Every plant, animal, mineral, liquid, even gases, temperature, and pressure… I’ve tested anything and everything I’ve been able to get my hands on over the years. I was even desperate enough to try different sodas, once. Nothing works.”

Viktor regarded the board once more.

“There must be a reason you put these three samples up on the board,” he observed.

“Yes… These three were the most promising. The Snowbell worked the best. It was able to stabilize my blood enough to allow it to completely dissolve almost any abnormality without killing the patient, but the Snowbell itself caused some rather… unsavory side effects.”

“What kind of side effects?”

“Oh, you know… Nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness, diarrhea, bleeding from the eyes and nose, necrosis of the appendages…”

Viktor’s eyes widened.

“It made your subjects… rot?”

You nodded sadly, then pointed to the drawing of the lizard.

“The Gecko stabilized my blood as well, but removed all of its healing properties.”

“And the crystal?”

“The crystal lessened the side effects of the Snowbell, but I’ve only been able to get my hand on one crystal, and it was used up ages ago.”

“Hmm… I assume you’ve tried combining the root with other things as well?”

“Yes, but… apparently Snowbell root doesn’t like having partners. The crystal was the only thing I was able to mix it with where the end product didn’t didn’t explode, which is surprising, seeing as the crystals themselves are rather volatile. Just a bump can cause a catastrophic explosion. You can’t imagine how stressful it was, trying to chip off small pieces and grind them up… One of the cities I lived in previously kicked me out due to an incident that left my workshop in ruins, and that was with only a small chunk.”

You plopped down heavily in your chair and buried your face in your hands. Viktor’s cane tick, tick, ticked, as he sidled up next to you and leaned back on the edge of the workbench. He rested a hand gently on your shoulder.

“You’ll figure it out, Doctor. Perhaps not in my lifetime, but definitely in yours.”

You gazed up at him through tear-filled eyes. The thought of not being able to find a solution in time to cure him was like an icy fist around your dead heart. You squeezed your eyes shut tight and wiped away a stray tear, then quickly stood and turned your back to him. You didn’t want him to see you like this.

“Perhaps we could find you another crystal…” he suggested cautiously.

You shook your head.

“The mining operations were shut down ages ago when they realized how dangerous the crystals are. Any that still remain are way are hoarded greedily and way out of my price range.”

He cast his gaze to his feet and nodded forlornly. From the postbox near the door came the whooshing of a pneumatic tube, and then a dull thunk as a message canister dropped inside. You approached with a furrowed brow and pulled the canister out. It was from the hospital. You unscrewed the top, retrieved the message, and unrolled it. You scanned the pages, then sighed and handed it to Viktor. He read aloud:

“Doctor Raven, we regret to inform you that we have denied your inquiry to access our facilities without consulting a house doctor… Blah blah blah. Best wishes…”

He handed back the note, which you crumpled up and tossed into the trash. Well, at least their denial was quick. They could have taken months to get back to you.

“I guess I’m heading to the hospital,” you grumbled and reached for your coat.

“What, now? It’s the middle of the day,” Viktor protested.

“They’re closed at night,” you reminded him as you shrugged on your jacket and pulled on your black leather gloves.

“Doctor-”

“It’s alright, Viktor. I’ll put my hood up,” you smiled.

“Actually, I was going to say that I’ll go with you.”

“That’s not necessary. I can handle-” You paused. “Actually… Having you there might be of benefit to us. Alright, we’ll go together.”

You hired a carriage, which was a seat in a box suspended between two huge wheels. The design was uninspired and the technology questionable, but it got you from point A to point B effectively enough without rattling apart, and kept the sun mostly off of you in the meantime. When the carriage pulled up to the clinic, you ducked out and rushed quickly through the sliding glass doors into the reception area, then waited for Viktor to catch up.

“Sorry…” you mumbled.

“No need to apologize, Doctor. You needed to get out of the sun, and I was fully capable of hobbling five steps into the hospital by myself.”

You matched his pace to the reception desk. The young woman that had provided you with your first cooler of blood greeted you with the same smile she had the first time you’d met.

“Doctor. Good to see you again. Here for another pick-up?” she asked.

“Not this time-” you looked closer at her name plate, “Nancy. I need to speak with whoever is in charge.”

“That would be Doctor Sammor. I can set you up an appointment-”

“We will see him now. This is a rather urgent matter,” you snapped at her.

Viktor eyed you out of his peripheral, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry, he’s not available without an appointment…”

“Where is he?” you asked. “I have been charged with this young man’s care by Head Councilor Heimerdinger himself and was assured that I would have access to all of the equipment I needed. Right now, I need a CT scan, MRI, and X-Rays. I assume you can’t give me access, so I’m going to need to talk to Doctor Sammor. Now.”

She stumbled over her own words as she tried to argue, but you cut her off with a look.

“I… I’ll let him know you’re on your way up. Top floor, end of the hall.”

“Thank you,” you said, dipping your head in a mock bow.

Once inside the elevator, Viktor spoke.

“I’d hate to get on your bad side…” he mumbled.

“I don’t like having to do that,” you admitted. “I’m hoping this ‘Doctor Sammor’ isn’t going to give us more trouble.”

But he did, as you expected he would. The doctor was a short man with dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin. He scowled when the door opened, and hung up the phone.

“I require appointments, gentlemen.”

“Not for us,” you told him as you stopped before his desk. “I hope that was Miss Nancy on the phone just now.”

“Yes, it was,” he rose to his feet, trying to seem intimidating, no doubt.

Next to you, though, everyone else looked like a puppy. You glared through narrow eyes, and a thin sheen of sweat appeared on his brow.

“I’m afraid I cannot give you access to our facilities without a doctor’s visit or a referral from another doctor.”

“I’m the doctor,” you growled. “Hand-chosen to tend to the care of Professor Heimerdinger’s assistant, which you know from the letter I sent asking for permission to use your facilities. And I believe the Councilor himself has spoken with you as well, hasn’t he? I would really rather not have to bother him with this. He has more important things to worry about than a stubborn, replacable, low-class doctor.”

He looked between you and Viktor standing shoulder to shoulder. Viktor was leaning heavily on his cane, matching your stern expression.

“What is your name, boy?” Sammor asked.

“Viktor,” he answered dryly.

“And you… Doctor Raven. I’ve heard of you. Read about your research. I know what you are. What you’ve done.”

“Then you know that it’s not a good idea to make me your enemy.”

“Are you threatening me, Doctor?” he sneered.

“No. Would you like to know what a threat sounds like?” you leaned in, placing your hands flat on his desk, gazing deep into his eyes.

A low growl built in your chest. Viktor thought about stopping you, but honestly… he wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t intervene. How far would you go?

“I imagine you haven’t seen your own intestines, doctor…” you said quietly.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Sammor snapped. “The facilities are yours, but you must be accompanied by a technician at all times.”

“Of course.” You rose to your full height. “So glad we could come to an agreement. We’ll schedule a time block with your receptionist.”

You turned on your heel and pulled open the door, holding it wide for Viktor. He stepped past you and out into the hall as Doctor Sammor plopped down heavily in his big executive desk chair. You closed the door behind you and let out an exasperated sigh. Viktor said nothing until you were back in the elevator.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Doctor.”

You shook your head.

“I’m sure I’ll be hearing from Heimerdinger about that. But it got the job done. The machines are ours to use.”

Receptionist Nancy’s smile was strained as you approached the counter once more.

“Doctor Sammor has agreed to give you free reign,” she said.

You nodded.

“We need them as soon as possible. When is the closest open time block?”

“Oh, um…”

She turned to her computer and scrolled through the calendar.

“It doesn’t look like anyone is using the x-ray machine right now… I can have a technician meet you up there.”

“If you would be so kind, thank you.”

[lady-divine-writes]

"Taking the Plunge" (Rated M)

On their first day in Vail, on the last-minute vacation of a lifetime, Blaine has come up with a surprise for his husband that's equal parts horrifying and confusing. (1461 words)

Read on AO3.

"Tell me why..."

"Ain't nothin' but a heartache..."

"Stop that," Kurt snaps.

"Oh, uh..." Blaine bites his lips together, stifling a giggle. But more importantly, stifling the next verse of the song. "Sorry."

Kurt breathes in, cold air shooting straight to his lungs and freezing them solid. 'This is it,' he thinks, shivering so hard his body vibrates, scooting him a foot to the left against his will. 'This is how I die. I become a human popsicle. Maybe they can preserve me, revive me in the future. God...' He glances up at the dreary sky, his view obscured by his bangs, holding their height remarkably well against the blistering breeze. 'I hope my hair keeps up.'

When they had arrived in Vail and checked in, Kurt immediately threw on his swimsuit at Blaine's request. Personally, he'd been excited to get the debauchery started! It had been too long since they'd taken a proper vacation. Yes, they live alone together and can have sex freely on every piece of furniture they own. But there was something about taking their carnal escapades to a different locale that got Kurt's blood pumping.

What can he say? He loves to travel.

After Kurt suited up, Blaine tossed him his parka and boots, then ushered his husband past the cozy lodge, with its heated mineral spring pools and five-star restaurant, to this foreboding body of black, ice-filled water. They'd stopped at the banks, joining a swimsuit-clad group already gathered and intent on jumping in. Kurt thought Blaine had dragged him there for a laugh - watch the tourists freeze their asses off before they themselves retreated to the soothing waters inside.

It horrified Kurt to no end that Blaine looked eager to take the plunge, too.

When they had planned this vacation together on their sofa in Manhattan, Blaine made no mention of participating in the Arctic Dip. But that must have been his plan all along.

Surprise!

Kurt didn't think he could find a place colder than Ohio in December.

Staring into the water in front of him, ice bobbing at the surface, he knows he's about to be proven wrong.

Everything from his nuts to his nose shrivels at the thought.

"Explain to me again," Kurt starts over, choosing his words carefully so as not to stumble upon the lyrics of another catchy boy-band earworm, "why we're about to do this."

Blaine claps his hands together, rubbing them hard to warm them, and beams ear to ear. "Because it's exhilarating!"

"Your definition of exhilarating and my definition of exhilarating are vastly different then." Kurt pulls his parka tighter around him, attempting to trap whatever heat he has left underneath. It pains him to do it, though. He is certain he has pulled most of the seams loose by now.

A group of older, less dressed gentlemen stroll by as if it's a sunny spring day and not 80 degrees below, laughing at their own jokes and nodding at Kurt and Blaine as they pass. Blaine politely adverts his eyes.

"At least we're wearing bathing suits," he kids.

"Speedos. Which you had me pack under false pretenses."

"No! No false pretenses!" Blaine pleads, hoping his plans haven't lost him access to his husband in a Speedo for the rest of their trip. "They're for the jacuzzi in our suite. I swear."

"Which we haven't even seen yet! You dragged us straight here!"

"We want to take the plunge with everyone else! Before the ice melts!"

"Do we, though?" Kurt whines.

"Yes! This is the highlight of this resort! That's why I chose it! I've been looking forward to this!"

Kurt scowls. "O-kay. If you want to do this, fine. But why can't I wait on the sidelines with a sherry and a smile?"

"Because it's a bucket list item. And we do bucket list stuff together."

"But it's on your bucket list. Not mine. Nowhere on my bucket list does it say freeze my balls off!"

"I was hoping you'd do this with me as a favor? Be supportive of my eccentricities?"

Kurt tilts his head at Blaine, carefully examining his suddenly sullen spouse. "Why do you sound embarrassed about that?"

"Because it's..." Blaine chews his lower lip, trying to avoid the inevitable reveal. But he can't. He can't put this confession off any longer. "It's a... mid-life... bucket list item."

Kurt turns fully towards his husband, eyebrow arcing sharply. "You have your bucket list divided into age groups?"

"More like milestones."

"And you can't just dye your hair blond and buy a Ferrari like everyone else?"

"You mean like my dad? And my brother? Who got it into their heads that married life was holding them back, so they messed up the best things that ever happened to them?"

"I... guess," Kurt says, softening even though every outward inch of him has become rock solid.

"Yeah, well at least they waited a few decades, right? As opposed to me, who started in high school." Blaine chuckles bitterly. "Coop always said I was an overachiever."

Kurt sighs, releasing his death grip on his cramping elbows, and takes his husband's hands. "Honey, where is this coming from?"

"I don't know," Blaine murmurs. It's a knee-jerk answer but it's also a lie. He does know. They both do. Or, at least, Kurt can guess. It was either the invitation they received to Cooper's second wedding to his second wife, taking place in June (only a month after his second divorce from wife number one finalizes... the wife Blaine loves and adores like a sister) or the heads-up from Blaine's mom that his dad, who came back a year ago to joy and revelry all around, is eloping with his secretary.

His 20-year-old secretary.

Blaine's mom broke the news to Blaine over the phone at three in the morning, hysterically crying and sloppy drunk.

But it could also be the out-of-the-blue Facebook friend request Blaine got from Eli, their favorite lighthouse. Blaine had blocked the man on everything he could think of, so to see his name and picture pop up (real picture this time) had thrown Blaine for a loop.

He almost deleted his account.

Either way, that was a ton of emotional baggage for Blaine to deal with all at once. It's ninety percent of the reason why they packed their bags last minute and ran off to Vail. Blaine couldn't face spending the holidays with his family this year.

He wouldn't even know whose house to go to.

Kurt was fine with it. His family had headed off on another Country Music Christmas Cruise. Sure he missed his dad, his stepmother, and his stepbrother.

But Kurt had never declined an invitation so fast.

He had nothing against country music. He did have an issue with being trapped in the middle of the ocean with twenty-five Bluegrass bands and nothing to eat but BBQ for two weeks. Kurt and his father were going to have to have a serious conversation about his cholesterol when the man came back to terra firma.

Blaine shivers for the first time since they've been out here, and Kurt wonders if he's finally feeling the bite in the wind, or if it's from something else.

Something frozen deep inside, so cold that ice water is actually warm enough to melt it.

Kurt looks down at the still water, abyssal black and straight out of a horror flick, then back at his husband, eyes downcast to the snow, lips turning a subtle shade of blue. Kurt knows Blaine is rethinking this decision, and normally Kurt would encourage that. But this time doing what Blaine wants, what he needs, is more important than Kurt's comfort.

And possibly his health.

"Okay, okay. I'll do this with you," Kurt says, abandoning the escape plan he had been brewing in his brain - the one where he takes a step back as his husband leaps forward and books it for the lodge - and embraces the numbing cold. "Because you're my husband, and I love you."

Blaine peeks up at his husband and smiles, a small ray of sunshine in this oppressive chill. "Thank you, Kurt." He considers adding, 'You won't regret this,' after, but he has to be real.

Kurt regrets it already.

"But whatever happens," Kurt says, unzipping his jacket quickly like ripping off a bandaid, "you are responsible for warming me up, whatever that entails, and for however long it takes. Deal?"

Blaine's shy, apologetic smile transforms.

It becomes wolfish.

Through chattering teeth and hard-pinched lips, Kurt's flirtatious tone managed to squeeze its way back into his voice.

Perhaps Blaine hasn't lost access to his husband in a Speedo after all.

Now he has to work to keep it that way.

"Deal."

[artmolonara]

Reset - Short Fic/Free Write

It was in darkness that I found them, tied to a chair so tight their hands were purple, a sting gone wrong.

They were not going to like what they became coherent to, but some small part would thank me, I know.

So as the last insect was squashed, stains seeping into wallpaper and plaster, I turned my care to my Detective, with a far more gentler hand.

First, unbinding, catching them in their slump, propping them up with my form, which was still drenched from the spray back of crimson liquid.

I softly rubbed blood back through their wrists, encouraging a return to their normal color.

Their hands... I can't help a moment to actually feel them, the rough callouses each digit holds, the small scars and imperfections of a life of hunting, like mine. The only thing that ruins it is the cold metal ring that chokes their perfect finger, like the zip ties just had done mere moments ago.

I wonder if there is something I can do about that...

But before I can entertain that notion, they stir, and I have a new objective.

"Come on, let's get you out of here."

I do not take them far; another room, away from my artwork. I know red isn't their color.

A kitchen is the nearest room that is clean, untouched, sparse, but there is at least ice to chill bruises. And the bump on their head looked like a nasty one.

... really bad actually, not that I'm looking at it.

A worry sets in, I inspect more closely, trying to remember the symptoms of a concussion.

"Detective? Hey, Detective? Are you with me?" I try to pry open an eyelid to see the pupil size, make sure they were even.

I'm shrugged off, they are rousing to attention, looking around bleary. I study, looking for signs of something off.

"What... happened?" They ask, a dull confusion in their voice.

I try to meet their eyes, to see the pupils. "You got beaten pretty badly, do you feel alright?"

Our eyes finally meet. Something isn't right. The pupils dilate, and in them, there is something missing. A panic grips me. I search their gaze for an answer, "Detective?"

They blink, eyebrows furrowing, "...I..." a question is trying to escape. I find myself leaning in unconsciously. Finally, they ask.

"...Who... who are you?"

Now I think it's my time for widened eyes. I look for a jest, but there is none, this is true. Real.... Appetizing.

I cannot help the smile that splits my face as I take their hand, running my thumb over the ring.

"I am your's," I answer with sincerity, approaching to lean into them, my forehead on their perfect marble hand, "And you are mine."

What followed would have been rejection, hurtful words and dirty looks.

But instead, a calloused hand rests, tentatively, upon my head, feeling my hair for the first time.

Hello new home.

Let the renovation begin.

...

(How we feel about amnesiac Detective? :0) I wonder how long Waldo can keep up the lie...)

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