#But its fucking shit if to get to that you have to change and dilute the current game

[rainc0at]

I LOVE THIS FUCKIJG FILM SO MUCH EVERYTHING ABOUT IT IS PERFECT

[kyogos]

Full offence to every rugby player or fan that wants this, but making rugby more into a spectacle nfl style is actually a shit fucking idea

[analogwriting]

It Comes in Waves

Chapter 9: Seiche Waves

Trafalgar Law x gn!reader word count: 2.7k first|next

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The fact that a river of sea water ran through the middle of the island was a godsend to you. Luck was truly on your side with that one. You reached a hand to your necklace, heading for the riverside as the axolotl of muck approached you. You stuck your hand in it and pulled it out in an arc, covering yourself with a veil of water. It didn’t completely stop the poison from intruding, but it did dilute it. It became a mist rather than covering you in goo.

Hopefully that would at least slow down the petrification it seemed to be doing. Once it passed over, you put the veil down, already feeling your lungs start to hurt. You just hoped you could get out of this as you pulled your scarf up your face before running after the giant muck animal. The poison in the air was stinging your eyes and you pulled down a pair of goggles that you had on your head. Convenient. 

You noticed it going towards a building. Well, you supposed you needed to at least give it credit for showing you the way. Every step of the way, you could feel your lungs burn more and more. You just hoped you could hold out long enough to help these kids. As you traveled, you noticed various statues along the way. People who didn’t make it, no doubt. Your heart hurt. Who would do something so cruel? What did these people deserve to have such a terrible fate?

You noticed the creature changing course for a moment, but you beelined it towards the building, taking its temporary distraction to your advantage. You looked for a point of entry, noticing what looked like an air duct. You just hoped it wasn’t closed off yet. 

It didn’t take long to reach, but you could feel your body wanting to shut down from the work it was currently doing. You entered the air duct, passing the point of entry moments before it closed itself off. You decided to rest there, panting heavily as you sat against the wall. You needed a moment.

You pulled out a flask from your necklace, drinking the contents. It was ocean water. Whereas it would usually not help to just drink, it was special with your people. Due to the nature of your people, the water could sometimes have healing properties. Nothing major or life changing, but it could at least hold off the spread of the poison. 

You placed the flask back inside your necklace, deciding to press on. You had no idea where you were going, but you had a lot of ground to cover. No time to waste. As you crawled through the ducts, your leg caught on a vent. You moved, trying to pull yourself free. Then you heard a loud creak.

“Shit.”

Then you went crashing into the ground below.

You swore, sitting up with a groan. You held your head, trying to get the room to stop spinning.

“Y/n!?” You looked up at the sound of your name. Who the hell here would know your name? You blinked as the figure came into focus. 

“Usopp?” You looked over, seeing him stare at you in disbelief. You did the same to him. “Well what are the fucking odds?” You looked him over, grinning. “Looks like you bulked up.”

“Now is not the time for chit chat!” Usopp seemed distressed. “You’re right, you’re right,” you said, slowly standing up. He ran over, helping you stand. “What are you even doing here?” he asked. “I came to free the children. What are you doing here?” you asked. “We were answering a distress call and now, kind of doing the same thing.” Really. What were the fucking odds?

He looked over, glancing at an array of monitors. You walked over, your eyes scanning them when they came to a halt. Your stomach dropped to your feet and you leaned in to get a better look. A quick glance at the controls and you figured out how to zoom in. You looked back to the screen. There was no doubt about it. 

Trafalgar Law, Surgeon of Death, and Captain of the Heart Pirates. And he didn’t seem to be in too good of shape. You knew he could just switch himself out, why was he just sitting there? That’s when you noticed the other man. A marine? You made a face. Then you noticed the heart in his hand. What the hell? That’s when he squeezed and Law began to cry out and thrash about. Your eyes widened. What the hell was happening? Was he dying?

There was no fucking way fate would bring you together just so you could watch him die. There’s no way she was that cruel. You grimaced. Like hell you were going to let him die on your watch.

Not when you just remembered who he was. 

“Usopp, I'm going to do something and it's going to take every ounce of energy I have. Can I trust you to take me to safety when the time comes?” You turned to him and he just stared at you. “That is so vague!” You rolled your eyes. “Can I trust you or not?” He groaned, nodding. “Fine.”

You nodded, turning back to the screen. At that moment, you broke into a coughing fit. You covered your mouth with your sleeve. Afterwards, you noticed blood on it. Great. Shit, this might just kill you. But you couldn't do nothing.

Usopp looked at you. “Are you okay?” It seemed he didn’t notice the blood. Good. You nodded. “Yeah. The cold just dried my throat out,” you said with a sniffle. Which wasn't a complete lie. “So, I can definitely trust you?” You asked once more, glancing to the screen where Law was once more.

Usopp followed your gaze and something clicked in his mind. He nodded. “You can trust me. I'll keep you safe.” 

 “Thank you, Usopp.” You sat in a chair, sighing. You were going to owe him one big time. “I might not make it through this but…” You smiled at him. “I'm really glad to have met all of you. If I die, tell Luffy and Law that I'm sorry. Bepo too.”

Usopp’s eyes widened. “Hold on now. You didn't say anything about dying! Just that you were going to be tired!” He made his way over to you but you already started taking a grate off the floor and exposing a waterline. You had noticed earlier that it seemed that the waterline ran through most of the building. Since it drew its water from the ocean, that was even better for you.

You popped open the pipe, watching the water rushing to wherever it was headed to. You took a deep breath, sticking your hand in and closing your eyes. This was going to take so much out of you that you wouldn’t be surprised if you shaved some years off your life. 

You were able to, more or less, take hold of the water and direct it to where it needed to go. You had noticed a conveniently placed map on your way in and studied it quickly, so you had a rough idea of where to send the water. And you were going to send a lot.

The water went rushing to the closest pipe to the wall of the room you were looking for. The pipes groaned and burst, soon just loose as it traversed the walls, slowly turning into its own little mini tsunami. The sheer force of the water was enough to bust the wall down, quickly filling the room for just a moment.

You glanced at the monitors, noticing that it hadn’t been enough to make Vergo let go of the heart that seemed to be linked to Law. Shit. Your vision was also beginning to blur. You were reaching the end of your own rope. You closed your eyes once more, pouring every ounce of energy you had into the water, using your own sheer will.

Suddenly, you seemed to be in the room. It was hazy, like a dense fog. You noticed Vergo standing up. Anger and rage filled you. The next thing you knew, your fist was connecting with his jaw. You weren’t exactly sure how, but then you noticed the cube on the ground. You picked it up, looking over to where Law was. He looked dazed and confused. Rightfully so. This must’ve been where and you did almost accidentally drown them.

The look on his face was that of someone who had seen a ghost. You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was because you hadn’t seen him in a year. That, and you weren’t exactly sure how he could see you. You weren’t exactly even sure yourself how this was happening, just that it was. You quickly dropped the heart in his lap and picked up the hat next to him before placing it on his head. You hoped that said enough. 

The next thing you knew, you were back in the room. You pulled your hand out of the pipe and away from the water, quickly. On the way, you felt the side of the grate cut your arm pretty good along the way. You cried out, holding it. Dammit.

When you cried out, Usopp tore his eyes off the screen. He must have watched the entire scene unfold in front of him. He ran over to you. “You’re bleeding?! How did that happen?” He quickly found a rag, tying it over your wound. You could feel the world spinning faster and faster.

“Grate,” you mumbled, slumping against him. “You’re getting pale! Y/n! Don’t die on me!” He was really starting to freak out now, tears streamed his face as he picked you up. It was time he headed out anyway.

--

You finished your recollection of events, quiet. The doctor stared at you, his expression unreadable. Silence fell over the two of you and you knew he was going to scold you for risking his life for him.

“That was stupid.” Law's voice was soft despite his words. You knew what he was going to say, but his tone threw you off.

“Law, I wasn't going to let you die. Your life is more valuable than mine.” He was the captain of a crew, a doctor with an amazing ability. People relied and depended on him. You were just a rogue…pirate? That lived a solo life. No one counting on you. No one relying on you. If you died, people might be sad, but they’d move on. Your death wouldn’t really make a difference. Not in your eyes.

“As if I could live with myself if I found out you killed yourself just to save me?” His voice cracked, there was sorrow and anger in his eyes. “I can't lose someone else like that.” His voice was so soft, you barely caught it. 

Wait. Again?

You looked at him, some dots beginning to connect. You two really need to talk. “Law…”

He cleared his throat, pulling down his hat. He clearly didn’t want to keep this conversation going. “Uh, I need to talk to…uh…Brook?” He stood up, heading to the door. He was a terrible liar.

“Law.” You tried to get his attention again, slowly moving to get out of the bed.

“I'm glad you're okay, y/n. Just don't do that again. Your life is just as important.” He looked at you and, again, his expression was illegible. “And apologize to Usopp. He's also a mess.” Then he left.

You groaned, falling back into the bed. Fuck. You covered your face and let out a long sigh. What the hell was that all about? And what did he mean by again? You wanted answers, but you weren’t exactly sure if you were going to get them anytime soon - if ever.

The door opened again. You hoped, but doubted, it was Law. Alas, it was Chopper with Usopp in tow. You sat back up, looking at the two of them.

“Hey,” you said, your voice hoarse. You cleared your throat. 

“Uh, Usopp…” Fuck, where did you even start with this? Chopper moved to the table by your bed, grabbing some things out of the drawer and crushing them with a mortar and pestle. Meds, you assumed. 

“How ya feeling, buddy?” Usopp asked, sitting in the chair next to the bed. “Heard you woke up.” 

You nodded. “Yeah…” You sighed. “Listen. I'm…really sorry about what I did back there. I should've been a little more specific in what was happening.” You rubbed the back of your neck. Truth was, you didn't exactly know what to expect. Or that it would work. You really just…gambled your life away with that one.

Usopp looked at you. “Yeah…that was one of the most mortifying things ever!” You couldn't help but chortle at his sudden dramatics. You knew he was doing it to hide how he truly felt. You decided to just go with it. It was better that way. Laughter was the best medicine, after all.

“The blood bit probably didn't help either.” You chuckled. 

He shook his head. “If I hadn't known any better, I would've thought it was an overdramatic bit.” He laughed. But, he knew you just as all the Straw Hats did. You weren't one to be overdramatic about anything. If anything, you hid things. So, to be that bad in front of someone…he knew just how dire the situation had been. 

“I'm glad you're okay though. Really. We all are.” You squirmed slightly. You were never comfortable with things like this. It was easier to be on your own. You weren't used to people caring about you. It was just dawning on you how many people did. Sure, you were aware, but you just didn’t realize how much. Law’s words echoed in your head for a moment.

“And thank you, Usopp.” You smiled at him. “I wouldn't have made it if it wasn't for you. You kept your word and I appreciate it.” 

Usopp shrugged and flexed. “Oh, it was nothing. The great captain Usopp is no feat to be reckoned with!” 

You fell into a fit of laughter before falling into a coughing fit. 

“Y/n! Be careful! You're still recovering!” Chopper began to fuss over you and you nodded, settling back down. “Okay, okay. Anything you say, Doctor Chopper.”

Usopp grinned. “Well, it’s all water under the gate now.” He laughed loudly at his own joke and you laughed a little with him, careful not to get too carried away. “Anyway, get rested up. Luffy and the others will be back later with everything. We’re going to throw a little party to celebrate our success.”

You nodded, grinning. “I'll be there. Don't worry. And I'll be prepared.”

Chopper grumbled. “He better be careful you just woke up.”

You patted Chopper’s head. “I'm not worried, I have the world's best doctor looking after me!”

Upon hearing those words, Chopper began blushing and hiding his face. “Oh, you don't mean that you, big meanie!” He giggled, wiggling around. “You're flattering won't get you anywhere with me!”

You giggled softly, feeling…at peace for once. You wished it could be like this all the time. Not necessarily you being injured but…just being able to see people and hang around. The constant reminder of bad things happening and that danger was always around the corner weighed on your mind a lot. 

You don't know how people like Luffy stayed so happy all the time despite that. Or despite everything that happens to them. You admired all the Straw Hats. They all seemed to have a laid back attitude despite all their goings on. 

You settled back into the bed, thinking. In all the excitement, you forgot to talk to Law about what you had remembered but…what if he didn't remember?

“I can't lose someone like that again.” Wait…that guy with the blond hair…did…

Ah, shit. You and Law seriously needed to have a long conversation. Not one where you end up arguing and one of you storm off.

[taffywabbit]

im also anti proship but calling rugrats porn drawings "child porn" really dilutes the severity of actual child porn. we shouldnt be confusing actual cp that hurts real children with just weirdos drawing porn of cartoon characters that happen to be kids, the two things are not at all on the same level

ok i suppose this was inevitable, i may as well get into it.

(CW for some discussion of CSA and child pornography, obviously)

first off, "i'm also anti proship but" is a terrifying way to start your message, and to go and follow it up with some extremely common proship copypasta i've heard a million times about "taking attention/resources/severity/etc away from real CSA victims" or whatever kinda makes me wonder how "anti proship" you actually are...?

kind of the point of this whole debate is typically that "proship" folks insist that fiction, or in this case "porn of cartoon characters that happen to be kids" as you put it, has no effect on reality or people's mindsets. and so-called "antis" like myself generally respond to this idea with something along the lines of "well it sure seems to affect the reality of your cock and balls", and point out how repeatedly consuming media with a particular focus or message has been shown time and time again to quantifiably influence the way people view the world around them, in ways that subsequently affect how they act, or desensitize them to things that might otherwise upset/offend them. y'know, like political propaganda! or blockbuster movies about killer sharks! obviously some people are going to be more resilient against that sort of influence when the real-world equivalent of "porn of cartoon characters that happen to be kids" is something so blatantly unacceptable, and nobody is really claiming that the impact of fictional CP is "on the same level" as its IRL counterpart.

but at the very least, most people who would be considered "anti proship" WILL tell you "hey, i'm not trying to say that you jerking it to twitter porn of Gwen Tennyson or Tails or whatever is LITERALLY THE SAME as committing CSA, but it's still really fucking concerning and creepy that the majority of your sexual fixations are all specifically cutesy vulnerable cartoon characters under the age of 12, many of whom also have canonical adult designs that you conveniently avoid in favor of sexualizing the ones that are barely old enough to learn long division. you should maybe do some introspection and figure out why that is and whether or not you're really comfortable with what it implies about you. personally i know I'M not comfortable with that shit and i'm not going to keep hanging around you unless you make some serious changes." except usually in my experience the conversation ends up being a lot shorter and ends in a block pretty quickly. like i'm not a psychologist and i don't keep a bunch of studies on hand to throw at you about how fictional CP is often a factor in grooming, but i DO have a brain and can pretty clearly see when someone is rationalizing behavior that will lead them to places i'm not willing to follow.

ANYWAYS to focus more specifically on the actual reason we're talking about this (which was, to be clear, a mobile ad Tumblr served me that depicted one of the dads from Rugrats having sex with his 3yo daughter): yes, actually, that shit IS illegal to create or distribute. it's not the SAME as literal photographs of real children, OBVIOUSLY, but it's still also extremely fucked up in its own right, and any reasonable person in your life would probably stop talking to you if you told them you got off to it.

don't believe me about the legality part? check this out:

so like, I GUESS you might get some legal leeway with cub furry art or sonic porn or stuff that isn't always obvious in how much it's intended to parallel real children? if you really care? but this ad was literally multiple illustrations of a human adult man having intercourse with a human toddler. it's pornography centered around openly fetishizing the sexual assault of a child by a parent. i fail to see how referring to that in shorthand as "child porn" is inaccurate in any way that matters.

and Tumblr is a US-based company, beholden to the laws shown above, so they are at least somewhat responsible when illustrated pedophilic incest porn gets shown to thousands of their mobile app users in an ad they got paid to display. THAT was the original point i was making in my post. but thank you for trying to derail it to interrogate my "anti proship" views or whatever, i have had multiple people send me fairly nasty asks about it in the past year and you finally caught me in a moment when i was already pissed enough about something else that i felt like going off about this stuff. sorry if you actually agreed with most of this and i came off as overly rude/harsh, but if that's the case then this response is for all the other anon asks and replies i've gotten too, i guess.

now we're all clear about where i stand and i hopefully don't need to talk about this again - it's kind of a fucking bummer to think about this stuff and i've been avoiding the subject intentionally. you are always welcome to just block me if you have a problem

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Super 061

“Who are you?”

“I’m you, but stronger.  Furthermore, I’m substantially more verbose, though you may find this difficult to accept.”

“Indeed, for I have amazed even myself on occasion with my propensity to ramble endlessly on a given topic.  Though my diction flows like clear waters across a mountain stream, woe be to any who seek to quench their thirst for meaningful conversation, for I provide only minimal insight in the magnitude of verbiage I employ.” 

“Yes, I quite agree!  I have often noticed how my own thoughts and feelings seem quite trivial when diluted beneath the deluge of my interminable speech.  Though I begin with a point I wish to make, I continue to belabor it, adding word after word, clause after clause, like a builder stacking bricks upon a great tower reaching up into the heavens.  And yet, though the great temple is unmatched in splendor, the thought which it houses is so minuscule as to require only a tiny fraction of the space.”

“It is a remarkable similarity we share.  Perhaps, it is a good omen.  Yes, for if you are another iteration of myself, and we truly are of one mind in fact rather than spirit, then we both share the same dream of perfect justice for the entire universe.  A world finally freed from the shackles of evil, released from the fuzzy handcuffs of corruption, and loosed from the kinky chastity belt of mortals, who stain the cosmos with a taint so profound it disgusts me to speak of it.  And if our dream is to be fully realized, then what other outcome can there possibly be, save for a universe where only we two remain as its population?  In such a divinely pristine creation, a creation restored to its rightful essence, our tendency to prattle endlessly will not be abnormal at all.  For such holy voices as ours will be the only speech heard throughout the cosmos.”

“This is nice.  I feel like we’re really vibing here.  Do you want to go somewhere and get a coffee?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.  All Gowasu ever let me drink in this stupid place is tea.”

Okay, so we’re fifteen episodes into this stupid saga, and we’re finally going to get the origin story of Goku Black.  I probably need to write a separate thing where I compare the Zamasu Saga to GT, and I think what I need to do is like a side-by-side with the Baby Saga and the Shadow Dragons Saga, because those two arcs are the most similar to Zamasu’s whole storyline.  I couldn’t decide which one would be more appropriate, so maybe a three-way thing to decide which is the worst.  The point I’m getting at here is that no matter how bad and dumb the Omega Shenron fight got, at least he didn’t have a stupid secret identity on top of the rest of it. 

Okay, so let me set the stage here. In Episode 59, Beerus destroyed Zamasu for attempting to assassinate the Supreme Kai of Universe 10.  This action would have led to Zamasu securing Gowasu’s Time Ring, the Super Dragon Balls, and Goku Black.  So Beerus believed that by destroying Zamasu before he could do all of that, then Trunks’ future world would be at peace. 

That hope was shattered in Episode 59, because the next episode preview clearly showed that nothing had changed in Trunks’ world.  And yet we still had to wade through Episode 60 to find out the long way.  Lots of debate over how time travel works, and now we’re in Episode 61, and we’re still going over this shit.  And the good guys will have to go back to tell Beerus he’s wrong, so we’re spending a lot of episodes on this one plot point. 

So up until now, the good guys had believed that Zamasu had used the Super Dragon Balls to create Goku Black as a henchman, but that’s not it at all. Goku Black is Zamasu, having wished to swap bodies with the real Goku. 

So who’s this green asshole who’s been helping him this whole time?  Well, he’s Zamasu too.  Specifically, he’s the Zamasu native to this timeline, just like Future Trunks and Future Mai and Future Yajirobe.  When the “main” Zamasu successfully switched bodies with Goku, he used the Time Ring to travel to this alternate timeline, where he found his counterpart and recruited him for his plan. 

Goku Black knew that this other Zamasu would share his frustrations with mortals, so he found him, killed his version of Gowasu, and explained what he wanted to do.  Overcome with fulfillment, the other Zamasu embraced his alternate self. 

All right, but that only explains how Future Zamasu got in on this bit.  How can Goku Black be the same Zamasu that Beerus destroyed in Episode 59?  Simple, it’s because of the Time Ring.  At least, that’s what Goku Black says.  The way he remembers it, no one was there to stop him the day he killed Gowasu.  So he took the Time Ring, became Goku Black, recruited Future Zamasu, and made him indestructible. 

I pulled up the subtitles for this, just to make sure there was no confusion, because this part has always irritated me.  Beerus spent like an episode and a half insisting that his way would work, and that his divine status overruled the empirical evidence Trunks had witnessed over the years.  So was Beerus just talking out his ass, or did he just overlook a detail?  

The dub implies that the Time Ring protected him from the causality effects of getting destroyed in the past, but that doesn’t add up, because Zamasu wasn’t wearing it when Beerus destroyed him.  But Goku Black is wearing the Ring now, and he has been for the past seventeen years.

I think that’s what the idea is supposed to be.  Beerus’s whole argument was that he went to the Zamasu of a particular timeline, the only timeline where he met Goku and developed his obsession with Goku, and destroyed that Zamasu.  In theory, this should have a “Marty McFly Effect”, erasing Goku Black from existence, no matter what he does in the future or which timeline he goes to.  And because Beerus is a Hakaishin, this doesn’t create any new timelines, like when mortals change the past like Trunks has done. 

Episode 61 seems to be suggesting that Beerus’ plan could have worked, except he didn’t know that the Time Ring protects the wielder from changes in his own history.  I guess that property would make sense, because the Supreme Kai who uses the Time Ring would need a way to be able to observe and interact with future events without potentially creating new timelines.  For example, Zamasu killed that Barbari warrior 1000 years from now.  I’m pretty sure that change in future events isn’t “locked in” or anything, and if someone were to destroy Planet Barbari in the next thousand years, that wouldn’t create a second timeline where Barbari survived so that the one poor dope could get murdered by Zamasu on schedule. 

And I guess it makes sense that Beerus failed to take the Time Ring’s powers into account, since only the Supreme Kai of each universe is authorized to own and use them.  Zamasu never even heard of the Time Rings until recently, and he was supposed to be training to eventually assume the office of Supreme Kai.  It figures that Beerus, a Destroyer, wouldn’t know everything about how the Time Rings work and what they do.  

In short: If Beerus had any influence over the rules of time, it was canceled out by the Time Ring.  And since Beerus only knew to destroy Zamasu because he saw Goku Black wearing a Time Ring, he can’t unring that bell.  There must have been a version of Zamasu who successfully obtained the Ring and became Goku Black.  Beerus cannot undo this.  All he accomplished was to branch the timeline so that in one branch, Zamasu no longer exists. 

In the other branch, Goku Black continued with his plan, as seen in this flashback.  He used the Time Ring to jump ahead one year, gathered the Super Dragon Balls in Age 780, and wished to swap bodies with Goku.

This left Goku trapped in Zamasu’s body, and in this timeline, Goku has never met Zamasu, or even heard of the guy.

Then Goku Black teleported to Earth and killed the Goku of that timeline. 

And he killed Chi-Chi and Goten too.  No surprise there.  After that, he went to the Universe 10 of Future Trunks’ alternate timeline, recruited the Zamasu native to that world, jumped ahead one more year with the Time Ring, and used the Super Dragon Balls a second time to give that Zamasu the indestructible body.

Then they went to the Future Trunks timeline and started carrying out their Project Zero Mortals thing.  First they destroyed the Super Dragon Balls, then they started hunting down all the other gods in the twelve universes.  This would ensure that there would be no one to stop them as they destroyed all other life in the universes.  Wait, how the hell did they kill Jiren?   And Broly?

Finally, the duo saved Earth for last, and they invaded one year before the events seen in Episode 47.  Black says they’ve specifically reserved Earth for the grand finale, because they wanted to make the people there suffer the most out of everyone. 

See, they thought about all this and decided that Earth is the root of all of this.  Specifically, Trunks and his time machine, since his tinkering with history led to the creation of alternate timelines, which is what led to Zamasu being introduced to Goku in Episode 53, which resulted in Zamasu becoming Goku Black and kicking off Project Zero Mortals.  So when you think about it that way, Trunks is responsible for all of this.  If he had left well enough alone, Goku would have died of a heart virus and Zamasu would have never met him.

Actually, that doesn’t quite add up, but this post is running longer than I wanted, so I’ll try to explain what I mean later.

So I think I’ve covered all of the backstory stuff.  Now let’s talk about the fighting in this episode.  It sucks.  Goku, Vegeta, and Trunks got their asses beat the last time they came here, and the only thing that’s changed is that they remembered to bring some senzu beans.  Not that it matters, because the baddies quickly overwhelm Vegeta and Trunks, and corner Goku.  They tell him the bit about how Goku Black killed Chi-Chi and Goten in his origin story, and Black stabs his hand-energy sword through Zamasu and into Goku while they talk about this. 

And that gets Goku all fired up, so he raises his power and starts going on a tear.  Okay, so there’s a difference of opinion on this scene. 

On the one hand, you could say: Hey, cool, Goku’s had all he can stands, and he can’t stands no more, and he’s gonna kick some ass because he loves his wife and kids.  I can’t dispute that.  This is a factually accurate statement. 

However, on the other hand, this scene is dumb as hell, because Goku’s powering up while he’s got an energy beam sticking through his liver.  Remember when Vegeta got stabbed this way and it didn’t kill him, but it kind of took him out of the fight for several minutes?  Then he got up, went Blue, and fired a Final Flash anyway?  Then he passed out until he got a senzu bean later?  Yeah, well, that was really fucking stupid, and now we have Goku doing the same bullshit, only faster.  He doesn’t even wait around for Black to pull out the beam.

Also, what exactly did Goku do to turn the tables here?  He was already in his strongest form, so what has he powered up to?  He’s just Super Saiyan Blue Goku With a Hole In His Liver, and somehow that makes him stronger than he was before, when he didn’t have a hole there.

Like, he’s a house of fire in this scene, and it looks cool, I won’t dispute that.  It’s kind of nice watching him dominate Black and Zamasu like this... except...

Black just suddenly decides it’s time to start winning again, and he turns the tables on Goku without even trying hard.  

So why is this hurting Goku when the gaping hole in his torso didn’t?   Also, is one of those beams going in his dick?  Why doesn’t Goku just power out of this like he did before?  He’s still mad about Chi-Chi and Goten, isn’t he?

See, this is why this saga sucks.  They tried to do this “Power Awakened by Rage” thing like they used to do in DBZ.  Toddler Gohan vs. Raditz, Goku turning Super Saiyan for the first time on Namek, Gohan turning Super Saiyan 2 against Cell.  These are all classic moments, and this episode tries to borrow some of that magic. 

Except it’s all wrong.  Toddler Gohan ran out of gas pretty quickly, but he still hurt Raditz enough for the others to finish him.  They didn’t just have Raditz instantly recover from all the damage that headbutt did to him.  And Super Saiyan 2 Gohan didn’t just start getting his ass kicked when it was convenient to the plot.  He never stopped being angry at Cell, and his power never wavered.  Cell got stronger, but not strong enough to prevent him from getting his just desserts. 

Here, I think the idea is that Goku Black provoked Goku on purpose, then allowed Goku to pummel him a while, because somehow that helps Goku Black get stronger, like he claimed back in Episode 49.  So I guess he was just toying with Goku?  Which kind of makes Goku look like a total geek here.

But the rotten cherry on top of this moldy sundae is Goku screaming at them before he attacks.  “’Cause now I’m mad!  I’m really really mad!” 

Seriously?   That’s what they came up with?  “I’m really really mad!”?

I mean, why stop there?  Why not have Goku shout “I’m really really really mad!”?  It’s pathetic.  I forgot what he said in the subtitles, but I’m pretty sure it was equally unimpressive.

Okay, so after they take out Goku, they move on to Vegeta and Trunks, and that’s when they try to make this out to be all Trunks’ fault.  And this makes Trunks mad.  In fact, it might make him--dare I say it-- really really mad. 

In fact, the way everyone’s reacting, it’s like Trunks has never been this mad before.  He may have surpassed a level of anger beyond really really mad.  Can it be?

Trunks has ascended to becoming really really really really mad!  Like, these guys killed his mom and destroyed his whole world.  They also attacked his girlfriend several times.  But when they said a bunch of dumb stuff about time travel, that’s what pushed Trunks over the edge. 

So the episode ends on this new power-up, so I guess this is the one we’re expected to take seriously, but it’s a little difficult to care when we just saw Goku do the exact same thing and get his ass kicked.  I mean, Trunks’ form looks like something new, sort of?  But even if it were legit, they completely undermined this story beat with the whole Goku thing they did. 

Okay, enough of Episode 61.  Let’s try to push forward.

[crowleaf]

Something that's interesting to me is how being 'kin is seen as a trend for chronically online kids (and adults), when I've been aware of my fictionkinity since around 2015-2016, maybe even a bit earlier, I just wasn't ready to accept or 'admit' it yet. I think I learned the concept existed around 2014, and it resonated, especially after some research into it. But even though I felt like it described what I was experiencing, I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about it. It wasn't until sometime in 2015 that I actively embraced it and made a blog where I could talk about it publicly and connect with others. But I digress.

It's just funny to me that it's treated like a 'trend' (I've even seen it called a 'tiktok trend') when the concept has been around for years. Decades. I've found a few sources claiming it started sometime around the 60's-70's and was named in the 90's.

While yes, this is the genesis of otherkinity and not fictionkinity specifically, it began with elfkind groups, and I personally consider this to be an overlapping of otherkinity and fictionkinity, which in itself falls under the broader umbrella of otherkinity. But once again, I digress!

My point is, aren't 'trends' supposed to be fleeting? Things people have a brief interest in because of its novelty and popularity, then drop when the novelty wears off?

Interesting that it sort of mirrors the way 'kinnies' ('kin for fun') treat fictionkinity. How it parallels the manner in which these kids (and sometimes adults, like I said earlier) 'add and drop' their 'kintypes' on a whim, based on some shiny new media that's popular at any given time*.

I would love to be able to 'drop' some of my kintypes, but that isn't how past lives work**. You can't 'drop' a past life any more than you can say 'what I did last week didn't actually happen because I changed my mind about it. lol' and expect the universe to just go along with it.

I dunno. Maybe it's just weird to me because for some of us - fewer each year, it seems - it isn't a fun little internet game where we put on and take off different personas like a fashion aesthetic and look for sourcemates (or 'canonmates' - how does a kinnie even have canonmates if they don't have a 'canon' they experienced in another universe/life??) to play along with us until we get bored, then drop those 'sourcemates' along with the discarded 'kintype'.

Some of us treat our spiritual beliefs like, well, spiritual beliefs. Some of us are irritated with this bastardization of the concept of 'kinity because we don't have the option to just throw away a part of our literal soul because we're bored with it or it's cringe or whatever.

I guess I'd rather be seen as some weirdo online who holds unusual niche beliefs than be lumped in with people who use their 'kintypes' as an excuse to, at best, be annoying, and at worst, be fucking awful people.

People who have co-opted 'kinity and diluted its meaning to be nothing but bad roleplay, who then turn around and mock those of us who 'actually believe in that shit'.

Footnotes and disclaimer after the cut

*"but crowleaf, your kintype is from a piece of very popular media! You're a hypocrite!"

I kinfirmed Crowley around 2015-16, before the show existed; this was one of my first kinfirmed kintypes, based on my past experience of having obsessively reread the novel countless times and what I now recognize as having experienced a kinshift, all around 2011, before I knew what 'kin was. My canon was about an even mix of novel and show, so far. Hope this helps.

Almost all of my other kintypes are from media that ended years ago and/or is not very popular. It typically takes me years to kinfirm a suspected kintype, because it requires thoughtful contemplation and introspection that takes longer than just a few hours or days to engage in.

**"but crowleaf, you add and drop kins all the time!"

Incorrect. I experience kinshifts (not 'reality shifting,' which seems to me like another word for lucid dreaming and is entirely unrelated to 'kinity), usually every few years, which is not the same as 'adding and dropping' kintypes (and for fuck's sake please don't call kintypes 'kins' if you want to be taken seriously). I have multiple kintypes because my soul is old as fuck and has lived many lives, including some of which I'll probably never remember.

There seems to be this assumption that if you have multiple kintypes, you must be a kinnie - this is bullshit. If a soul can reincarnate once, who's to say it can't do it multiple times, across multiple universes? Don't assume someone is a kinnie based on the number of kintypes they have. However, if they claim to kinfirm a new kintype every time they consume new media or become interested in something new and popular, they're probably a kinnie.

But that's just, like, my opinion, man.

Disclaimer: This post is not about system fictives. I'm a singlet - when I say kinshift, I do not mean fronting. I don't know what it's like to be a fictive or be in a system with fictives. I am not and will never equate fictives to kinnies. If you are a fictive, I hope something nice happens to you today.

[panticwritten]

re: iwilleatyourenglish’s response. that cyberphuck person you reblogged from clarified thats not what they ment. They proudly ID as an asshole and have a history of harassing ppl. their also a pedo and when called out for having an account dedicated to writing csa porn they described in graphic detail how they wanted to turn their critics into kids and SA them. its all on their blog rn. ur on the wrong side

I reblogged a post and left tags with my own experience and agreeing with BOTH people on the post (meanness is necessary, but some people take it too far. Like you, right now, for example). I’m not on any side, you’re yelling at people who do not care. There are not sides here, and if there were I’m not going to side with the person who either is okay with their followers stalking and wishing harm on others on her behalf or is just doing it herself behind the anon mask.

Bc I’m assuming that you ARE iwilleatyourenglish considering the self congratulatory anon conversations on your own blog. So, I’m going forward with that assumption. So long as you’re on anon, that’s gonna be who I’m taking to, since even if you aren’t you’re speaking on her behalf.

Cyberphuck (whose ao3 is actually pretty tame??) was very obviously not responding genuinely and was VERY OBVIOUSLY making fun of you to get a rise out of you. They shouldn’t have bothered since you immediately jumped to telling me to eat glass just because I disagreed with your take and didn’t need the extra prodding to get there. Seemed like you had that in the barrel ready for any response other than ‘I’m so sorry, you’re right, you reaching out with this overly condescending message really changed my mind that being a bitch isn’t good 😌’.

Also, you said it yourself that they proudly identify as an asshole. Did you expect them… not to respond like an asshole?

I want to reiterate that you have to not be paying attention or willfully not see it to think they were being genuine. Which makes you either not as much of a critical thinker as you think you are or you’re just being disingenuous. I’d put money on the latter, since it’s so much more convenient for your smear tactics to take their responses at face value.

Also, I thought tumblr collectively got past this argument a long time ago: people can write things without wanting those things to happen in real life. Writing about csa doesn’t make someone a pedo, and pretending it does dilutes the word and makes it easier for real pedophiles to make space online so literally shut the fuck up. It’s called fiction and the characters are not real. I write about and from the point of view of murderers and genocidal maniacs from time to time and, shockingly, do not want either of those things to happen in real life. Harassing writers because of their subject matter that has nothing to do with an argument that YOU manufactured makes YOU the asshole.

Please go outside and touch some grass, iwilleatyourenglish. You’re throwing a massive fit over a one line tag disagreeing with you, and you’re accusing people of shit that isn’t as big of a sin as you seem to think it is.

Any further anon asks on this topic will be deleted. People who genuinely wish harm on others and go after people just for reblogging a post are not welcome on this blog, especially if they’re too cowardly to say it off anon.

[bi-furiosity]

content warning for addiction, overdose, ableism, classism.

since apparently nobody on this godforsaken website knows how to google things or engage critically, some of yall been usin harm reduction in completely irrelevant ways that misconstrue what harm reduction actually is and, believe it or not, that fucking hurts people.

harm reduction: is the idea that moral judgement is not a productive aspect of addiction care and accommodating drug users. it's any practice designed to minimize the potential negative consequences of drug use and prioritizes overall well-being over stigmatizing drug use any further.

harm reduction is a relatively new idea that's only been put into practice in the past few decades, which is pretty fuckin sad considering the majority of it is common sense and was already practiced unofficially in certain marginalized communities.

what does harm reduction include? a whole lot of shit

needle exchange programs

decriminalization of drug usage

community support and outreach programs

access to naxolone (also known as Narcan,) which can reverse the effects of an opiate overdose

recovery programs

supervised injection sites

access to related healthcare without threat of discrimination or legal action

etc.

harm reduction is a wide-ranging field of strategies, it boils down to respecting drug users, meeting them where they're currently at, and keeping all involved parties as safe as possible.

addiction is horrifically stigmatized, and this stigmatization leads to families being ripped apart, people overdosing, incarceration, and a host of other consequences. for many of us, addiction is a reality that we cannot ignore. it's ourselves, our loved ones, our communities. as it stands, marginalized communities are disproportionately affected by the stigma of addiction and drug usage, especially communities of color and poor communities. i am from appalachia, and while i'm not personally in recovery, i was raised by a mother who is. i grew up going to 12-step programs, and i've seen the way the system and its view of addiction destroys lives.

i say this to show the stakes. harm reduction is the first time that the needs and humanity of addicts and drug users has really been formally considered by organizations, much less local governments. it's potentially game-changing for many people. harm reduction saves lives. it keeps kids from being raised by grandparents or in the foster care system. it keeps people from OD-ing in the streets. it gives the chance for addicts to be treated like the people they are, in a world that does nothing but vilify and kill them. every overdose could be preventable. anything that gets in the way of that costs lives.

why is this relevant rn? because people online have a habit of taking serious terminology and diluting the meaning to prove their own point. i'm telling yall right now, you cannot be doing that. i don't even want to get into the specific case that i just witnessed, because point blank, yall cannot be using this to win arguments in fandom or shed accountability. harm reduction is DEEPLY stigmatized in many of the communities its most need in. in 2015, 25 to 40 year olds in appalachia were 70% higher in terms of fatal overdoses than those outside of appalachia. (source) overall, for a lot of social and political reasons, the stigma is worse in places it's needed more. (example)

can harm reduction be used in other contexts? yes!!! absolutely! (for example, it's also utilized by sex workers.) it should be used in other contexts, when it's appropriate and productive.

do you know when it isn't productive? when you're diluting the meaning by using it when talking about fandom shit. for real, if i ever have to see this shit again i'm going to lose my mind. please understand that the misunderstanding of what harm reduction is kills people. it is not a toy for you to play with. undermining the actual purpose of harm reduction gives politicians and opponents to harm reduction more leverage to block life-saving programs that are desperately needed and sorely underfunded.

this shit is particularly relevant rn because the pandemic has led to overdose rates skyrocketing. alright? ok.

FIND A HARM REDUCTION PROGRAM NEAR YOU (x)

reading you can do: (this is not extensive, i'm fuckin exhausted from writing this shit out. if you have suggestions hmu. also they're biased towards wv and appalachia bc. hick.) Understanding Harm Reduction (available in English, Chinese, Punjabi, Farsi, French, Korean, Spanish, and Vietnamese) Reducing Stigma in Appalachia Sex Work + Harm Reduction Stigma Free WV How the Closure of Harm Reduction Changes Rural Healthcare IHRC 2019 Reading List NHRC Resource Center

[multiplecomplexes]

(@mashbrainrot since you wanted to know)

Okay, so I guess I should start off with this - I do not see Trapper and Hawkeye's relationship as being romantic, or even physical.

I think they love each other, deeply. I think they were both very important to each other's stability and mental health. But I just do not see their relationship extending beyond the platonic, or even the familial. Which, I would like add, does not dilute, diminish, or detract from the Love shared between them.

However.

I do also see them both as being closeted queer men, perhaps even partially closeted to one another. They both know, but neither has actually said anything outright, so they can dance around it, and joke about it, and try to find a comfortable place to be in it, while still holding on to that plausible deniability lifeline.

But the thing is, because they are platonic queer friends, they can play.

They can just say shit. And because there's no real stakes, there's no problem, it's all a good time and they can just screw around and play with this new (queer) way of being. The 4077, for all its horrors, has created, ironically, a safe space bubble. Klinger can crossdress and explore a new way of expressing his masculinity/femininity/gender, Margaret has a freedom of expression and responsibility that she probably just would not get in any other setting as a 1950s woman, Hawkeye is...the way he is, you see where I'm going with this?

The 4077, in its weird way isn't "real", this isn't the World. This is currently their reality but its not...Reality.

So they can be. They can try stuff, do stuff, explore themselves in ways that may or may not have been open to them in a different setting.

And then, Reality hits.

Henry dies, Trapper leaves, and thus - enter BJ, stage right.

(Further under the cut cause I start to go on)

And BJ....just messes everything up.

Because its real.

Joking and being open about his queerness isn't quite so comfortable for Hawkeye anymore when the guy he's bouncing off of is...earnest.

There is real emotion here, there are stakes, there are consequences. BJ has a family. And if something happens between he and Hawkeye...what then? We know how Hawkeye is about families, about children, the guilt that he would feel would destroy him.

These aren't just playful jokes that mean nothing, aren't serious, and are just meant to tease, the man is actually very much in love with Hawkeye. Its not

So it's not safe, anymore. We're striking too close to home, now.

Calling yourself a guy's missus just doesn't slide off as easily as it does when you know the guy in question wants that to be your reality, even if only for awhile.

Making sex jokes isn't as easy when that is something that could happen, compared to making those same jokes with someone who is like "yeah sure of course, I'd fuck you dude, totally" and then can't even keep a straight (haha) face while saying it because it's just so ridiculous and the both of you know it and are fine with it.

BJ's emotions, and the romantic love and physical attraction he feels toward Hawkeye is real. It's too real, in fact. Add a joke and there's very little space to breathe.

So, Hawkeye pulls back. He's still flamboyant, he still flagrant and out there, but in the face of BJ's reality, his diminishes.

Also something that needs to be taken into account is that, once season four rolled around, the show had gained popularity, recognition was growing. And the tone changed.

In the first three seasons they had several POC in either recurring roles, or singular roles with importance. They talked about racism, war, gay men in the army, civilians being stolen for soldiers, children being drafted, the way foreign soliders (and particularly American soldiers) came in and completely fucked over and subjugated the Korean people, the blatant LIES the army told to cover its ass when they made a mistake, propaganda, ect. it was a gigantic Fuck You to the army, "Regular Army" was the enemy, sometimes even more than opposing forces were.

Seasons 1-3, for all its faults (and it had them) was belligerent.

But season four and onwards was when the money and the attention came in. And that's not to say that they didn't still have a message, or anything like that, no no, not at all. But the studio was paying more attention now and they had to mind their step a bit better if they want to strike deep where it counts, because they have to measure their blows now.

So, by a kind of necessity, their teeth were dulled.

Klinger was in uniform more often, "Regular Army" actually had some good guys in it, and Hawkeye's queerness did not progress much farther from the point it had already reached (not to say that is actually would have before, we don't know, probably not, but you get my gist).

So that's my longwinided point, Hawkeye might have gotten queerer if Trapper had stayed around, I think it's probable even, given that his character is always pushing the envelope of behavior, but with the arrival of BJ and the truth of his emotions and desires toward Hawkeye, coupled with the advent of extra hands on the pen and eyes in the writer's room, effectively set the limit.

[neonponders]

I’ve never written Murder Boyfriends before, but @cuepickle ‘s art is just so lovely and powerful.

Based on this and this 💗 💜 🖤 (impending smut ahoy)

• • • • • • •

I just want to help, he’d said.

I just want to make things right, he’d said.

Steve said a lot of things. But he moaned incoherent words and exclaimed sounds he didn’t want anyone else to hear when Billy Hargrove steamrolled into his life, his feelings, and his goddamn morals.

Billy Hargrove wasn’t...right. He was twelve different shades of wrong, punctuated by Caribbean blue eyes and decorated with bronzed waves and curls. Steve knew he had a superiority complex, but he hadn’t known it was this bad.

Thing is, if he’d known, Steve couldn’t guarantee whether he’d change anything. Because knowing Billy Hargrove is a murderer would also mean Steve knew what his lips tasted like, and their softness against his neck.

All Steve had known was that Sheriff Hopper was missing, and his parents, being the upstanding white people that they are, deferred nearly every inconvenience to the police. And the police answered, because fat wallets keep their lights on, like everyone else.

But the Sheriff’s phones kept ringing. And maybe Steve had his own complex after so much time with Nancy, because he parked out front and strolled right into the Sheriff’s office.

The secretary wasn’t there.

Neither were the two deputies.

Steve tucked himself between the desks to pry apart the window blinds. Their cars were still here -

Steve’s head rotated at a sound he knew. He knew it in the way a memory piqued but he couldn’t place where or why. He followed it into the chief’s office...where Billy Hargrove sat at the desk - Hopper’s own chair - and ate a crisp apple from the strange pile in the waste paper basket.

“Billy?”

“Hi, Steve,” he smiled. Ankles crossed on the desk. A perfect, violet crescent framed the side of his eye. An indigo shadow rested in the inner corner of the other one. Either way, Steve’s first red flag was that he ached with concern more than itched for the nailed bat in his trunk.

“What happened to you?”

Steve thought the guy might choke, the way he tipped his head back to laugh while chunks of apple sat in his mouth. Naturally, it took him some time to chew and swallow before he said, “I finally stopped being afraid. And I started being responsible. Not the way he planned, though.”

“Hopper?” Steve frowned.

Billy did not answer immediately. He licked the apple like it might drip juice and beckoned, “Why don’t you sit down? I want to see you.”

The only lights on were in the main room where Steve stood. Ghoulish, fluorescent bulbs while Billy sat in shadow and vague, evening light hatching through the Chief’s window blinds. There was some kind of irony there: Steve in the fake, green-tinged light, and Billy in the natural...honest darkness.

Steve peeked behind him, surveying the room but finding no warnings apart from the negative space where people should be.

He stepped into the office -

“I’ve always liked looking at you.”

Steve paused on the carpet. Billy had said it loud enough to hear, but with enough air in it that Steve couldn’t tell if he was drunk or hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Then he tried to sit in one of the chairs -

“Over here. Sit on the desk.”

“What?” Steve blinked at him, suddenly very aware that the light gave Billy full view of his face but Steve only got the glow in that dark blond hair.

A strong leg pushed Billy away from the desk. The apple tumbled onto its pile of brothers, discarded as he pat the desk. “Sit right here.”

Steve shook his head all at once, beginning to backpedal out of the room. “This is weird.”

“No shit. This whole town’s weird. I’ve been reading some personal files in this room. I guess the Chief thought he was being smart, but...I’ve been hiding my whole life. I know where people hide things. A lot of things make sense in this place, now. The rat pack Max hangs out with. And you. A lot of things makes sense about you, Steve.”

Steve shrugged and his hands clapped against his thighs. “Okay? You’re not special for seeing my report cards.”

Billy’s features froze, but only for a moment, and then laughter burst out of him. “Steve, please sit down. God, I wanna touch you.”

Steve Harrington is a simple person. He’d officially been single for far too long, struck out every time he faced a woman - and a couple guys who were too scared or oblivious to do anything - and he just...

He wanted.

He wanted to be touched and if Billy was offering - Hot Stuff Hargrove, Baby Doll Eyes Billy - then Steve couldn’t help but take. He’d been so patient with everyone. He waited for Nancy to be ready. He accepted defeat when everyone walked away from him with rolling eyes or obligatory smiles.

Billy...talked. He talked and talked. He’d always been a talker; on the basketball court, barking orders as a lifeguard. Always talking, or letting his radio talk for him.

But Steve sat on Hopper’s desk and felt the warmth of Billy’s palms seep through his jeans. He held onto Steve’s calves as he talked. Talked about terrible things. Broken plates and abandoned things. Being the abandoned thing. Being the broken thing. He talked for hours before finally fucking Steve on that desk.

He’d started slow. Just unbuttoning the jeans and then leaving them alone. It would be another half hour before he took off Steve’s shoes. Every time Steve looked behind him - as if asking for someone to come in, to interrupt, to break this dark dream Billy wove around him - Billy said, “Look at me.”

“I’ve been looking at you, Billy.”

A small smile twitched on his lips. “Good.”

It would be another hour before he said, “I think my dad killed my mom.”

Less than a minute before he added, “He had it coming. Feel bad for my step-mom, though. But she was a screamer. So was the tall deputy. Things can finally be quiet now.”

Steve sat very still as arms circled around his pelvis and Billy just...hugged him. Pressed his face against Steve’s soft belly and inhaled his scent. Warm laundry and Steve Steve Steve.

He couldn’t be sure how things evolved into sex. Steve was already trapped in Billy’s web, so all he had to do was decide, to give the web a pluck and Steve felt the vibrations.

He planted his hands on the desk, lifting his ass for Billy to wrench the jeans and underwear off in one go. They got stuck on Steve’s feet, bunched up so Steve had to figure it out himself as Billy pressed himself over top of him.

The green desk lamp fell with an ominous clank.

Steve finally got a leg free and wrapped it around Billy’s ass the same time teeth found his neck. The warning bells that had been ringing since he got here felt far away; church bells too high over the town to actually make a difference in the goings-on.

Billy marked him up like he had paperwork to sign. Steve’s deed was his, and Billy moaned and grunted with every sigh he wrung out of Steve. Every squeeze to his waist made him moan, and he outright whimpered when Billy licked up his neck. For how much Billy gripped, bit, and sucked, he moved surprisingly gently below the belt.

“Gonna get lube later,” he said in that way again, traveling down Steve’s body as his thoughts escaped into the air. “I’m going to have your ass every which way, Harrington.”

Steve could only gasp as his tongue shoved inside him with no preamble. “I-I-I didn’t shower - ”

A guttural, breathy hum ricocheted from Billy’s throat and into Steve’s chest, knocking Steve’s head back like a rock on the way there. Billy’s stubble and gross wetness made Steve feel filthy in the best way. His cock lay heavily on his abdomen, spurting precum every time Billy’s hands squeezed the backs of his thighs.

Steve came like he’d never been touched in his life. His breathing picked up and he rutted against Billy’s face twice before making a mess of his shirt.

Billy took his slowly fading erection into his mouth, jerking himself off almost violently in a matter of seconds.

When Steve stepped outside, the air smelled like the sunrise even though only the faintest bit of blue had begun to dilute the darkness. And as the sun rose, Steve had never felt worse. It was like seeing a demogorgon for the first time, but instead of minutes, it stretched into hours.

People were dead.

Presumably Chief Hopper too.

Billy, he...he...

He showed up to Steve’s house with a smile and freshly laundered clothes. Steve had showered but looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. Billy only tipped his head back toward his car. “I’ve got two bank accounts freshly inherited. Let me buy you lunch.”

Steve wondered if Dustin’s comic book villains drove Camaros.

Billy bought him lunch. Bought him a chocolate milkshake too. Steve didn’t want to think about his ability to swallow those down so easily. Or how he interacted with the waitress like he wasn’t covered in red and brown love bites delivered directly atop Chief Hopper’s desk. He didn’t want to think what having all of Billy Hargrove’s attention on him did to his squirming...pleased...insides.

He didn’t want to think as Billy fingered him in the backseat.

They didn’t even fit back there but Billy moved with what felt like the strength of three men. It was arousing, being manhandled like that; any fear Steve ought to have held in his gut tapped its disapproving toe outside of the vehicle. The way Billy sucked behind his ear, gripped his hips so he could slot himself right in between Steve’s legs and rut his dark pink erection against Steve’s...

The way he bought Steve more milkshakes.

And a fresh tire rotation because his car veered to the left.

And filled him up in the darkness of Steve’s bedroom, making Steve bounce on his cock as he licked the taste of him off his lubed up fingers - 

“You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

It just...came out.

The husky lust cleared from Billy’s eyes when Steve said that. Terror must have filled Steve’s eyes because Billy gently cradled the side of his head.

This is it. This is how I die. Wanting a freaking kiss from a psycho -

“I thought you’d be the one to do that.”

Steve blinked vacantly at him. He could feel Billy’s heartbeat inside his ass and the guy just smiled -

“King Steve. Never thought you were shy - mmph.”

Billy’s bravado melted against Steve’s mouth. He hummed as he felt Steve’s precum on his belly, soaking them both with what he did to him, did to Steve and all of his flawed moral systems.

Steve pushed Billy onto his back with his kiss, tongue desperately tasting and exploring his mouth as his fingers laced behind Billy’s neck.

Until Billy reached up and pulled Steve’s hands apart, just enough for the bases of his palms to sit on both pulse points.

Billy did it himself: made his cheeks go pink and his chest flush red. But Steve made his ass slap against Billy’s thighs. Made Billy’s jaw go slack and his orgasm slow. Made his eyes water and his chest heave when he could breathe again.

Maybe that was his chance. His chance to make things right.

But with an empty Sheriff’s office down the road, and still no one the wiser, Hawkins wasn’t living by any sort of right anymore. The only right that Steve knew, was Billy’s hands making him feel powerful and precious.

[majestyrising]

Metamorphosis, Pt. II

Notes: Bec continues to be experimented on by a strange dragon of a strange breed. Read the first part here. Continued warnings for body horror and gore.

Pings: @vicegrips-fr​ @mask-fr​ @kattafr​ @slighteyewing​ @deadland-disciple​

The switch is subtle enough that in her addled state she doesn’t realise what has just happened. The journal switches hands, quill pinched between fingers as a clawed hand reaches up and tugs the ropes around the two eyed head until his jaw is tied shut. He looks down and begins writing as the three eyed head finally looks up at her, and tugs on the strap of his doctor’s mask to free it.

“You are a strong one, aren’t you?” he says, this head’s voice slightly softer and more humane, “Most die before they reach the table. Sif is not known for her gentle touch.”

He waves a hand. She feels a rush of magic wrap around her body as the bones and muscles of her face rearrange themselves. It’s a spine chilling process that fills the very seat of her soul with nausea. Once it’s done she can at least open her mouth and hiss out loud.

“Indeed,” he says, “Your blood is old, fledgling. Older than the dirt beneath us. Perhaps older than I am.”

He smiles, which is eerie and strange. She’s not the best at reading anyone’s true intentions but it feels genuine, and considering how she’s not much more than a corpse with an attitude right now, that is all the more disturbing.

“Power like yours has a way of, shall we say, diluting as it comes down the stream,” he continues thoughtfully, head tilting to the side as he studies her with wide, intelligent eyes.

“You’re very angry,” he says.

She tries very hard to work her tongue around her teeth and spit out a ‘no fucking shit’, but all she can do is let out a wet croak.

He chuckles, which chills what little of her body she can still feel.

“You want power,” he says, “You feel that you have been shackled down by the mortality of those who claim ownership over you. I can always tell when I find new blood- it is the drive to life in spite of overwhelming odds that allows one to survive such ordeals.”

He clasps his hands together and leans back slightly, resting more weight on his twin tails as his head rocks slowly left to right in thought.

“Do you like art?” he asks, looking back down at her.

She can only blink in response to such an unexpected question. Though as she blinks her vision swims harder, and the more she blinks the worse it gets. At the same time her sight expands, its range growing wider in sections.

It is as if a spider web has been draped over her eyes.

“I do,” he continues, mildly, “Art has no boundaries when it is true. It must be pushed onwards past what the masses consider to be cruelty, and only the strong can do such things.”

He lifts a hand to slice his palm open. Before she can do anything else he shoves his hand deep inside her chest. There’s resistance at first but it buckles and she can feel his fingers around her heart.

It’s as if she swallowed liquid fire. It screams through her heart first and pumps through her body in an instant. It sends her limbs thrashing violently but also sends a surge of energy through her.

She can finally turn her head further and see that her brightly coloured body has changed from the spots of a jaguar to neon slime that is sent spattering against all four walls as the seizure contorts her body in unnatural angles. All of her senses are overstimulated, the pounding of her blood in her eardrums so loud it feels like they’re going to pop.

Though she cannot see, the switch occurs again as the journal changes hands. The ropes are loosened and the doctor’s mask strapped back on.

The two eyed head looks at her with no emotion.

“Blood dosage administered,” he says, “Preliminary result is seizure due to excessive neuron activity.”

The sensation of temperature on her skin is boiling, then freezing, like needles piercing the skin. It feels like an eternity before that finally stops and she is able to turn her head again to see her skin ‘settle’; there’s no scales as there were before, but the surface stops oozing and bleeding everywhere. 

“Secondary result is composition stabilising,” he notes, “A promising sign.”

Her vision doubles even further, but her head feels so heavy she cannot lift it anymore. She’s so tired.

Her captor comes closer once more, leaning over her. This time, both heads are looking at her with interest.

“If you maintain your sanity,” the two eyed head says, “Then we shall induct you into Pulpa Artifex as one of our fleshweavers.”

“We are Bragi,” the three eyed head says, voice muffled by the doctor’s mask, “But you may call me Father.”

[semischarmed]

Detour

“Really Scott,” you say, as you run your fingers through your hair. “I don’t look familiar to you at all?” You take a mental picture of your high school tormentor’s face. Damn. ‘You’ve only gotten hotter these past few years haven’t you?’

“Nah man, sorry” He states as he moves to close the door to his apartment. You give a slight rub to a small gold medallion and his body starts moving on it’s own. You stare at him with a cruel smile as he tries to wrestle control back of his body. Your face strains but you are able to force him to let you into his place. Scott, evidently, was smarter than he looks as you notice him take a mental note of your struggle and the medallion. You’re gonna have to be careful around him.

You have to admit, this is a lot tougher than you initially expected. Much like his body, man has a will of steel, and even with this necklace’s little power boost, you can only barely contain him. But you have the power of raw emotion coursing through you. Envy. Lust. Unlike Scottie over here, lady luck has not been kind to the past few years past high school. That all changed when you came across this medallion. A strange, mystical, wonderful medallion with strange, mystical, wonderful powers. As soon it came into your possession, you instantly knew the first person who would have the privilege of witnessing its power firsthand. Scott reclaimed a bit of power over himself.

“What the fuck dude! You got the wrong guy! I really don’t know who you are!” You have to hold back a bit of your hurt. All those years of agony and fear, and it doesn’t even register a blip to him. ‘Fuck it, worth it for what I’m about to get.’ With another rub of the medallion you force him to freeze.

As you study his frame, still and glistening with a nervous sweat, you are overcome with a wave of lust- you can’t wait to possess the fuck out of this man. He’s only gotten bigger, beefier since the last time you’ve seen him. You are cut from your trance as you hear a soft “zzzz” sound.

His phone buzzes again and, rubbing your medallion, you force him to pull it out and unlock it for you. “Who is this?” You ask, as you take a closer look at the string of texts. “Almost back!” “Hey u wanna get some pizza tonight?” “Dude I gotta tell you about Sophie at the weights today.“

“I-It’s Alex, he’s my friend. He’s my best friend. We’re roommates. Also he’s coming back soon, so you should probably go. This-whatever the fuck this is man, I won’t tell anyone I promise. Just go” he states nervously. Try as you might, you can’t read if he’d genuinely let you go. Knowing the Scott you knew in high school, he’d probably beat you to a pulp as soon as you released your hold on him. Whatever. Not leaving anyway. You stare at more pictures of his friend from Scott’s social media. Fit, cute- hot even, easy on the eyes. Ok then, maybe a little detour is in order. 

“I’m gonna give you a choice.” You state plainly, as you set his phone on the table. “And I know you remember who I am, so you can stop the act. You? Or Alex? Who’s it gonna be?” He probably thinks you’re gonna kill him. Not even close. If anything, he’s gonna be getting a new lif-

“Alex, Alex! Please dude, just leave me alone!” He says without hesitation. Damn. Cold-blooded. You smile with menacing compliance. 

“Alex it is.”

----

Minutes later, a sweaty Alex unlocks the door to his apartment, eager to get quick shower in and order some dinner. “Oh, uh, I didn’t realize we’d have guests”. 

Alex smiles warmly at you and greets you, “Hey, I’m Alex, Scott’s roommate. Good to meet you!” He looks at his hand. “Sorry, I just got back from the gym, so I’d shake your hand, b-” “So you’re Alex! good to meet you too!” you cut him off by extending your hand, which he awkwardly shakes out of formality. You use this to take a sneak preview of your future vessel’s hands. Calloused, but soft. Thin, damp. Vascular. Good.

“Yeah, I’m an old friend of Scott’s. From high school,” you lie. “He said he had to grab something from the store, so he’ll probably be back in a bit.”

“Aww well, I’m sorry he’s been keeping you waiting” Alex gives a warm smile. “He’s usually pretty good at this kind of stuff, so I’m sure he had a good reason. Do you want like a water or something?” 

He starts to head to the kitchen. You stifle a moan as you quickly stick your hand in your pants and smear his gym sweat all over your dick. Sneak preview. 

As he fashions himself a glass of water and glances back as you quickly take your hands out your pants before he notices. “Oh no, no! I’m alright! Thank you for the offer though!” you beam back. Close call.

‘Alex is such a nice, stand up guy’ You wonder to yourself, ‘why is he friends with that piece of shit’

“I’ve known Scott since college, so a little less than you, haha” he adds, as if hearing your mental conversation. “He always keeps it real and he’s even been helping me get toned”. He smiles and does a small bicep flex to demonstrate -hot- before he ravenously gulps down the entire glass of water and sets it down.

‘Fuck yeah, I can’t wait to be the one going down that tube’ you think, as you bite your lip. Alex starts to head your way. You then pick up on his scent, he smells clean- probably his cologne or deodorant. Mountains. Mint. Fresh rain. He’s like a breath of fresh air. Then the undercurrent of his scent hits. Raw, primal, alpha as fuck. You’re a bit surprised. Such a kind, clean cut guy and he apparently naturally smells like a filthy, raunchy, putrid motherfucker. You can hardly control yourself as you try to imagine where it’s coming from. Pits, ass, feet, ball sweat, all of the above?- wherever the fuck it’s coming from, it’s intoxicating. You smile in the joy that a little piece of you, even if it was just the dick that you rubbed his hand sweat all over, now smells like a diluted Alex. You struggle as you adjust your growing hard on in proximity to the pheromone bomb that is Alex.

Suddenly, Alex’s phone buzzes. You steal a glance at the sender. It’s Scott.

“Hey man, come to my room, now. We need to fucking talk. I have no idea who he is. Make sure he stays where he is. He doesn’t know I’m here .” Alex stares at his phone, a little perplexed, while you continue to stare at this fine, fine piece of ass in front of you. He gives a quick glance your way, to which you respond with a smile. 

“Hey, uh, make yourself at home, ok? Im sure Scott’s coming back soon. I, uh, I gotta take care of something real quick with our, um, other roommate.” There’s only two bedrooms and he’s a horrible liar, but you still find it a little endearing. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you, maybe we can hang out sometime. Any friend of Scott is a friend of mine!“ he tells you kindly as you swoon. ‘Oh Alex we’re about to be much, much closer than friends. Closer than you can possibly imagine’.

“Hey dude, uh, so Scott’s friend is waiting for you in the living room. Also whatever this is, can it wait? I kinda have to showe-“ Alex cuts himself off as he sees Scott slumped over, tied up to his desk chair with his own dirty clothes in a neat little bow. “What the fuck!?! Scott! are you ok?” Alex rushes over to help his friend.

“So, I gotta say, Scott, you made a great choice sacrificing him to save yourself. Alex is definitely a catch.” You say from the doorway. Alex quickly looks your way in horror as his best friend breaks free from his fake restraints and pulls him into an embrace.

Alex tries to squirm free from Scott’s grip, as you make Scott say the truth to his friend. “He made me choose, between you and me. I chose you.”

“T-This is a joke, right? Scott?” Scott starts to force him into his desk chair. “Cmon man!” Alex pleads, as an emotionless Scott ties him to the desk chair.

“Some best friend” you chuckle, as you stroke Scott’s cheek and wipe away a stray tear -you can feel his revulsion internally- “he sold you out without a second thought”. You start to undress his lower half, starting with his gym shoes. Fuck it was potent. “Don’t worry, I’ll never do that to us.” You peel away his sweat soaked socks and take another whiff. Alex sits in confusion, probably speechless at what had just transpired.

“Let’s make a deal” you say with a chuckle. “I’ll show you a taste of me if you show me a taste of you.” Without waiting for a response, you start by kneeling down sucking on his scummy toes. Sour. Just how you like it. He’s still squirming in his bonds a little. “Step on me,” you say, as you smash your face to his sweaty feet over and over again, simulating him stepping on you. You catch a little movement in his crotch area. ‘Is he enjoying this?’ you ask, as you continue up Alex’s legs. You look back to make sure Scott is still in your control. He stands frozen, emotionless, but with a deep hatred in his eyes, twitching occasionally in his attempt to break free. You make him face Alex and force him to lift the corner of his tank top to give Alex a little tease, while you continue with your little treasure hunt.

You then peel away his compression shorts to reveal your prize. A concentrated bloom of Alex’s pheromones hit you. Ecstasy. You almost pass out on the spot. ‘Holy shit’. You can't control yourself as bury your head and greedily rub your face in his sweaty crotch. Alex is eerily quiet.

Rubbing the medallion, you issue your next command. You’re gonna need to divert a little magic to making this work, so you release some control of Scott as emotion and shouting return to him. It takes a minute or two but you’re able to get your bodies properly primed fro the next stage. You notice Alex shiver from a slight tingle in his body, while Scott continues his barrage of insults your way. “Shut up,” you command. His lips quiver and then shut. “Scottie, come tell Alex what his best friend is gonna do to him.”

Alex again looks at Scott with a pleading face as a twitching, emotionless Scott continues: “Alex, I’m gonna stuff you full of himm- full of my Ma,” you wince. Strong and stubborn as ever, you can’t even get him to call you master. “Man you’re gonna love it. I sold you out to save myself. Didn’t even have to think about it. Just like that.” You’re getting a little better at controlling his movements. “Now I’m gonna be the one to make sure I put all of him inside you” Scott continues, “I-I can’t wait to see him wear you like a s-suit, parading you around, s-swimming in your skin and no one will ever know. I can’t wait to see the new you, w-with a little fag pilot tucked safe inside, pulling on your strings, speaking for you, thinking for you, loving for you” Scott finishes with an unsettling, wide grin that you force him into. 

Emotion and control rush back to Scott’s face. “Alex...” he states in an apologetic tone, but Alex doesn’t even look him in eye. Again, off the corner of your eye, you can’t help but notice a ghost of a smile on his face before it returns to its sullen look.

“Ok, ok, enough you two. Let’s go put on a good show for our best friend Scottie”.

-End Part 1-

[rina-cyarika-writing]

Take Number One

Chapter Two of Out of Time

Series Masterlist ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ Join My Taglist 

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 2k+

Summary: Reader’s first crack at keeping Whiskey from dying.

Warnings: Language, violence, major character death, ANGST (Duh)

A/N: I'm so sorry for not updating in a really long time! Life has been very hectic lately, with work and several deaths in the family, so I really really appreciate your patience. Because of everything going on, it's been a bit of a struggle finding time and motivation to write, but I AM slowly working on my content.

⟸ Previous Chapter ❖ Next Chapter ⟹

“WHISKEY! NO!”

You woke up, breathing heavily, and snatched your phone from the nightstand.

Dammit.

Dammit.

DAMMIT!

The device’s screen flashed at you.

3:24 am.

June 13th, 2017.

Friday the 13th.

Fuck fuck fuck.

It was the same day.

Again.

Are you fucking kidding me?!

You were going to lose your shit.

You had a feeling you would be back to relive this day again, but a part of you had hoped that you wouldn’t. That it was only a dream.

Nope.

You took a deep breath and stilled your mind, trying to calm yourself and your racing thoughts. You still had time before Ginger woke Whiskey up, so you thought of ways to stop his death from happening. You decided to try with Ginger.

Maybe if I tell her what’s happening or what will happen, she won’t wake him up.

Yeah, I’ll do that.

But first, coffee.

Knowing that you had almost all day before the inevitable, but maybe preventable, events would happen, you decided to at least start your day off right. You swung your legs out of bed, forgoing your slippers, and walked into your closet. Pulling out some pants and a shirt, you stripped out of your pajamas and quickly changed. Running your fingers through your hair, you tried to unknot it as best as you could but failed.

Ugh.

Damn hair.

You gave in and picked up a brush, tugging at the ends to untangle it. After battling with your hair, you threw it into a bun, having no patience to deal with it any longer.

I have more important things to worry about.

Sliding your phone into your back pocket, you slipped out of your apartment and trekked down to the shared dining area. You had a fully functioning apartment, but you liked going down to the shared dining room instead of cooking for yourself, especially this morning.

Being an agent has its perks.

I never starve.

As you entered the large common room, you were greeted by the sight of Ginger at the coffee pot, filling her mug, steam coming off the top.

Bingo.

You strode over to her, picking up a cup of your own, and filled it with the bitter morning nectar of the gods.

“Morning, Ging,” you greeted with a sleepy smile.

“Good morning, Brandy,” she replied, returning your smile. “You’re up early.” You typically had a penchant for sleeping in, especially when you didn’t have a mission, so it was a surprise that you would be up well before dawn.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you stated with a shrug. “Speaking of which, do you ever sleep?” She chuckled at your question.

“I do, but you’re usually busy doing something.” Nodding at her explanation, you picked up a spoonful of sugar and the small container of milk, pouring a generous amount of each substance into your coffee until it turned into a light brown mixture. As much as you enjoyed coffee and its benefits, the bitterness irked you, so you often opted to dilute it with sugar and milk as often as possible. Many would think it was a heinous crime, but you gave no shits. You would work with the sugar-boosted caffeine any day.

The day I start drinking my coffee black is when pigs fly.

You let out a contented sigh as you brought the porcelain cup to your lips, the sweet aroma filling your nose.

“I will never get tired of this,” you said happily, sipping the hot liquid as Ginger chuckled at you and took a drink of her own.

“You never were a morning person.”

“No way,” you retorted. “Who in their right mind wakes up before the ass-crack of dawn?!”

“I could name a few,” she answered. “Whiskey, for one.” At the mention of Whiskey, you remembered why you had come down in the first place.

“Hey, Ging, about Whiskey. I wanted to talk to you,” you began. She looked at you questioningly.

“What about him?”

“Um – I know you’re supposed to wake him up later today, but could you maybe hold off on that?” The agent looked at you in confusion.

“Why?” You weren’t sure how to answer her.

I either have to tell her and risk sounding crazy or come up with some bullshit excuse.

“Agent Brandy?”

“I just need you to.”

“I need a good reason why,” she replied. “I can’t just keep Whiskey under when he’s fully healed, and we may need his help.”

“I know, but you have to trust me on this, okay?” Ginger shook her head.

“I’m sorry, but unless you have some a good reason why, then I have to wake him up in a few hours.” You began to panic.

Here goes nothing.

“Ginger, if you wake him up, he’s going to die.” She looked at you with wide eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

“He – if you wake him, he’s going to die,” you squeaked out. “Don’t ask me how I know because I have no idea how to explain it, but I just know, okay?”

“Um – Brandy, I think you should go back to sleep; Whiskey will be fine,” she began, worried about your state of mind. “The nanites are working as they should, so there isn’t going to be a risk of him dying when he wakes up.”

“I know that,” came your rebuttal. “It’s not the nanites. Just – just trust me on this, please?” The woman looked at you skeptically.

“I – I’m sorry, but unless Champ says I can’t, or you tell me why then I have to do as protocol states.” Your shoulders slumped in defeat. You did not want to resort to telling her about what was happening with you but did not have any other choice.

God, she’s going to think I’ve fucking lost it.

“Ginger, this is going to sound outrageous,” you began to explain, placing your cup down on the table, “but this day has already happened. For me.” She raised an eyebrow at your statement.

“Uh – “

“Look, I know it’s bizarre, and you probably don’t believe me, but today is yesterday for me.” More confusion spread across her face. “I mean, yesterday is today for me.”

“Uh – “

“Fuck! I just mean that I’ve already relived today. Today is Friday; yesterday it was Friday; tomorrow will be Friday.”

I am seriously starting to sound fucking crazy.

Ginger held her hand up.

“If this is one of your jokes, it’s not a very good one, Agent Brandy,” she said. “I think you might just need more sleep because you’re starting to worry me a bit.” She turned and made her way back to her lab, worriedly glancing over her shoulder at you one last time.

Fuck!

You awkwardly stood there, trying to figure out Plan B.

That was a fucking failure.

Now what?

You picked up your coffee and took a seat in a lounge chair, letting the ceramic warm up your cold hands. You huffed out a breath and contemplated your next move.

You sat there for a while, zoning out and trying to think of what to do next when you got an idea.

Instead of going through Ginger, I could just go straight to Whiskey and tell him what’s going to happen.

Grabbing your phone out of your pocket, you looked at the time.

3:59 am.

Now to figure out what time Ginger is waking him up.

You made your way to her lab, poking your head in, and saw her typing away next to Merlin, and it looked like they were trying to breach Poppy’s firewall. Both of their heads turned to face you when the door swung open, and you gave them a little wave.

“Heya, Ging, Merlin,” you greeted. She nodded at you, and the man smiled.

“Hello, Agent Brandy. What brings you in today?” Merlin kindly asked.

“I was just wondering when Ginger plans on waking Whiskey up,” came your nervous reply, unsure of how she would react given your earlier conversation.

I know from yesterday, no, fuck.

Today.

Yesterday 2.0?

Ugh, I guess it would be 3.0 at this point.

Whatever, Friday the 13th 3.0.

I know that by the time I got to the lab around 3:20 or 3:30, they were already gone, and Whiskey was already…

You snapped yourself out of your thoughts and looked at the two very confused agents staring back at you.

“I’m due to wake him in a few hours. Around maybe eight or so,” Ginger answered, looking at her watch.

YES!

I have time!

“I’d like to be there when you wake him, if possible?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said with a shrug.

Score!

“Thank you!” you replied with a grin. Ginger nodded her head, still weirded out by your behavior, and went back to what she and Merlin were going. As you were leaving, you caught the tail-end of their conversation about an agent position being open and how Ginger always asked, but Whiskey would vote against her.

Huh.

You aimlessly made your way to the library and sat in one of the couches, trying to figure out what you were going to do. You had a while before Whiskey would wake up, and you weren’t sure when Eggsy and Co. would be leaving, but you needed to figure something out. And quick.

You sat in the library for about forty minutes or so before deciding to get up and go to the lab to see if you could help Ginger and Merlin with anything. Just as you pulled the doors open, you heard Eggsy, Harry, and Merlin’s voices and stopped, listening to what they were saying.

“I shot Agent Whiskey. Deliberately,” came Harry’s voice. You covered your mouth to muffle your gasp.

Harry shot Whiskey?

What the fuck?!

Why?!

“What, why?” Merlin replied.

“He was working against us,” you heard Harry reply. “And until we find out why, I say we trust no one.”

What the fuck.

What the fuck.

What the fuck.

“Merlin, Harry’s sick,” Eggsy’s voice ran through the hall. “This whole thing is my fault. I thought he was ready.”

Damn right, he wasn’t fucking ready.

But how the fuck did Harry know about Whiskey before they even went to Cambodia?

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this,” Eggsy said as his phone rang. You tuned Eggsy’s voice out and instead tried to focus on Harry’s.

“Listen to me. This is not about my mental health,” Harry spoke. “If there’s a chance, there’s a double agent in our midst, or worse, if Statesmen itself has a dark agenda, we have to safeguard this mission.”

WHAT THE FUCK?!

You were fuming. Harry’s insinuation that Statesmen would support Poppy-fuckface filled you with rage.

How dare he question our loyalties.

You knew that Whiskey was no double agent. Sure, he had a vendetta against drug users; however, you couldn’t understand why Harry might think Whiskey could be a double agent. You were still in the dark about what happened to make Harry think those thoughts and why he would even shoot him, but you wanted to get to the bottom of things, but more importantly, you needed to stop Whiskey from dying. Again. You listened some more, hearing Eggsy’s voice get louder.

Uh oh.

“Merlin! Have you got eyes on that location yet?” Eggsy yelled.

“Soon,” the man answered. “The reconnaissance drone is about an hour away. Which gives us time to sort out – “

“Bullocks, we haven’t time for anything,” Eggsy announced. “I’m leaving now. With or without you.” You heard the elevator doors close, and you poked your head around the corner.

Empty.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You glanced down at your watch.

4:46 am.

You still had hours before Whiskey woke up, and you calculated the time it would take the trio to get to Cambodia.

They’ll most likely be taking the Statemen’s plane, and that bitch goes like nine hundred miles an hour.

Cambodia is almost nine thousand miles away, so that’s like ten-ish hours of flight time.

That will put them at around 2:45 pm when they get there.

Fuck.

You were panicking. If Whiskey woke up around 8 am, and he decided to take the Silver Pony, you knew he would get there shortly after them, which meant he would probably get there just in time to die. You shook your head, not wanting to think about that. No, you had to stop it from happening.

Do I wake him up early?

Do I tell him?

What do I do?!

Your mind was racing, your heart pounding in your chest at the inner turmoil. You took a moment to compose yourself when another idea popped into your head.

The machine!

If I can make it so the nanites keep Whiskey under, Ginger won’t be able to wake him up on time, and I won’t have to tell him what happens if he goes after them.

You hurriedly ran down the hall, checking if Ginger was still in her lab as you passed it, and let out a sigh when you saw she was still busy, although she was now alone.

Merlin must have gone with Eggsy and Harry.

You picked up the pace to the lab where Whiskey was and entered the pin to grant you entry. The doors opened with a hiss, and you quickly shut and locked it behind you.

Just in case anyone comes by.

As you walked to Whiskey’s bedside, you couldn’t help but admire the man’s features. His mustache was always neatly trimmed, and he looked so peaceful as he slept, not a care in the world.

He’s so beautiful.

You wanted to run your fingers through his hair but stopped yourself.

Dammit!

I’m being such a creep.

You did not want to waste any more time, so you promptly pulled up the screen to the machine, fingers rapidly flying over the keyboard as you reprogrammed the nanites from disengaging and allowing anyone to access the wake function. You continued to type, adding another more complex code on the off chance that Ginger bypassed the first one. For good measure, you entered in a third one before looking over your handiwork.

That should do it.

You exhaled and glanced at the time.

5:09 am.

Now we wait.

Knowing you had time before Ginger went to wake the slumbering agent, you decided to hide in the library again, making sure to set an alarm shortly before Whiskey was to wake. Throwing yourself into a plush armchair, you scrolled through your phone, knee bouncing with anxiety as the minutes slowly ticked by. As you mindlessly swiped through social media on your phone, your eyelids began to grow heavy, and before you knew it, you had dozed off.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!

Bolting upright, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, taking note of the time.

7:55 am.

Right on time.

You rose from the chair and exited the library, feet guiding you to stand outside the lab doors. You spied Ginger’s dark head of hair as she typed away on the machine beside Whiskey, and you held your breath, hoping that your code would work. You let out a sigh of relief as you watched the woman let out a frustrated groan and rub her temple, the program working its magic to deter her from disconnecting the nanites and initiating the wake sequence.

However, your relief was cut short and quickly turned into fear when the machine monitoring Whiskey’s heart rate started to loudly beep, and his vitals began to plummet. Ginger frantically tried to type in sequence after sequence to make the machine stabilize him, but it was clear that things were going array. When Whiskey began to seize suddenly, and the machinery started to smoke, you knew that you had fucked something up when inputting your code to reprogram the tiny robots. The nanites were no longer working to heal the sleeping agent but were instead undoing their work.

“WHISKEY, NO!”

You rushed into the room as Ginger ran to the corner to get a defibrillator, but you were both too late. You helplessly watched as Whiskey’s body uncontrollably convulsed, back arching off the table, before flames erupted from the machine, engulfing him in hues of red, orange, and yellow. His movements abruptly ceased as the sprinklers finally activated, dousing the room with water, but it was no use. Time stilled as the steady beep of his nonexistent heartbeat rang through the room, the straight line on the screen taunting you.

You fell to your knees, tears streaming down your face as you let out a sob at the sight of his charred figure.

You had failed.

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[capsized-heart]

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this. 

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​ 

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy. 

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child. 

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother. 

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed. 

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.   

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English. 

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland. 

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin. 

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre. 

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king. 

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to. 

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland. 

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk. 

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey. 

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates. 

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you. 

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey. 

A lick of fire coils up your throat. 

God save the king. 

**

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand. 

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling. 

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose. 

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly. 

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing. 

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other. 

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.  

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels. 

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. 

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance. 

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy. 

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear. 

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal. 

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation. 

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

**

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own. 

You see it all. After all, you are a woman. 

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror. 

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.” 

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”      

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact. 

King Henry IV.     

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly. 

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.     

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air. 

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride. 

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.  

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.  

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you. 

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light. 

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you. 

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”  

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law? 

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls. 

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile. 

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more. 

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue. 

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor. 

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.  

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light. 

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.   

“I thank you, sire.” 

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear. 

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”  

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced. 

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests. 

You leave him burning. 

**

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting. 

 The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria. 

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup. 

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans. 

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor. 

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted. 

Even if it is all a charade. 

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.      

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.  

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.   

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes. 

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs. 

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers. 

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.   

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.     

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek. 

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers. 

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic. 

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip. 

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.  

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat. 

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink. 

**

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily. 

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly. 

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time. 

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

**

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife. 

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil. 

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.  

“King Henry!”

**

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.  

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry. 

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood. 

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker. 

A ball for the boy king.   

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture. 

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm. 

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.    

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise. 

**

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.  

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk. 

You feign surprise and turn.     

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?��

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.  

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.  

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize. 

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection. 

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno. 

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear. 

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum. 

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs. 

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming. 

“I thank you, my lord.” 

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?” 

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response. 

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar. 

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

**

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you. 

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game. 

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands. 

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father. 

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.   

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce. 

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely. 

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game. 

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding. 

You are to let him touch you. 

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire. 

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself. 

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.  

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure. 

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth. 

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman. 

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

**

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows. 

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move. 

You only burn brighter.  

**

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase. 

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest. 

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil. 

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval? 

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago. 

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

**

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment. 

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.  

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns. 

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself. 

**

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return. 

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession. 

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England. 

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song. 

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together. 

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room. 

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.” 

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear. 

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.  

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.” 

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis. 

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely. 

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually. 

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening. 

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it. 

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm. 

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...” 

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss. 

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder. 

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed. 

You have the king’s word. 

**

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool. 

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.” 

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries. 

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly. 

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer. 

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.  

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming. 

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races. 

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.” 

**

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger. 

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this. 

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood. 

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

**

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill. 

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling. 

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

**

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have. 

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest. 

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl. 

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos. 

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world. 

 The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone. 

 You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world. 

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below. 

[queenoftheworldisdead]

The Cookout

Note: Inspired by art from @nix-akimbo seen here.

Summery: Your friend’s mom invites you over to neighborhood cook out.

Warning: Sex in a shed. Rough sex, cream pie, choking, spanking

Bucky x Reader

As soon as Sam's mom opened the door she lit up like a Christmas tree. You were in town and thought you should swing by, before heading back out of town.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in forever!" Mrs.Wilson squealed.

"Sorry I'm just so busy at work that I don't have time to come out to these parts often."

Mrs. Wilson released you and shouted out to her son.  Moving to the side she walked you through the house where you found your childhood best bud unpacking groceries.

"Well, aren't you the domestic" you kid the goofball.

"Aye!" Sam shouted, arms out stretched, putting down the item in his hand to rush over and hug you. "What are you doing here?"

"Just swinging by. I am heading back to the city tonight."

"Oh no! Stay the night. The neighbors are putting together a big  BBQ party tomorrow. I'm making ribs" she nudged you with a wink. Your stomach nearly growled from that alone. Mrs.Wilson's cooking was legendary.

Living in the city you rarely cooked for yourself. Sustaining heavily on a diet of takeout or frozen confections.

"Hmmm" you pondered playfully "What do I need to bring?"

"Nothing but your appetite" Sam chimed in.

"Well OK then, let me see if I can get my room, back and I will come round ar.."

"Girl don't make me spank you! Sam's house is big enough for you too. Sam! Go get her things out the car!" You laughed as she barked orders at her boy.

Back in the day you could not have imagine this super religious woman would ever allow you to sleep under the same roof as her boy, but times seemed to have really changed. But you slightly figured ulterior motives were at play.

The next day you arose to the sound of Marvin Gaye and smokey charcoal from the large barbecue grill outside.

After brushing your teeth, washing your face and slapping on some yoga pants and loose tee you make your way down to the kitchen.

Thankfully a pot was already percolating and of course Mrs. Wilson had set a side a plate of bacon, eggs and toast with a note addressed to you.

Walking over to the cabinet you waved to Sam and his mother, the pair arguing over something on the grill outside. The familiar sight of their banter bringing a smile to your face.

Searching the cabinets you sing to yourself as the Isley Brothers started to play.

"And who are you?" A strange voice startled you from behind.

"Oh shit!" You screeched, dropping the procaine cup in fright.

"Sorry Doll didn't mean to scare you."

His open Hawaiian shirt exposed his tattooed arms and chest. Your eyes scanned his body, your teeth dragging across your bottom lip as he stood before you.

"See something you like Doll?"

"I-i um" you stutter out.

"James!" Mrs.Wilson shouted as she came through the patio door.

"Good morning beautiful!" He smiled turning his attention away from you to her.

She embraced and hugged the stranger. Sam's mother stepped back and introduced you to him. Stretching out a hand he asked that you call him 'Bucky'.

"Nice to meet you."

"She is an old friend of Sam's, just in town for a bit." She explained to him.

"James lives next door and served with Sam, helping to protect my baby." Mrs. Wilson pinched his cheeks adorably making you giggle.

"Hey man!" Sam called from behind you. "Come around to steel our secret recipe huh?"

Bucky held his hands up in surrender, the two men chatted while Mrs. Wilson stayed back with you. You watched the exchange while picking up the pieces of the shattered cup from the floor.

Mrs. Wilson sent you on a quick errand to pick up a few bottles of Hennessy and Crown Royal. As you drove back to the neighborhood the party was already starting to kick off.

Parking in front, you unloaded the car and brought in the bottles. Fumbling with the door as you try and open it a hard body brushed up against you making you gasp.

"You scare easily don't you Doll?"

The smooth sound of Bucky's voice appeared from behind you. You scoffed at his remark. Taking one of the bags from your grasp, he opened the door and pushed past you.

Following behind you both march to the kitchen and through the back door. Placing the booze on a picnic table that was beginning to be stuffed with food and drink.

You looked around for the familiar faces of Sam or his mother, but weren't around. Presumable making their rounds to the other houses.

"You look like a lost puppy Doll." Bucky said as he poured a drink into one of the plastic cups.

"Not really a party person" You shrugged, Bucky passed you a cup and you reluctantly took it. The generous pourer didn't dink mix the hard liquor with soda so the burn was strong.

"Moved on from scaring and now trying to kill me huh?" You popped open a coke to dilute the awful drink.

"Sam never mentioned you were such a light weight." Bucky teased.

“Sam doesn’t mention a lot of things its seems.”

He was handsome and you were sure he knew it. He hovered around you, talking to neighbors that passed by. While you took out your phone a sipped your drink.

"If you are done baby sitting your drink do you think you can help me with something?" Bucky asked.

"What?"

"I need help getting the extra tables out of the shed. Can't find Sam so I figured you would do."

You ignored the way he looked you up and down. "Fine lets go."

Walking behind him to the shed, he opened the door and allowed you to walk in first. The small cramped space held a rusted muscle car that Sam had told you he was going to fix up. The old clunker surrounded by rusty tools and folded tables. Bucky squeezed past you, accidentally knocking you forward onto the hood of the car.

"Hey watch it Bucko." You scolded him as you try and push up.

"Sorry Doll" he paused finally noticing your awkward position. Pulling back from the tables he moved to squeeze behind you again.

When he pressed his cock on your ass you felt instant heat.

"Do you mind? Kinda hard for me to move with you like this." You looked over your shoulder at him.

"I can see why Sam has kept quiet about you now" rubbing his groan on you, standing up straight he didn't allow for any space.

"I think the tables are over there." changing the subject, you point and try to move, but he placed hands on either side of you not allowing you to move.

"Big city girl so up tight" he spoke into the shell of your ear.  Bucky's cock felt hard as he pressed on the fat of your ass.

"You know I think they might be looking for us" you try and move again, but Bucky bumped you a harder with his hips.

"Nah they're fine" Bucky hummed as he hooked his thumbs in the waist band of your yoga pants. Your hands move to the top of his and you hesitate to pry him off. The buzz of the booze started to course through your veins. Pulling your pants down past your ass you couldn't find the strength to stop him.

Bucky pushed your shoulder forward and you found yourself on the hood of the car again. A part of you wanted to bring an end to this while the other half blamed it on the alcohol.

"Fuck Doll your already making me pre come." Bucky tapped the head of his cock on your as and growled. You could feel yourself grow wet, thinking about him putting his cock inside you.

With one hand gripping your hip, he guided his tip to your folds. Playing with your wetness, teasing you with gentle pressure at your entrance. "We should probably s-stop" you started to stutter. Thinking of how you didn't want Sam or his mom to find you like this.

Bucky only tsk'd as he pressed in to part your slick lips with his dick. The slow stretching made you moan lowly. A hard smack came across your ass making you hiss in pain.

"Don't be shy on my account Doll" he pushed his weight into your ass, leaning into your ear."I want to hear you scream."

"Mmm" you grit your teeth as you try and adjust to his size.

"So tight Doll, you fit me so good."

Standing up straight, Bucky pulled your hips back with it. Rocking his hips slowly into you, smacking your ass with each odd stroke. Your hands cup the side of the car for support as  you threw it back on him. Bucky groaned watching you bounce on his cock, praising your efforts to take him deeper before taking control again.

The music of the party bled through the walls giving you the courage to moan louder as be fucked you. You didn't care that your knees hit hard against the tires of the beat up car. Or that each stroke had you gasping as he hit the inner wall of your mound. Now the idea of being caught made this event all the more exciting.

"Fuck Bucky!" You shouted as your hands move to scrub against the hood of the car.

"That's it Doll, tell me who you belong to." His cocky tone bringing out your bratty side. Looking over your shoulder, Bucky's body glistened in the dimly lit room.  

When he locked eyes with you, you shake your head no. His cocky smirk returned with the build between your legs.

He gave a hard thrust and it took every thing just to choke it down. Pushing and holding himself deep inside of you, the fullness almost too much to bare. Your feet dance in place as Bucky's hand snaked up your spine, wrapping around smoothing over your breast until he rested on your neck. His grip tightened on your throat, forcing your back into an uncomfortable angle. Your hands barely able to touch the hood of the car.

"Fuck shit!" You choked out.

"That's not my name Doll" he growled as he made his grip tighter around your neck. His hips slammed into yours with a punishing pace.

"Ahh shit fuck" you moan out as you feel your mound start to throb.

"Still not my name. Say it!" He commanded.

You couldn't take it, you felt so full. Your pussy stuffed with his dick, your eyes start to roll as he grunted your name.

"Bucky! Bucky! Shit!" You mewled out as your cunt worked his dick while you cum.

His victorious chuckles mixed with a primal moan. His pace steady as a warmness filled you, leaking out past him and down your thigh. Bucky's cock twitched as he emptied himself inside of you.

"Shit! Did you cum in me!" you exclaim as he slowly pulled out. His seed dripping slowly down your leg, turning to face him, he only gave a shrug and a smile. Pulling up your pants you fume at his irresponsibility and your own stupidity.

[fakecrfan]

Okay I have been listening to Eskew and the person I have been chatting about it with has been less available to chat so! I am just going to dump my thoughts here. I just finished episode 13.

I think I Am In Eskew has better horror than the Magnus Archives. So far it’s had a bigger concentration of Fucked Up Images that stick with me than TMA. Plus the tone seems to laser-focus on the horror, while TMA at different times veers more into interpersonal conflict, romance, humor, etc.

Part of me wishes that Eskew had more recurring characters and more lighthearted moments just so we could get attached to people before they get brutalized. But apparently, if the TMA writers are to be believed, it seems that creators everywhere have made a secret pact that “if you spend lots of time with a character, you can’t just completely brutalize them at the end because then people will be too upset. You can only have super tragic endings for shorter form stories.” (grumble grumble)

So Eskew, thus far, has concentrated most of its fucked up happenings on one-off characters. I feel like this dilutes the horror a bit, so even if it’s got the horror imagery down better it doesn’t dig in and rip out bits of your heart as effectively as it otherwise could.

I have hopes for this changing though! Riyo is recurring. Allegra seems like she’ll become recurring. And while he was a one off I did quite like Kenneth before he got stitched up into a a comfort squeaky toy for David so that’s promising! Hoping that now there is starting to be more of a regular cast than just David, I’ll get to see the fucked up shit happen to characters I am more attached to.