#I feel like I might be poking a bear with this given he's a fandom darling and all

[lesenbyan]

You know. I think I like G'raha for some of the same reasons people i know dislike him but likewise in the agreement on these facts is also why I dislike fandom G'raha. 'cause like. He isn't the same character as the Exarch. the G'raha we know and travel with in EW is not the same man as the Exarch, even with his memories, and I don't mean bc he's younger. like.

okay. I was raised on way too much sci-fi, okay? I got deep in it with paradoxes and time travel and alternate and parallel realities before i was 10. I had a lose grasp on certain quantum mechanics concepts at 13. you give me a time loop and I will immediately understand two things:

every loop is an alternate universe converging off of the same single point as there can be (are, depending) near infinite universes off of every single point in space (<- this is why AUs are called AUs after all) and thus

even if it's the same face, even if it's the same name. even if it's the exact same past up until now, even if everything is perceptibly the same, and this is crucial, they are not the same person.

(I promise, I'm getting there)

This holds true, even in a closed paradox bc you now have a chicken and the egg scenario. Like we all kind of understand the grandfather paradox, we understand that if we kill our grandfather before the respective parent is conceived we couldn't have been born and thus couldn't kill him, ad nauseum. but even if you close it. Even if, say, you're your own grandfather, every loop something's going to change, even if it's not noticeable, even if it's not in your life. something is gonna change. A fundamental fact of how i understand the theory to work (granted I'm no scholar) is every time you go back in time you're not actually going back on your linear time, you're creating an alternate universe which will then be the universe you also fast forward through when you go forward in time.

That being said, the G'raha Tia that becomes the Exarch is not the G'raha Tia that we know, this is proven the fact that the G'raha Tia we know cannot go on to become the Exarch bc the Exarch did not live these post 5.3 experiences. And from there that means the Exarch also didn't come from the G'raha we knew in Crystal Tower. CT and EW G'rahas are the same. the Exarch is from a parallel reality G'raha that yanked us bc the us from his reality died before he woke up and that is how that reality will always play out and we just so happen to be from the reality he reaches into/splinters to save a future. not his future. the people of his future are far beyond his reach and have been since he traveled to the First.

And I think all of that is incredibly fascinating. Especially bc if the G'raha we know was the base of the Exarch you'd think, now that the Exarch's memories are part of him he'd act more like him. but it still doesn't sit right on his shoulders. bc it's not him. This is someone else. this is a role he can play, a mask he can slip into, a dance he knows. but it's not who he is. it's not where he's comfortable, like he was comfortable for 100 years. You see it in Thavnair, you see him steel himself for it. he sees what's happening and he knows what needs doing bc he's got the memories of managing a panicked peoples before in the middle of tragedy. But it's not him. The Exarch is a different man. And I wonder, desperately, how G'raha feels about that man.

[kiirschtein-archive]

⋆ 「 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. 」 ⋆

jean has a difficult day, returning home to you feeling exhausted and distant. maybe being held like a big, angry baby will fix him.

pairing. — jean kirschtein x gn!reader

word count. — 899

content. — sfw, jean is angsty but reader won’t let him be for long (so mild angst but it turns to fluff i swear), cuddling, physical affection, established relationship.

notes. — *waves nervously* hello all! so... after years i've finally caught up on aot and i have the brainrot pretty hardcore rn. not me lowkey returning to my anime era. anyways, i've never written for the fandom before but jean is my husband and this just popped into my brain the other day, so here we are. enjoy!

The front door opens and closes with a familiar set of noises that reflexively rouse you, but the air that settles in the room quickly thereafter is less routine.

“Hey!” you call out in greeting with a light smile, watching as Jean shuffles forward and removes his boots and coat afterward, draping it over the first available surface that will hold it. His burdened body language and lack of response is enough to tell you that his return home is not pleasant in spirit. Your deduction is only further proven by the way he slumps opposite you on the couch, elbows on knees with a long sigh and deadened eyes. Naturally, you want to offer support, but there’s another part of you that is almost afraid to poke the bear.

But it’s Jean. His bark is often far worse than his bite, and in this state it doesn’t look as though he’s well-equipped to do either.

Sitting up a bit after a moment of silence, you softly ask, “What’s the matter, Jeanbo?”

There’s the slightest hint of a cringe at the name but he seems content to let it go for the moment. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

You wonder what compels him to withhold the truth when you are often oh so good at extracting it from him, or at the very least able to tell when he’s lying in the first place. But looking at his evident exhaustion and lack of regular spirit, you also wonder if it's even worth it to pry.

However, you find it challenging to simply do nothing. “Baby…” you start, poking your toes just underneath where his thigh meets the seat cushion, probing for his full attention. “Don’t fib.”

There’s a flavor of attitude in the scoff he gives, gaze still fixed on the floor instead of on you.

Oh. So he really is in a mood—likely one that’s not going to be so easy to shake. But to date, you can’t recall a time that he’s ever given up on you, so how could you even think of doing such a thing to him? To leave him in his quiet, solitary misery would plague your conscience with guilt. Perhaps powering forward with a positive disposition will help pull him back to the light.

“Would a kiss make it better?” you ask with a lighthearted grin, hoping to entice him with your playfully offered affection.

Jean huffs and grunts but makes no effort to move away from you. “I’m not a baby, y’know.” His tone is still uncooperative, but there’s something about it that doesn’t entirely convince you. In all the time you’ve spent together, he’s never really truly given you the cold shoulder no matter how tough things managed to get. There’s no reason for you to believe that he would do it now.

You squint your eyes in displeasure, staring him down for a moment before deciding to take action. If he wants to be indignant, you’ll simply have to take a somewhat different approach.

“Oh? Is that so?” you say, brows raising in faux inquisition. “Come here.” You sit up now, reaching out to grab him beneath the arms as best as you can at your angle, and drag him backwards with all your might. He might be quite the large specimen, but that does nothing to deter your efforts.

“Hey–” he starts, surprised by your sudden incursion. Though rigid at first, he eventually becomes compliant and allows himself to be re-positioned between your legs, back against your torso and head against your chest. You wrap your arms around him to pull him closer, letting the weight of his body rest against your own. It isn’t long before you feel his muscles relax into this new position, releasing any tension they had previously clung to. Success.

Jean lets out a longer, far more relaxed sigh this time as your fingers gently toy with his hair, causing his eyes to close shortly after. “‘M sorry,” he mumbles and takes another deep breath. He’s almost in disbelief that he could attempt to deny himself of this, despite knowing how efficiently you are able to soothe him. He feels foolish for being so standoffish. “I love you.” His eyes are open now and he cranes his head back against your chest to look up at you as best as he can.

You offer a gentle smile and a small chuckle, feeling a deep sense of love and accomplishment. “S’okay, loverboy.” Your fingers brush at his bangs with adoration, and you give him a small peck on the cheek with your lips. Afterwards, your mouth stops just below his ear, and there you whisper, “I love you more.”

“Not possible,” he retorts, closing his eyes once again and shuffling against you for comfort. “No one beats me at anything.”

You roll your eyes as he lazily matches your smile and goes lax. “If you say so.” Arguing with him is the last thing you feel compelled to do now that he has been calmed, essentially using you as a pillow, and is surely about to drift off into a much-needed slumber. You’ll overcome the ordeal of figuring out how to move him later–for now, you’re happy just to watch him sleep undisturbed with the face of an angel, knowing that you’ve done your part in helping ease his burdens if only just for tonight.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

forever doesn't seem so far away

prompt: not realizing they're injured, "it's not my blood"

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi here's yet another installment of me beating illya to shit, hope you enjoy! title (slightly edited) from you by benny blanco

“It’s not my blood,” Illya says, before Napoleon can get a word in edgewise. 

Given that his skin is about three shades too pale and that there’s a rather visible tear in his shirt, sticky with blood, Napoleon is less than convinced. 

“You sure about that?”

“I think I would know, if I was injured.”

“Just…look down, would you?”

Illya glances down at himself, evidently for the first time. He pokes at the tear experimentally, winces, pulls back his hand. 

“You still wanna play the ‘not my blood’ card?”

“How…” He looks lost, like he can’t believe he couldn’t have realized. 

“Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug,” Napoleon puts forth, stepping forwards to steady Illya with a hand on his arm when he sees him falter, just for a second. 

He guides Illya to sit on the nearest surface, a wicker dining chair that he’s frankly shocked can bear any weight at all. 

“Sit tight. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Illya sits without protest. Napoleon hurries for the kit—if Illya can’t be bothered to at least pretend to fight against medical care, he knows it must hurt a hell of a lot. 

When he returns, Illya has taken the liberty of extricating himself from his shirt. He’s paler still from the effort, torso smeared with blood. 

Napoleon eyes him critically. It looks like a knife wound. Long, potentially deep. Possibly it’ll need stitches. 

“Let’s see what we’re working with,” he says, and sets to work immediately. 

Cleaning away blood from Illya’s skin feels almost routine by now. When the wound is revealed, free of distracting smears, Napoleon takes a second to assess. 

“I think it might—”

Illya cuts him off with a nod. “I know.” He’s already tensed up, waiting for the inevitable. 

Napoleon doesn’t prolong the wait. He just gets to it, sterilizing and threading the needle, washing out the wound again for good measure. 

It’s a well-rehearsed dance. Illya’s stiffness, his affected stoicism, betrayed as such in the way that he flexes the muscles in his jaw when the needle first enters his skin, the way he shakily exhales after Napoleon ties off the thread. 

Napoleon’s fingers are steady and light. He never thinks of Illya himself when he’s working. Never attaches the flesh and blood to the image of his partner. He’s not sure whether he’d be able to do it so surely, so neatly, if he thought about anything other than needle, thread, and skin. 

When it’s over, he washes up, and Illya becomes Illya again. Napoleon cleans the skin around the fresh stitches as gently as he can get away with, applies a bandage, scrubs the blood from his palms.

It is not yet dark outside, but Napoleon can see the exhaustion in Illya’s eyes. Wordlessly, he offers his hand, knowing Illya will wait a beat before allowing himself to take it. 

He tugs his partner to his feet, careful but not delicate, and lets him choose the direction. 

Illya picks the couch. He doesn’t want to sleep, then, which is only natural and entirely expected. 

They settle on the couch, legs stretched out onto the coffee table, closer together than strictly necessary. 

Napoleon knows how this will go. How Illya will make a valiant effort to remain awake until something approaching a normal bedtime, so that his body’s rhythm won’t be thrown off, even in the wake of a bloody injury and a field surgery. How he’ll slowly lose the battle with himself, blinking longer and longer. How, eventually, sleep will take him despite his best efforts. And how his head will come to rest first on Napoleon’s shoulder and then on his lap, when this first position becomes rather uncomfortable for Napoleon and he shifts his partner’s sleeping form so carefully that he doesn’t so much as stir. 

And how they will wake up, a few hours later, necks and backs aching from the choice of the couch over the bed, and make their way to that bed for a proper sleep. 

How they will wake in the morning, limbs tangled together, more well rested than either of them ever is on their own, and how Illya will look at him, soft in the morning light, and how Napoleon will wish that Illya would look at him like that forever. 

thanks for reading and hope you liked it!!!! fun fact i am currently drinking tea from my tmfu mug while posting lol

[nilesdaughter]

You Great Unfinished Symphony

Fandom: Critical Role Characters: Percy De Rolo, Vex'ahlia, Gwendolyn De Rolo, Pike Trickfoot Pairing: Perc'ahlia Word Count: 781 Note: This... is not my usual style, and I am both excited and nervous to be sharing this for @percahliaweek.

[Also found on A03.]

X-X-X-X-X

“Oh.”

It’s such a soft sound, he almost misses it.

Percival looks to Vex’ahlia, his gaze searching, questioning. “Is something wrong, dear?”

“I… believe we need to call the midwife, darling,” she says in a breathless tone, her dark eyes flicking up to meet his blue ones.

He stands with such celerity that his chair nearly topples to the floor behind him. “Pike, as well?” he asks.

“Yes, Pike, as well.”

The master suite of Whitestone Castle becomes a flurry of activity as Lady De Rolo is carefully transferred from the study to the bedroom and helped out of her tea gown. She is then arranged in the bed, towels and hot water prepared for the delivery. Lord De Rolo is at her side the whole while, murmuring affections and running his fingers through her hair as they wait for the contractions to begin in earnest. If nothing else, this is their fourth time in this particular situation and they like to think that they are used to it; Percy knows that Vex finds comfort in holding his hand, Vex knows the best position to lay in so that her contractions do not hurt quite as much. Pike, bless her, acts as the midwife’s assistant, just as she has for all the other births, monitoring her dear friend and passing over fresh towels as needed, reheating the water when it begins to cool.

This one takes longer, despite coming after four other children. (Four perfect children that Percy and Vex marvel over every single day.) It lasts throughout the night, the stars and the moons bearing witness to the new addition to the De Rolo family.

As the sun crests over the Alabaster Sierras, Vex lets out the loudest cry she’s released during the entire process, her hand squeezing tight around her husband’s, seeking solace in his touch. (If he feels as if she might just tear off his hand, he has the sense to not say a word about it.)

In the next breath, the new baby wails.

The midwife quickly passes the child (“A girl, my lady!”) over to Pike so that the gnomish cleric can clean her up. Percy notices, vaguely, that the child seems unusually red, but his attention returns to Vex as she gives his hand another–softer–squeeze.

“I believe that means we outnumber you, darling,” she says, amusement and mischief twinkling in her eyes even as exhaustion pulls at the rest of her features.

He laughs, kisses her knuckles. “I believe it does, dear heart.”

When Pike returns to the bed with their new daughter, washed and swaddled, it becomes much more apparent why he had seen so much red. Poking out of the dark curls on her head (she’ll certainly be taking after her mother, then, in that regard) are four tiny horn nubs.

Percy feels a wave of guilt wash over him, because he knows, he knows these are the ramifications for decisions he made nearly two decades ago.

Vex, however, does not react negatively to the revelation that she has given birth to a tiefling. She simply accepts the baby into her arms, cooing at her just as she has for all the others, whispering soft words about how she’s perfect and loved and welcome to the world, darling.

“This would explain why I seemed to be running a fever so often,” Vex then comments idly, as casual as if she were relaying her observations from a walk in the Parchwood.

That startles a laugh out of Percy and her warmth, her acceptance, keeps him from spiraling too far down. “I suppose it does.”

“You should hold her, too, darling,” she says, already lifting the bundle up to him.

He reaches down, moving in to cradle her in his arms, pulling her close to his chest. She is unexpected but she is theirs, a testament to the city–the lives–they have built together. She is so warm and small and he never wants to let her go. She begins fussing and, with practiced ease, he slowly walks circles around the bedroom, rocking her, making little shh, shh, shh noises. As he does so, he pauses at the window and looks down into the courtyard, watching as the last bit of scaffolding is finally taken down from around the clock tower, which had been finished but a week ago. (Well, ‘finished’ is a subjective word; he already has plans for adjustments and additions, small ways he can improve upon the parts of the tower that had been completed years prior.) With his new daughter in his arms and his Heart completed, he finds he continues ever-onward to a brighter, happier future.

[slusheeduck]

Fictober 2023 Day 21 - Prompt: "If you don't stop now--" Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

If we’re all being honest, Gale had…never really considered befriending warlocks before. He’d be the first to admit that it was from a place of pettiness—wizards and sorcerers were already at odds due to the learned vs innate spellcraft, but warlocks? Well, warlocks just felt like they were cheating. He’d wanted nothing to do with someone who had to be given what he’d worked for decades to perfect.

Falerin changed that. Oh, he liked Wyll plenty, too, though his pact seemed like far more trouble than it was worth, what with Mizora seeming to relish in his ever-growing do-gooder burden. But Falerin was different—he came from a place of wanting to learn, and opted for his shortcut out of necessity. Gale could understand that. And currying the favor of a god-like patron and becoming her favorite for a time? Well, Gale could definitely understand that.

Perhaps, if Astarion hadn’t been in the picture, there might have been something more there, but no use dwelling on that. Besides, there was one very poignant fact that made him realize that, perhaps, he’d dodged a missile in that respect.

His dear friend Fal was fucking weird.

He’d heard that those who spent time in the Fey Courts would sometimes come home with peculiarities, and clearly Falerin was no exception. There were little things here and there that he’d noticed: periodic staring into space, with not a single thought behind his two-toned eyes; long conversations with animals followed by “Oh, no, I don’t know Speak with Animals. I just like chatting.” Once, when they’d set up camp next to a brook, Gale had had the fright of his life seeing the half-drow’s prone, fully-clothed body in the river water—he wasn’t dead, it turned out, since he’d kept his nose and mouth just poking over the surface.

“Why in the hells did you do that?” Gale had asked once he hoisted him out of the water. Falerin had simply shrugged, an odd faraway look in his eyes.

“Felt like it.”

The eccentricities went beyond that, though, and more than once veered into dangerous territory. His donations to Astarion could be excused—who hadn’t been curious, after reading a saucy vampire novel—and the whole bear thing was…well, Halsin was a person beneath it. Prob…ably? The wiggle of fingers and laughs he gave as greeting to Vlaakith and Mizora and every single Scrying Eye they’d passed had made his own blood pressure spike, but no one had died yet.

But the licking. Dear gods, the licking.

The spider incident went without saying, but there were also the mushrooms in the Underdark, what was probably a bit of roasted dwarf in the Goblin Camp, untold amounts of questionable looking fluids, a bit of slime from their more gelatinous enemies that had left him sick for the better part of the day…you would think that last bit would have been enough to stop him, but once he was recovered enough to continue on, that damned tongue was back out.

Half the time, Gale was tempted to spray a bit of water at him, much like how he did when Tara started getting into something that would likely kill her. But he imagined it going over about as well as it did with her—and Falerin had opposable thumbs.

But Gale had a limit. And that limit was reached in the Shadowlands, post-spider-licking, when he and Fal had settled down for the evening. Gale had opted for some light reading, and Falerin was looking over one of the items they’d managed to grab in their adventures for the day—a mace, engraved with spiderwebs. It pulsed with magic; even with the orb in his chest soothed, Gale could feel the phantom pull of it. Falerin glanced up at him, as if he could feel that pull as well.

“You don’t need to eat this one?” he asked.

“For the last time, I didn’t eat them, I…” Gale sighed. “No. I’m stabilized now. It’s yours to do as you like.”

Falerin nodded, looking back at it. “What was it like?” he asked. “When you consumed them?”

Gale glanced over at him, then looked up as he thought. “Satisfying, for a moment anyway. Like a glass of water on a hot day—or a glass of brandy after a hard one. Gratifying, too—like scratching an itch, but on a much bigger scale. And, of course, an influx of magic always comes with a rush in any form. I imagine Astarion and I could comis—oh, don’t you dare.”

As Gale had spoken, Falerin’s tongue had poked out between his lips, and the mace had moved incrementally closer to his face. He stopped, eyes on Gale, but he simply froze in place. Gale stared hard at him. Neither moved—this was a stand-off.

“Put it down,” Gale finally said.

Falerin kept his eyes locked on Gale’s, and the mace moved incrementally closer to the outstretched tongue.

“Falerin. Drop it.” The cat owner voice was coming out, he knew, but desperate times…

The mace was now well-within licking distance.

“If you don’t stop now—”

What happened next took place in the course of about two seconds. Falerin’s head dove down to lick the mace, a stream of water shot from Gale’s hand, and the half-drow was knocked clean off the log he’d been sitting on.

“Gale!” he sputtered out. “What was that?”

“Probably saving your life, you’re welcome.” Gale got up to his feet, snatching the mace as he did. “And I’m confiscating this until you can learn to keep your tongue in your mouth.”

Would it stop the licking? Probably not. But it bought him a little peace of mind until the next incident. And, as the still-dripping warlock watched him balefully lock the mace in camp trunk, Gale realized…yeah, actually, Astarion could have him. After all, who knew where that tongue had been?

Fictober 2023 Drabble Master Post

[tsarisfanfiction]

(It’s the) Middle of the Night

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Scott, Gordon

When he woke, it was dark.  But he wasn’t alone.

Well, this serves two purposes - one is some nice new Military Bros content for today’s apparent Military Bros day (yay!), and the other is a little birthday present to myself (it’s gone midnight, it counts) because I wasn’t expecting to get anything else today (it’s 00:46 and already I’ve been proven wrong on that front because internet friends are amazing) so I thought I’d poke at my muses until they gave me something.  I’m still not entirely sure what this is, but it’s just nice to have written something again.

When he woke, it was to the distinct feeling of pain.  Muffled pain, clearly stifled by painkillers, but pain nonetheless.

That didn’t stop Scott from opening his eyes slowly, scowling a little at the dim lighting in the room.  It saved him a headache to go along with the rest of the pain, but it didn’t make it particularly easy to determine where he was.

Although, really, there were very few options.  Either he was in hospital, back home in the infirmary, or some third party had decided to take care of him.  Scott knew which one he was hoping for.

“Is our sleeping beauty awake?”

The words were cliché, straight out of a bad kidnapping movie, and Scott rolled his eyes.  Well, that was one option dismissed, at least. Potentially two, considering the owner of that voice’s opinion on hospitals.

“Yes,” he croaked, letting his head loll sideways until he could make out the hazy shape next to him. “Lights?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”  The shape shifted slightly, and then there was a light touch on his shoulder.  “How are you feeling?”

Scott huffed, and instantly regretted it as the action ignited the residual pain.

“Okay, stupid question.” The hand rubbed his shoulder gently. “Do you remember what happened?”

Falling rocks.

A little girl.

Scott lunged to sit up, but his brother was clearly prepared for that because hands gripped his shoulders and kept him pinned to the bed.

“She’s fine.  Couple of bruises, but you kept her safe.” Fingers dug into his shoulders almost painfully, keeping him from moving.  “You, on the other hand, have more than a couple of bruises, and Grandma and Virgil will murder both of us if I let you move just yet.”

Gordon spoke sense, but that didn’t mean Scott had to like it.  Still, his body thrummed with repressed pain and his second-youngest brother was apparently finding it entirely too easy to hold him down.  He stopped fighting for the moment, knowing that Gordon wouldn’t lie to him about the girl.  Something else sparked at his brother’s words, though.

“Virgil?”

“Out on another rescue,” Gordon told him bluntly.  “Alan went with him.”

Alan?  Scott eyed his present brother suspiciously.  “Not you?”

“Well, Alan was hardly going to keep you in line if you woke up, was he?”  The words were flippant, and Scott was admittedly still waking up from an unwilling nap, but something struck him as not right about Gordon’s attitude.

He was too tired to try and parse it out the gentle way.

“Gordon.”

“Scott,” his brother mimicked.  One hand left his shoulder, brushing lightly through his hair before returning to Gordon’s side as his brother settled back down stiffly in the chair.

Stiffly?

Scott’s eyes narrowed, as if that would help him see in the half-light.  It didn’t, but he didn’t need to see to guess what was going on.

“How’s your back?” he asked.

Gordon sighed.  “It’s fine, Scott,” he said, although the way he was shifting in place made Scott doubt they had the same definition of ‘fine’. “Just wasn’t a fan of moving boulders so I’m taking it easy tonight.”

Moving boulders. Scott closed his eyes as the implications of that washed over him, only for the other hand to leave his shoulder in favour of a finger jabbing him in the cheek.

“None of that,” Gordon said sternly.  “Virgil did most of the work.”

“Virgil’s not the one with a bad back,” Scott muttered, peeling one eye open again to glare at his brother.  He got another jab in the cheek for that and lazily shifted his head enough to snap at the offending finger.

Gordon whisked it out of range with a light laugh.  A moment later, hands rested lightly on his arm, thumbs brushing bare skin gently.

“A bad back’s not going to stop me saving my brother,” the blond said firmly, just enough steel underlying his words to be at odds with his laugh.  The thumbs didn’t stop moving, rubbing light circles onto Scott’s skin.

Scott wanted to argue. If it was anyone else, about anything else, he would have done.  But Gordon’s back was its own topic, with its own rules, and no matter how much he wanted to wrap his brother up in cotton wool to make sure he never hurt it again, they had an agreement in place.  Gordon’s back was Gordon’s business.  As long as he remained honest about how it affected him day to day, Scott wasn’t allowed to try and control what he did.

No matter how much he hated the idea of something one day going wrong.

“I know,” he sighed, swallowing back the protests.  Gordon squeezed his arm lightly, in an acknowledgement that his brother knew it hurt him every time he couldn’t stop him.  “So, what happened to me?”

Safer waters it might not be, but the subject change sucked away the rest of the lingering tension in the room.

“Boulders don’t make for a good massage, Scott,” Gordon told him airily, before his voice hardened into something more serious.  “You’ve got extensive bruising all over, and hairline fractures in three ribs.”

Scott winced.  That meant he was grounded for weeks.

He hated being grounded.

Gordon hadn’t let go of his arm.  His thumbs were still tracing circles on his skin, a pattern that was more soothing than it had any right to be.

“You should get some sleep,” his brother told him quietly.  “It’s the middle of the night, you know.”

“You said,” Scott reminded him.  “Why are you still up?”  Gordon was strict with his sleep schedule, when rescues didn’t interrupt it, and the middle of the night was an hour his brother didn’t care to see outside of occasional trips to the kitchen for water.

The huff he got in response told him Gordon thought that a stupid question.

“Someone had to watch you,” he pointed out.  “Go to sleep, Scott.”  Then I can, was left unspoken, but Scott heard it loud and clear.  Sneaky, manipulative little brother.  “The others won’t be back for hours.”

Gordon would know better than him right now.  Still, Scott didn’t want to sleep so soon after regaining consciousness, even if he was weak enough that Gordon could overpower him with ease.

“I don’t need watching,” he protested.  Gordon made a sound that was entirely disbelieving in response and he scowled.  “You need to sleep.”  As if on cue, his brother yawned before letting out a disgruntled noise.

“I can stay awake a while longer,” he insisted, but Scott rolled his eyes.

“Bed, Gordon,” he insisted, trying to pull his arm away.  Gordon didn’t loosen his grip.  “Gordon.”

He half-expected to have his name mimicked back at him again, but this time that didn’t happen. Instead, his brother sighed, a little sadly.  Scott didn’t like that sound at all.

“I’m not leaving you,” his brother said, quiet but determined.  “You can’t make me.”  His grip on Scott’s arm tightened, enough to puncture through the painkillers and get his arm complaining again in real time.  “Not tonight, Scott.”

Despite being fully capable of tight, crushing, squid hugs, Gordon wasn’t particularly clingy all of the time.  Alan would cling, Virgil would hover with the promise of bear hugs the moment he sensed something awry, and even John lurked in his own way, but Gordon was content to keep his own personal space unless he was particularly worried – or mischievous.

Gordon didn’t get clingy like this unless there was something else going on in his head, and Scott knew from experience that there really wasn’t any way of getting the squid to let go once his tentacles had grasped on.  With Virgil and Alan both out on another rescue, and John as ever up in orbit, there was no way Scott could shake him.

If he was honest, he didn’t want to, either.

“Fine,” he accepted.  “But you need to sleep.”

“Scott-”

He didn’t wait for the complaints, twisting his arm around until he had hold of his brother’s wrist. It hurt, but it did its job of silencing his brother.  If there was more light, Scott suspected he’d see sharp amber eyes watching him with a mix of confusion and calculation.

“Sleep here,” he said, giving a light tug.  The infirmary bed was big enough for both of them, a necessity given the entire family’s tendency to crawl into each other’s beds at the first sign of a nightmare. Bruising and hairline fractures would survive a bedfellow.

It wouldn’t be the first time.  Injuries and nightmares came hand-in-hand.

The grip on his arm slackened, then fell away entirely.  Gordon didn’t pull away from him, though, and Scott kept his grip as his brother moved.

Sheets rustled and shifted, exposing him to a rush of cooler air that raised goosebumps all over his body before the mattress dipped and a warm body pressed up against his.

While there was space for two, in theory, Scott had been placed in the middle of the bed, leaving Gordon to squish himself in the smaller gap between his body and the edge of the bed.  Instinctively, Scott tried to shift over, but arms and legs wrapped around him loosely enough not to agitate his bruising, but firmly enough to keep him pinned in place.

“I’m fine,” Gordon said, breath tickling Scott’s neck.  Hair brushed against his jaw, smelling faintly of chlorine as always.  “Plenty of room.”  Scott doubted that, but his brother’s hold on him was firm enough that he couldn’t move anyway.  “Don’t forget to get some sleep, Scott.”  There was a yawn near his ear, punctuating Gordon’s words.  “Night.”

Gordon was good at falling asleep.  Not like Alan – teenagerhood and adrenaline crashing the youngest Tracy where he stood on multiple occasions – but more befitting the military lifestyle he’d once led.  There, sleep was precious, and being able to nod off at the drop of a hat was a vital skill.  Scott had long since lost that to sleepless nights of paperwork and what-ifs, but somehow, despite everything, Gordon could still do it.  The breath tickling his neck sank into something slow and even almost immediately.

His own personal lullaby.

Scott had no intentions of falling back asleep again, but Gordon hadn’t left him with a lot of options. The warmth of his brother soothed the pain, and the breathing against his neck soothed his mind.

It didn’t take long for his eyelids to slide shut again.

[honey-dewey]

Kisses

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/Reader

Word Count: 1,246

Warnings: Mostly fluff, but has some mentions of spice and some really bad insecure thoughts. 

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Whenever you’re insecure about your body, Marcus will kiss wherever you’re insecure about to remind you that he loves all of you. So what happens when you hate how your entire reflection looks?

A/N: A short author’s note before we get onto the fluff. I know that people will always be jerks, and this fandom is typically very accepting, but I’m starting to get nervous when I post, and that is never something I wanted from this writing. This isn’t to say I’m quitting writing for the Pedro Boys, but I might take a break to write without pressure to post and get myself right in the head again. Plus, my personal life is upside down right now and honestly, I need a break. If I do take one, rest assured I will not stop writing, and I will be back with all new content for you guys! Sorry this ended up being longer than I thought, and enjoy the fic!

Marcus really liked to kiss you. 

This love of kissing wasn’t an odd thing or anything you bothered to question. In fact, it was kind of endearing. Marcus would kiss you whenever he could and wherever he could, and it typically made you giggle when his facial hair tickled your skin. You suspected he did it because he was worried you’d forget he loved you otherwise. Or maybe because he lost his wife, and he never knew when he would get his last kiss. No matter what the reason was, you loved it when he kissed you. 

But his favorite time to kiss you was when you felt bad about yourself. Like right now, for example. 

You sighed, turning in the mirror and groaning. “This doesn’t fit!” 

Marcus poked his head back into the room. “What? That shirt fit two days ago when you tried it on.” 

“It doesn’t fit now,” you mumbled sadly, wrapping your arms around your chest. You were really disappointed. Marcus had bought you the shirt for this party, and now it made your stomach sink. Two days ago, it had been a beautifully flattering shirt, but now you noticed how it stretched across your arms and made them look weird. The self depreciation about your arms spread, and suddenly, you were noticing how your thighs looked off in your pants, and was your stomach always like that?

“Baby,” Marcus murmured, coming up behind you and putting his hands on your stomach, breaking you from your thoughts. “Where doesn’t it fit?” 

You blinked away tears. “Here!” You cried, oddly hysteric. “It makes my arms look fat.” 

Marcus’s face turned to stone. “My house doesn’t have many rules,” he said firmly. “But one of those rules is that we don’t use that word, at all, ever.” 

“Fat?” 

“Yes.” 

You turned back to the mirror, the horrible sinking feeling still overtaking your body, making your eyes water and your throat constrict. “Marcus.” 

“My love,” Marcus replied. “I guess this isn’t just about the shirt, is it?” 

“No,” you said in a small whisper. “It isn’t.” 

Marcus put his head against your shoulder, so you could only see the top of his head in the mirror. “One of those days?”

You nodded slowly. 

A grin bloomed on Marcus’s face as he pulled himself off you. “Well then,” he said, taking your hands and spinning you around, so you were no longer facing the mirror. “Shall we?” 

You were confused. “Marcus?” You said, following Marcus to the bed. “What are you doing?” 

Marcus nudged you until you were seated, looking up at him. “I’m proving I love you,” he said, stroking a hand over your hair. “Even if you don’t love yourself.” 

That didn’t clear much up, so you remained confused until Marcus stepped closer, so he was standing between your legs. He pressed a feather light kiss to the top of your head, smiling as he did so. “Clove?” 

“Yeah,” you said without moving. “I thought I’d give the clove shampoo a try.” 

“I like it,” Marcus decided, moving so he could kiss your forehead, where your hairline lay. “Your hair is really nice.” 

The comment made you giggle. “You sound like a stalker.” 

Marcus gasped dramatically, smiling. “I can’t compliment your hair?” 

“Not like that!” You said, overcome by laughter. “You sound super creepy.” 

“I sound romantic as hell,” Marcus said, kissing the tip of your nose. “Would it be creepy to compliment your face?” He kissed each of your cheeks, resting his hands on either side of you so he could lean forward without losing his balance. 

You hummed, face turning red. “Does it deserve compliments?” You asked softly. 

Marcus nodded, catching your lips for a soft kiss. “Of course,” he murmured against your mouth. “All of you is deserving of praise.” 

He moved downward, planting kisses to the pulse points below your jaw, tipping your head up as he did so. His lips found your collarbones, causing your heart to flutter and your face to curl into a smile when his facial hair tickled your skin. 

Marcus silently leaned back, drawing one of your arms with him. He held it, bearing all the weight as he kissed the sensitive inner skin of your elbow. “Such strong arms,” he said, trailing his kisses to your wrist. He turned your hand over and kissed it too, smiling. “And I love holding your hand. It fits perfectly in mine.” 

Now you were full on blushing, your grin never wavering as Marcus edged you back, so you were laying down on the bed. He was above you, shoving the shirt you hated away so he could kiss your sternum, trailing his kisses down your belly. “My sweetheart,” he said, kissing just above your belly button. “So beautiful.” 

“Marcus,” you whined, squirming and giggling as his kisses tickled your sensitive skin. “Marcus!” 

“Yes?” Marcus said, raising his head and looking up your body at you. “Am I doing something wrong?” 

You shook your head. “It tickles,” you said, reaching down to run your hands through Marcus’s hair, effectively ruining the neat style he had put it in. 

Marcus smiled. “You mean this?” He asked, kissing over your belly again. As his lips made contact, you felt your muscles contract as you resisted the urge to kick. It was incredibly hard, but you were given a reprieve when Marcus tugged the waistband of your pants down to kiss each side of your hips. “You can sit back up,” he said, smoothing a hand down your leg. 

You sat up, flushed. Marcus was waiting for you, leaning back on his heels. He gently nudged your legs apart, waiting for permission to pull your pants around your ankles. When you lifted your hips to grant him access, he smiled. “I love you,” he murmured, pulling your pants down and off. 

“Marcus, are we still going to that thing,” you said, watching Marcus press a warm kiss to the inside of your left knee. “Because if we were, we were supposed to leave five minutes ago, and- Jesus,” your initial sentence cut off as you all but moaned the last word when he found a sensitive spot, pressing your hand over your mouth so you wouldn’t make any more obscene noises. 

Marcus smiled, continuing to alternate left and right leg as he worked his way up, kissing whenever he changed sides. When he made it up to the top of your thigh, he gently pulled your hand off your mouth. “Let me hear you,” he said, pupils wide. 

You shook your head, desperately grabbing Marcus’s hair. “Missy’s still in the house,” you reminded him weakly. 

“To hell with Missy,” Marcus said, kissing the inside of your thigh again. 

“I am not subjecting that poor girl to hearing you pound me into the mattress,” you said, pulling Marcus up so you could kiss him. “Later, when she’s at her friend’s sleepover.” 

Marcus sighed, but nodded, kissing your forehead. “Do you believe me?” He asked as he helped you up, handing you a new shirt and turning to fix his hair. 

“Hm?” 

“Every part of you is beautiful,” Marcus said. “And worth my love.” 

You smiled, taking another look at yourself in the mirror. You still weren’t happy with your reflection, but when you looked at your body, all you could feel were Marcus’s kisses against your skin, and you suddenly felt warm inside. “Yeah. I agree. Now c’mon, we shouldn’t be late.”

[screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse]

Like A Ghost In This Burning Sea

Fandom: 007 — James Bond (Craig Movies)   Relationships: James Bond/Felix Leiter, past James Bond/Vesper Lynd Rating: T Tags (excerpt): Emotional Baggage, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Slash, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Kissing

I see you in disguise sometime But the feeling never dies in your eyes I wish that you could be here with me I'm lost like a ghost in this burning sea

When he got back to their ramshackle office whose cover apparently served no purpose at all, Beam sat exactly where he’d left him.

Felix let himself sink heavily into the chair at the desk.

“Where you been?” Beam asked.

“Took a walk around the block,” Leiter returned. “Clear my head.”

“Oh yeah?” Beam asked with the inflection of someone carefully angling to be mistaken for a bumbling idiot. Not that Beam wasn’t that, but he was the dangerous kind: white, coming up on middle age, with friends in high places.

Felix didn’t reply and lit another cigar instead.

“You wanna explain something to me?” Beam asked, and this time there was that high note of calculated distrust. He fancied himself laying a trap.

Felix waited him out.

But Beam didn’t say anything else — didn’t have to; because what he tossed onto the table in front of Leiter was a photograph. A little grainy due to it being night and the picture taken from a distance, but it was clear enough to send a frisson down Felix’ spine.

It was him, and Bond, just before he’d told the guy to move his ass. Just as James had leaned over to press a quick kiss to Felix’ cheek in thanks — for the information, and the warning.

What the camera hadn’t been able to capture was the smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. Thank fuck for small mercies.

Felix let his eyes trace the curve of Bond’s shoulders for just a moment before pointedly looking up at Beam. He took a deep drag off the cigar. He puffed out the smoke, nasty trill of satisfaction when Beam blinked as it irritated his already bloodshot eyes.

“He’s just like that,” Leiter said.

“In love with you?”

“Affectionate,” Felix returned, taking care not to turn the word too sharp on his tongue. “Pretends he isn’t. Not very good at it.”

Beam eyed him. Leiter held his gaze and said nothing else.

“Where is he going?” This was his last-chance question, Felix knew it well enough.

“I have no idea,” he said. He hadn’t made it this far by mistaking the vicelike grip of mutual dishonesty, for loyalty.

“Pity,” Beam sighed on an exhale. He picked up his flyswatter again. “I was starting to like you.”

Felix turned his attention back to his cigar.

***

"I thought you didn't have any friends left," Camille remarked quietly when Bond relayed what Felix had told him.

He made an uncertain noise. "Well. Maybe one or two."

It was a feeling he didn't like to dwell on, after... everything.

He recalled M's careful questions, never quite poking the bear but reminding him that no man was an island all the same. Part monk, part hitman, so he'd thought she wanted him — but she'd never given him a straight answer on that one, had she? No strings, was the rule, and he had failed ever so spectacularly: any new double-0 let off the leash carried a six-foot warning sign, 'Get out of the way.' Occasionally, they were buried with it.

It should have been him they'd buried after Rome.

Dead and gone, just like her, Mathis growled in his ear. Fool.

Brought back to the present by Camille's grounding touch on his arm, there was another voice.

'James. Move your ass.'

Bond glanced over at Camille to acknowledge both the rabbit hole and his return to the present, and she nodded.

Felix was... a friend. Bond did not believe in the romanticism of walking in each other's shoes or eating the same crap every day. Plenty of people did who had proven themselves to be untrustworthy — too many just in the past month. Sure, Felix knew the work. He might even understand the work of loss, and losing. But that was not why James had gone to him.

He'd called him because he was out in the cold, his own connections severed save for a sliver of M's smirk and the pride she could never quite hide; and because the last time he'd been about to do something monumentally stupid, Felix had been there to stay his hand.

This time, he'd handed him a bigger knife.

Bond had leaned in rather without thinking, adrenaline already pumping to let him make that jump across the bar, and had pressed his lips, dry and chapped, to the corner of Felix' mouth.

'Thank you, Felix.'

Leiter had smiled.

*

"Looks like Mr Leiter has been promoted," M informed him; snow slowly drifting all around them.

"Then all the right people kept their jobs." He tugged the collar of his coat a little closer.

"Something like that." She cast him a sidelong glance. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Bond. I need you back."

He forced down a shrug. A movement she knew too well how to read.

"I never left." He said it with the confidence of a man who was as transparent as he was a consummate actor: let the audience make up its mind. It was what Vesper had taught him, at long last. The better value of a cover was to let your target fool themselves into becoming the hunter or the prey. Whichever role they chose would be their downfall.

He turned away and felt eyes on his back. In his jacket pockets, his hands closed around the links and loops of the necklace. Uncaring that M could see, he flung it into the snow. Let it be swept up in a drift. He didn't need it anymore.

Lesson learnt.

*

At least he wasn't sweating himself to death this time, Leiter thought as he cast his gaze along the walls of the tiny office his contact from the consulate had sent him directions to. It would do.

He'd spent perhaps five minutes getting situated when there was a knock on the door and, without waiting for a bid to enter, Felix' doorway was darkened, inevitably, by an insufferable Englishman with no manners.

"Ugh," he scoffed — convincingly enough, he thought, only Bond did what he did best and smirked at him. Rather menacingly, Felix thought while he was of a mind to complain about his welcome. "Seriously," he gestured at the room at large. "This?"

"Come on, Felix," Bond said, closing the door behind him without taking his eyes off Leiter. "You'll barely be in here, anyway."

"Oh? Then where will I be?"

At this, Bond's expression broke into a grin. It took years off his face, yada yada yada, Felix mocked himself in his head; but it really was unfair how he could just turn on the boyish charm. Felix knew well enough how effective it was. On anyone.

As James advanced on him now (and he'd hate to call it prowling, but the man was tall), Felix planted his feet and cocked a brow.

"In my office," Bond murmured as he arrived in Felix' space, close enough to touch but not following through. "It's much nicer."

"Uh-huh," Felix intoned flatly.

"Much bigger," James continued with a flickering glance.

Felix pressed his lips into a thin line.

"And besides, you like me better than Tanner," James finished with an odd warmth in his eyes that one might mistake for smugness; if Felix didn't know how deeply men like that yearned for praise. And basked in it, when they had it.

"I like Bill fine," Felix returned.

A spark of challenge lit in Bond's eyes.

“Sure,” he said easily, and just as easily he tilted his head, leaning in closer. He made no secret of his intentions; as much honest yearning his expression as there was disdain in the way he inhabited his covers.

Felix huffed and raised a hand to hook a finger, then two, under the lapels of James’ immaculate suit. Between the years, they’d come to know each other.

As they found each other now, in a kiss more tender than one might have expected of two men who launched themselves into danger and called it employment, it felt familiar and new.

Bond’s hand curled around Felix’ waist. Distantly, a phone rang.

Paperwork could wait.

[legendarywhump]

Heartless

Fandom: Sanctuary

Pairing: Abby/Tesla

Summary: Post Vigilante, an injured Abby Corrigan shows up on the Sanctuary doorsteps. 

Whump: Attacked by an animal, poison 

-

She’s nearly unconscious when she shows up at their door, deep scratches shredding her left sleeve and apparently her arm as well. It’s Tesla who answers, grumbling about not being anyone’s doorman, but his complaints quickly give way to…. Something.

It’s not concern, of course. He hardly knows the woman, and anyway, caring isn’t his vice of choice. He has many, certainly, but unlike Helen, he’s never been a fan of torturing himself by caring for mortals. Too messy, certainly doomed, and all in all, exhausting.

So he isn’t concerned, isn’t the least bit worried. If his voice comes just a bit louder than it should when he tells Henry to get Helen, it’s only because he doesn’t care to repeat himself.

That’s it.

He scoops her up-no one else is nearby, and she certainly isn’t walking anywhere in her condition-and she blinks up at him, brows furrowing.

“Tesla, right?” She asks, and her words are concerningly slow. Slurred. (Someone else, at least, might be concerned for her. He isn’t.) “Like the… Scientist.”

“Remarkably,” he says, voice low, starting toward Helen’s lab. “And you’re… Amber? Amy? Allie?” 

He remembers her name, of course; he forgets little, once it’s been committed to memory, and judging by the way this girl and the protege looked at each other, he suspected from the first meeting that he’d be seeing her again. But if he can keep her annoyed, maybe he can keep her awake. 

She sighs, not irritated but accepting, resigned. “You don’t…. Remember me… Either.”

He’s long thought Will an idiot (if one he’s come to develop a grudging respect for over his actions since Helen’s grown ill), but the fact that he could forget this woman when she was obviously interested in him was a new level of this. “Don’t be ridiculous, Abby.” The name slips out without his permission. “FBI girl. Sweet. Carrying a torch for your old schoolmate Will, and by all accounts smart, although given your taste in men, I might have to question that.” 

The look she gives him here is a little more annoyed, and he files that away in his memory. Then, before she can protest, he moves onto the question and answer portion of their little visit. 

“What happened to you?” 

She follows his gaze to her arm, and for a second, he thinks she might not remember at all. Her brows furrow, and she flexes her arm experimentally before wincing. Then, her expression clears. “Looked like… A bear.” She closes her eyes, and he shifts her abruptly, making her gasp.

“Sorry, but you have to stay awake. What kind of bear?”

“Small one. Not a baby, just… Small. Mean. But its claws were… Split. Little spikes sticking out. And the bear was blue. Was trying to help it, and it just… Attacked me.” 

“Attacked its helper, huh?” Whether ‘small blue bear’ is an accurate description or simply her hazy mind’s interpretation, he can’t say for sure, but either way, at least he knows why she came to the Sanctuary instead of the hospital. Smart girl, this one. He’s not sure how much the others told her when she saw the Big Guy shot, but he doubts it was anything close to everything. Still, she knew to come here. “And they call me heartless.”

Her brows furrow, but she doesn’t reply.

Helen meets him halfway to the lab, and immediately sets to work, poking and prodding Abby with her arsenal of tools. She asks what happened, and Abby looks up at him, questioning, clearly lacking the strength to repeat herself.

Quickly, he relays everything he knows.

Helen pales in response, and Tesla’s stomach drops. Not a hallucination, then, and whatever it was, this definitely isn’t good. 

By the time they reach the lab, Abby’s fading in and out of consciousness, groaning weakly. Her cheeks are unnervingly red, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. He lays her on a stretcher, and Helen moves to the closest cabinet, rifling through, gathering her equipment. 

“Abby?” Will’s voice comes from behind Tesla, and Tesla blinks. When did he get here? “Oh, no…” 

He sounds well and truly concerned, even if some petty part of Tesla wants to mock him. ‘At least you finally remember her,’ he thinks, but he bites it back, not out of any real regard for Will’s feelings, but because he’s not in the mood for Helen to glare at him.

“This is your friend, then?” Helen asks, filling a syringe with a strikingly blue liquid. “The one who helped Biggie?” 

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Then I owe her a great debt. I’ll do everything I can to help her.” As if she wouldn’t anyway. As if Helen’s entire life did not start and stop with seeing to the safety and wellness of these mortals, even at the expense of her own. 

“Thank you.”

Tesla keeps silent through the exchange, watching her carefully. She’s starting to twitch and jerk on the bed, and Will rushes to her side, holding her in place as Helen injects her with whatever’s in the syringe. 

Suddenly, her eyes open, and she turns her head to face him. “Tesla?” She holds out a hand, and his mind goes blank. She’s not-? What is she doing? 

She seems urgent, though, and Helen gives him an impatient look. Fine then. He makes his way to Abby’s side. “What?” 

Will’s looking at him in utter disbelief, which is more than a little enjoyable.

Abby frowns, reaching out once more, gaze fixed on his hand. Curious enough to play along, he reaches for her. Instead of holding his hand, as such, she catches it, pressing two fingers against his wrist with impressive concentration for a woman that seems to be struggling with keeping her eyes open. 

All at once, her expression brightens. “Knew it,” she murmurs, releasing his hand. 

“Knew what?”

She turns away, eyes fluttering shut, exhaustion and whatever Helen gave her obviously pulling her under. Words so impossibly slow he almost can’t make them out, she replies, “Not…. Heartless.”

And it’s such a simple phrase, just two words, wrapped in the innocence and optimism of a woman who doesn’t know him at all. If she had any idea of the things he’s done, of the choices he’s made and the blood on his hands, she wouldn’t say that for a moment. Not her. Not someone so good and right that she risks her own life to save creatures she does not understand.

Still, though. Still.

He can feel Helen’s eyes on him, and he looks up to see her absolutely smug expression, as if she can read every thought in his head. As if she can hear the way his mind skipped a beat, if only for a moment, at the simple reassurance. 

Not that it did, of course. He’s stronger than that. “Not a word,” he warns, stepping back to let them work. “Not a word.”

-

(He’s still there when she wakes up. If anyone asks, it’s practical; this Sanctuary’s getting so crowded that he can hardly go anywhere without bumping into someone, and she’s much less capable of annoying him in her unconscious state. 

Maybe, for the moment, he can even fool himself.)

[gypsydanger01]

THE STORM - Part ten

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

  Posting new chapters on Wednesday and Friday!

Die Hard and stolen glances

After making sure Sarah ate a hearty lunch, Martha took her leave, worry still lingering in her eyes. She’d made her friend promise to call Mallory as soon as possible. Sarah decided she’d contact her tomorrow at their usual time. And while she always looked forward to talking with the woman who’d raised her through her teen years, she felt dread creep up at the thought of having to either lie or tell her the truth and deal with the consequences. Telling Mallory her abilities had resurfaced would be equivalent to purchasing a ticket back home. And that was the one thing she could not do. Not until this situation with Vought was resolved.

Putting those thoughts to rest, her mind moved onto the other pressing concern: her upcoming movie night with Black Noir. It felt silly to think—even more when said out lout, but they bonded over their love for action movies. She shrugged her coat on and wrapped a scarf loosely around her neck before heading out of the house. The neighborhood she lived in wasn’t extremely well kept and trash often littered the sidewalks, clustering in the corners. She’d been skeptical when the previous owner had given her a tour. However, she soon realized she didn’t mind, and the affordable price and relatively quiet environment ultimately won her over. Being right outside of the city, the housing complexes were low rise, about two floors high, some three. She had a view on the city and could easily access the university on her bike. Sure, it took about fifteen minutes, but the peace and absence of the city’s obnoxious traffic in that small, rundown neighborhood made it worth it.

She soon reached her destination: the nearest small shop, “Dave’s Grocers.” Immediately, she headed for the party necessities section, searching for straws amid the colorful shelves. She soon grew impatient, scanning the items multiple times.

“Hello, welcome to Dave’s Grocers,” a young employee greeted her. “Is there anything I can I help you with?”

“Hi, yeah actually I’m looking for straws,” she glanced back at the shelves, “but I can’t seem to find any.”

The young man—whose name tag read Bernard in a squiggly handwriting—looked through the shelves himself before confirming her suspicions.

“I can check in the back if we had anything come in,” he offered.

“Yeah that would be great, thank you.”

With that she followed him and waited at the front counter as he disappeared into the back. He soon returned with a box in his arms.

“I found a box of them,” he smiled genuinely. He set the box down and opened it up.

The first thing that registered in Sarah’s mind was, “They’re pink.” She looked to him for confirmation.

“Magenta to be precise.”

She pushed some of her hair behind her ears. Black Noir had refused a drink last time because he wouldn’t take his mask off. She figured that by offering him a strawed drink, he’d accept it. She was sure she’d seen him drinking from a straw before, either in passing at Vought or on television. She wanted it to be a thoughtful act, and here she was thinking of offering him a pink straw.

Sure, it was just a color, right? Their generation was past binary color preferences—pink for girls, blue for boys. They were over it, right? A lot of men see no issue in wearing pink or purple these days. But Black Noir was no ordinary man. 

What was initial horror, soon morphed into amusement. She became curious of  his reaction. 

“How much” she questioned, eyes glued to the intensely colored straws.

“Uh,” he checked the side of the cardboard to be sure, “a dollar and fifty cents for a pack of twenty.”

She nodded, making up her mind, “I’ll take one.”

After paying he asked her to hold up, scratching the back of his neck.

“Could I get your number?”

She eyed him in suspicion, the man from the previous night flashing in front of her eyes. But then she quickly softened. He’d been helpful and seemed like a sweet guy.

“Look, I’m sorry but I’m seeing someone,” she slightly twisted the truth.

“Ahh, should’ve known,” he looked down with a disappointed smile. “He a good guy,” he asked.

Sarah wanted to choke right there. He’s Edgar’s damn hitman and has probably killed more people than she could count.

She simplified her answer with, “Yeah, he’s great,” she held up the straws, “these are actually for him.”

Bernard laughed lightly, “Bold. That’s why you looked worried when you first saw them, huh?”

She chuckled, “Yeah, he’s in for a surprise.”

After waving goodbye, she took her leave and headed back home.

.

When eight o’clock rolled around, Sarah was ready. She’d fixed her hair, her dark brown coils forming a soft cloud over her shoulders. A light coat of mascara was what she settled for, deciding to forego any other makeup. This was a casual meeting between two people who were barely acquaintances, she reminded herself. She changed into comfy clothes, slipping on her best pair of black sweatpants with a matching sweatshirt. Soft socks were a must.

Finally, she made sure her necklace poked out of her top. It had been her mother’s, who’d passed it down to her when she’d first been hospitalized. It was meant as a reminder that her parents were always with her and that they’d fight her disease together. It was a symbol of hope. Now, it was a small piece of her parents she kept on her always. Sometimes, it gave her a sense of peace as she recalled memories of family dinners or the playground. Other times, it fueled the guilt and deep-seated hate she felt towards the institution that made her into the monster she is. She fiddled with the black pearl, crowned by a gold fringe.

Heading back into the living room, she planned to wait for him on the couch. And there he was, standing in the middle of her living room.

This time she didn’t jump or freeze, already growing accustomed to his sudden appearances. She was grounded, she refused to be afraid. She thought it was foolish to not fear such a dangerous threat. So, she acknowledged it, but left it in a corner of her mind where she could see it but deny it control of her actions or reactions.

“Hey,” she greeted nodding at him, “how are you,” she asked.

He nodded at her and she quickly handed over their black notebook for him to reply.

Fine. You

She smiled, “I’m doing okay.”

He watched her movements, fluid and more controlled than last time. What he’d witnessed the night before had given him a new perspective, and he desperately wanted to question her about what happened. But at that point, he’d be admitting himself as a stalker. He stayed silent.

She nodded towards the couch, “You can sit, the movie’s already in,” she said turning her television on. “I made some popcorn, I’m not sure if you wanted to eat anything.”

He sat and simply watched her. Sarah ducked into the kitchen before she ended up losing her confidence. She emerged with a big bowl of popcorn, inhaling the smell, and humming a tune. She set the bowl on the coffee table, glancing at the massive man before heading back into the kitchen to get their drinks.

“So please bear with me,” she said moving towards him with the two drinks behind her back. “I know you aren’t comfortable with pulling your mask, so I went and got something to help with that…” she trailed off.

He tilted his head slightly, and she imagined an inquisitive expression had formed on his face.

She moved the drinks to the front, careful to not spill any.

“I know the straws are bold…” she stated the obvious. “Would you like some?”

He assessed the situation—the straws, the soft blush on her cheeks, her frame engulfed by her sweatshirt. And he found himself nodding, if only to put her at ease. He was unexpectedly moved by her thoughtfulness, a tightness forming in his chest.

She exhaled the breath she’d been holding, “Great, here you go,” she said brightly.

She grabbed a throw blanket to wrap herself in and moved towards the other couch chair in the room. He frowned. She was cold? She looked so much smaller in her home clothes, and he felt an itch to gather her in his arms. He ran at a higher temperature anyway, he’d probably feel like a thermostat to her.

“Do you want a blanket?”

He blinked at her, and she too found it amusing that this massive dark man might want one of her small light blue covers.

He shook his head. I’m fine and followed it with a thumbs up.

She nodded and snuggled into the chair, diagonally to his right.

She grabbed the remote and pointed it to the screen, pressing play.

And so, they watched the movie, constantly exchanging hurried, shy glances. Once, she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, and she saw him discreetly lift his mask, pick some popcorn and drop them in his mouth. He immediately covered his face again and chewed without making a sound. She was disappointed that in the dark she missed it. At one point, Sarah was surprised to see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. She too laughed, and often commented her favorite scenes. She hoped he didn’t mind. She just couldn’t seem to help herself. And he secretly loved it. He enjoyed her voice, especially when she was talking to him.

He watched her snuggle deep under the blanket, her sweatshirt sleeves pulled over her hands. He watched her laugh and comment the scenes they both knew by heart. In the dark room, he watched her more than the movie itself. The colored light projecting from the screen flitted across her cheeks, her attention captured by John McClane as he took down Gruber’s team in the Nakatomi Tower.

Black Noir was rather disappointed when the credits rolled and she rose to switch the lights back on. He perked up when she spoke, “Always a classic, huh?”

He nodded with enthusiasm.

She recited with a deeper voice, “Nine million terrorists in the world and I gotta kill one with feet smaller than my sister.”

Sarah was pleasantly surprised when he clapped his hands and wrote Bravo.

She curtsied, “Why thank you.”

She must be losing her mind, joking around with one of the most dangerous men in the world. And yet, right then she couldn’t bring herself to fear him. Black Noir was still holding his drink, hot pink straw sticking out like a sore thumb.

She took the last sip of her own drink, and embarrassedly stopped when she began to slurp loudly.

“Oh god, sorry. My friend absolutely hates it when I do that.”

He looked over as she brought her legs up into a cross-legged position. And then he did something that surprised them both.

He gave her a thumbs up and loudly sucked on his straw, emitting the same sounds she’d just made. Sarah stared wide-eyed and began to laugh.

He wrote. Sorry :)

“We’re both scandalous—just scandalous,” she smiled.

She gathered their empty cups, but he stopped her before she could get up. She looked so comfortable and he swiftly stood and placed a hand on her shoulder, indicating she should stay seated. Sarah looked up at him shocked and suddenly reminded of his murderous tendencies. He gently took the cups from her hands and immediately went to wash them in her kitchen sink. He felt rather than saw her enter the small kitchen leaning her back against the counter beside him, watching him work. He stilled and she quickly realized why, his big, dark gloves left on the counter.

She felt like they had entered a bubble, a very unstable bubble that could burst at any second.

She whispered softly, “It’s okay, you don’t have to hide here.”

He stared down in the now empty sink. He finally brought his hands up and over the edge, slowly reaching for the gloves. His skin was a toffee brown, his long fingers rough and calloused. She felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch him, assure herself that indeed there is a man under the suit. She quickly swallowed the thought and filed it away.

He looked at her and she held his concealed gaze for a few, long seconds. She wondered what thoughts were whizzing across his brain.

“Who knows what you look like?”

He merely stared at her. She tried, “Anyone?”

He shook his head no.

She continued speaking softly, finally looking away. “But isn’t that lonely? I mean not being comfortable enough in another’s presence to be seen as you are?”

She knew this was a sensitive topic for him and feared she’d taken it a step too far. But fortune favored the bold, and she wanted to understand the silent man in front of her.

He promptly left the room, and she sagged against the counter. She thought he’d left, and instead there he was returning black notebook in hand. He came to stand next to her, so close her head reached his shoulders. He too leaned back against the counter mirroring her stance. He scribbled against the paper.

Are we friends?

She smiled confused, “Uhm I’d like to think so, but it's not something you just decide, it just happens when you enjoy being around a person. Do you see me as a friend?”

He stared at her for the longest, and she found herself glancing behind him at the knives stand further down on the counter. She could feel her heart beating loudly and grew worried that she’d truly overstepped his boundaries.

Relief flooded her when he finally nodded.

When can I see you again?

He found he needed to leave, he needed to think somewhere he could focus. Those dark chocolate eyes of hers disarmed him, and he felt vulnerable under her gaze. The fact she’d seen his hands had shaken him. But she hadn’t recoiled, he reminded himself.

Sarah thought about it, “How does Wednesday evening sound? Same time?”

He nodded. 

He wasn’t sure what friends did when parting. He’d observed that some hug, some shake hands, some wave... What stage were they at? He wasn’t sure what would be appropriate in this situation.

He drew his characteristic smiley face on the notebook for her to find, and flipped it closed. He felt shaky under his collected exterior, and her perfume sent him over the edge. He twisted and pulled her close into his chest, an arm around her back as he pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her head, inhaling her vanilla leave-in conditioner. Just as quick, he pulled away, straightened his posture and walked out of the room, leaving the notebook on the table.

Sarah was bewildered. Her heart was racing, her thoughts jumbled into an incoherent mess. She stood there for a couple minutes. But what truly surprised her, was that she felt a fluttering sensation in her stomach, a blush creeping up her neck. You have got to be kidding me, she thought to herself.

What was absent, instead, was the enveloping warmth she felt before a breakout. Maybe she wasn’t in danger around him, after all.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724 ​  @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx

[thedreadvampy]

Ok so like I don't really want to kick off another round of Mondays argument but

having had a bit of time to step back I feel pretty confident in saying that there's a real struggle in a lot of communities to understand and accept the concept of conflicting access needs

Like it isn't fundamentally an act of bigotry against Person A when Person B says 'this thing that helps you harms others', nor is it implying that A or B is 'less oppressed' or that their oppression doesn't matter. But these kinds of access conflicts need to be talked about in order to be addressed.

Like in a sphere I spend more time taking about, disability and neurodivergence, where this comes up a Lot - say wheelchair users need the entrance to be a ramp, but somebody with balance issues finds walking up a ramp difficult and often fall. Saying 'it's a problem for me that there are only ramps in this building' doesn't mean you think that it's unimportant that wheelchair users can get in, or that your needs matter more.

Or like, here's an example that's come up a lot for me lately - automated subtitles. Some people find automated subtitles on Zoom calls make meetings possible (people with hearing or audio processing issues particularly) but others find them distracting and find it impossible to focus. Those two things are incompatible needs - you can't both have subtitles and not have subtitles in this context - but that doesn't mean one of them is Real and Important and the other is Fake and Irrelevant just because that would make it easier.

One last example of this in material terms - I am autistic and have real problems with audio processing when I'm tired. I went to a workshop in a smallish space, so the workshop was quite near the crèche. Having a crèche is a vital access need for a lot of people; lone parents and working class mothers in general are often very left out of activist and social spaces because of a lack of childcare. But for me, it created an insurmountable problem - the noise from the crèche meant I couldn't take in any information, I was exhausted and stressed and in pain the whole time, you know? It wouldn't be fair to ask the crèche to shut or to silence the children, who need and deserve the right to play, but equally it wouldn't be fair to tell me I'm selfish or lying for having trouble following the session.

Anyway so that's access clash. Different people have different needs that may be fundamentally incompatible, but they're equally valid needs.

But access clash isn't just personal, it's also political, social and linguistic. And this kind of feeds into a recurrent issue in groups of marginalised people where there's a persistent desire to decide in any given argument Whose Marginalisation Matters More and to accuse the other of lying/arguing in bad faith/ignoring erasing The Struggle.

Some recent examples of that phenomenon in the TMA fandom (pokes bear pokes bear) might be:

1. It's aphobic to say that there's any problem at all with framing fat, traumatised MLM as virginal or naive or inexperienced or non-sexual, because he could be ace and that's important to ace people. But fat, traumatised and gay people have a history of being desexualised, given less sexual and romantic agency, and infantilised or objectified as cute and pure in a way that thin, non-survivor or straight people don't. One way to approach this is to say One Of These Issues Is Important And Valid And That Means The Other Is Being Homophobic/Fatphobic/Ableist/Aphobic and Targeting Marginalised People With Invalid Criticism. That's a very easy task to fall into but it's important imo to make space for the access clash.

2. Bisexual people want an event that focuses on bisexuality. Non-bisexual people want an event that focuses on their own sexuality. Everyone's desire in this situation is to see their own experience reflected.

There's this kind of hierarchy of truth idea where anything that conflicts with what you know to be true must necessarily be false, but the fact is that human experience is infinitely complex and variable so actually something that's undeniably true for some people will always run into some friction with what's undeniably true for others.

And there's such a strong impulse towards assuming that the other is lying or arguing in bad faith, because you KNOW your need is real and important and it conflicts with their needs and that MUST mean they're doing it At You, or in the extreme that they're actively lying to hurt and belittle you. And that's a really natural and understandable impulse, especially among marginalised people who ARE often hurt, manipulated and belittled in bad faith. But I really think that as a community we need to actively work to undercut the idea that oppression is a zero sum game; that if you having the space you need treads on my toes, I can say "you're on my foot and it hurts" without Secretly Meaning "you don't deserve space and shouldn't be given it." Like I do authentically need an untrodden-on foot and you do authentically need enough space to stand in and it's not undermining the truth of either of those statements to acknowledge the other.

idk I just think. Understanding that the other person may have an authentic need being intent/overridden (even though the need may not be what they think it is!) is a pretty important part of conflict management. and believing that if I say "ow you trod on my foot" means I'm actively trying to undermine your need for space is a pretty important part of how conflict escalates into oblivion until I'm yelling YOU DON'T DESERVE STANDING SPACE GO GET CRUSHED and you're yelling I'M GOING TO STAMP ON YOUR FOOT UNTIL IT BREAKS

idk if that makes sense but 🤷‍♀️

[the-odd-job]

Harem AU Chapter 16 - Break Away from the Dark

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Relationships: Megatron/Sideswipe, Sideswipe/Skywarp, Sideswipe/Runamuck/Runabout Characters: Megatron, Soundwave, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Skywarp, Runamuck, Runabout, Undisclosed Characters Additional Tags: Sticky, Dubcon, Double Penetration, Oral/Deepthroating, Slight Mindfuck Words: 12756

But I know some day I'll make it out of here Even if it takes all night or a hundred years Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near Wanna feel alive, outside I can't fight my fear

Isn't it lovely, all alone? Heart made of glass, my mind of stone Tear me to pieces, skin and bone Hello, welcome home

— Lauren Babic & Jordan Radvansky – Lovely

( Previous )

If nothing else… No one else had seen him, this time. 

That didn’t make it that much easier to bear. Certainly the humiliation would’ve been just that much deeper if the other mates were there to witness it, but the other mates… What had they already seen during their time here? They were a completely shameless bunch, that was for sure. They did willingly what he was coerced to do. 

They wouldn’t have thought twice about seeing him in that position.

No, the worst part was that Megatron saw, but considering he was the one orchestrating the whole thing, that was inescapable. Megatron would see and Megatron would know how far he’d come to push them, pressing them into doing things that in the past… They would never have agreed to. 

But they’d lost their fight somewhere along the way, forced to subdue themselves after too much of everything.

Just too much.

This only added to the long list of things that were too much.

The library was quiet, as usual, and it was there that Sunstreaker had sequestered himself. He’d had a shower yesterday after Megatron had dismissed him, and then, because of the late hour, he’d gone to recharge.

There hadn’t really been the time to think and feel, just rid himself of the most immediate physical things.

It wasn’t that far into the morning, now. He hadn’t slept nearly as late as he usually did, the everything of it haunting him.

Megatron was going so far. Not even in the physical sense anymore. There wasn’t much to interfacing he hadn’t already done. He wasn’t given reason to do overt physical damage, so he didn’t.

But the subservience he was beginning to demand. Oh, it had always been there, he’d always asked for it, but now that was ramping up. Badly. It wasn’t enough that it was interfacing related anymore, that it was just obedience.

No, he wanted them on the floors, crawling at his pedes, worshipping him, showing how highly they regarded him and how little they thought of themselves. Wasn’t that it? Did he want to strip them of all of their self-worth, trample what little of their dignity they had left into the dirt so badly there would be no reclaiming it, now or ever? Grind them down to dust until they weren’t even themselves anymore, but instead just like the other mates—brainwashed and empty, ones who lived only to obey and serve.

And what did he want on top of it all? That they were grateful for it? Grateful for the destruction of their self, because they had gotten pulled from the gutters by whatever decree had Kaonites kidnapping citizens of Free Cybertron—pulled from the gutters to be brought into this hell instead, and then told this was an improvement.  

Did he really think they would ever agree with that assessment or believe in that version of reality? 

These were the thoughts and feelings he hadn’t had the time for yesterday, but now Sunstreaker dedicated his processors and spark to categorizing them, sitting on the familiar couch at the back of the library with his helm securely in his servos. Catalog everything. Every memory of being on the floor in front of the tyrant, the disgust in him as he did what Megatron wanted of him. And why? To keep Sideswipe safe?

That made it worth it, but it didn’t change the fact he’d wanted to throw up just from the act itself, that his revulsion and hatred had reached all new heights as he’d… Primus. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want those memories.

He didn’t want it to be him who had done those things, subjected himself to that disgrace under Megatron’s approving optics—and his field. It had been muted, but there was no doubt there had been a sense of self-satisfaction in it. As if Megatron was happy and proud that he could force Sunstreaker into such a position.

Which he probably was, all things considered.

It was sick.

He worried it would take him the rest of his damn life to try to get over the things he was made to do here. The interfacing and the injuries he could handle. Not that those wouldn’t affect him, not that he wouldn’t have nightmares of them, not that they wouldn’t remain unpleasant memories–

But their emotion didn’t compare to what he felt when laving his glossa along Megatron’s damned pedes, when rubbing his face against them, kissing them when he’d been told to do so—and just because every time he hesitated, he had gotten threatened with something happening to Sideswipe.

Better him than Sideswipe, even if he knew that protecting his twin here was nothing but an illusion. Megatron would hurt Sideswipe too, in some way, even if not in the moment.

But if he could prevent even a little of the kind of pits Megatron put them through… 

He didn’t want to be this. Sunstreaker knew he was a proud being. Or… Had been. He’d known that much, and he’d been proud of being proud, which was… Was that a little over the top? Too much pride for one person? He hadn’t cared.

That probably made Megatron all the more eager to humiliate him. Wouldn’t it be something of an accomplishment to break the pride Sunstreaker had? Had had?

How much of it was left?

Some might’ve called the whole thing a vice he had, that he was arrogant, self-centered. And he was. He hadn’t cared about much beyond himself and Sideswipe. Didn’t care about much, that hadn’t changed. 

But vice or not, he didn’t think he deserved this. He didn’t think he deserved to be torn down like was being done to him, and to Sideswipe. He’d had some enemies, maybe they would have cheered if they’d seen him now… But not many. Mostly he’d kept to himself. That didn’t earn you many foes, usually. He liked to think that most of the mecha he’d known, even just tangentially, would be horrified if they knew.

That even those not in the gutters would have been horrified, even if it was just a guttermech going through this. Surely he had at least that much value as a person, regardless of his financial status and luck in life?

Rotten, rotten luck. And Megatron dared claim that he had value here where he hadn’t had it in his old life. As if it wasn’t enough that he valued himself, something he wasn’t allowed to do here, because here his value was directly tied to what Megatron thought of him, no? It was Megatron who determined what he was worth, and if he knew anything by now, it was that his worth was directly tied to how well he could please his master—how well he could provide him with what he wanted. 

How was he ever supposed to believe this was better than what he’d had before, or somehow preferable to the streets?

Pits. He could never. How could he ever?

But how much longer would he need to be here for, fighting the same battles, repeating the same things inside and out, being fed the same bullshit day in, day out? Stuck in the same cycle, until… What? He went crazy or gave up, or went crazy and gave up? How closely together were those two tied? 

Steps approached, but Sunstreaker didn’t look up. It was just Sideswipe.

Didn’t look up before a cube containing brightly glowing energon was poked into his field of view and… Wiggled.

Sunstreaker snorted something like a laugh and lifted his helm to give a wry look at his brother. Sideswipe… It wasn’t all the way a grin that he managed, but it was something. Sideswipe kept trying. And failing, but he didn’t stop trying.  

And what had he learned yesterday? There was more for them to do than wallow in their misery, even if that was to try to remember this wasn’t what there was supposed to be, to… Remind themselves, through their hatred of their situation, that they didn’t need to accept it. Any of it.

Sunstreaker took the energon offered to him and Sideswipe sat down on the couch next to him, nursing his own cube. They didn’t say anything as they hardlined—connected in frame as they always were connected in spark—before they both went to drink their fuel. This they couldn’t say out loud.

Because Sideswipe was wiser than before. Their thoughts tangled, memories were exchanged, their spark dove into itself until there was even less of a two than there usually was... 

One of their frames had information they hadn’t had before, something no one had brought up because… Did they take it for granted? Thought it wasn’t worth saying that, oh, some of the mates got to leave the palace sometimes? 

Or was that information deliberately kept from them to strip them of their hope of escape, when the palace itself seemed nigh impenetrable, at least from the inside? If that was the case, why had Skywarp blurted it so willingly after just one offhand question from Sideswipe?

Well, whatever, the reasons didn’t really matter. As long as it was true, that was what mattered, and Skywarp hadn’t lied about anything before now. There wasn’t much reason to think he’d started now and it wasn’t true that the mates, the chosen ones, got to leave the palace for some fun every now and then. Racing, clubbing, movies, spa… Pits, it sounded almost normal, the kind of things they could imagine upper class mecha just did, but that they really, really had thought would be entirely denied from them. They’d been here… Quite some time already, and not once had any of the mates left for more than entertaining Megatron—his wing, the dinners, whatever else there might be that they didn’t yet know about but that they sometimes got called for. 

It had to be rare. That, and most likely those that actually got to go were few. The harem was large—or maybe it wasn’t, what did they know about what size harems usually were—about fifty sparks strong. There was no way all of them would get to go at once, that was just… Unmanageable numbers without a numerous guard to accompany them.

So, they were rare, and likely to qualify for Megatron to even consider letting you go on such outings… You needed to be special. That made sense, didn’t it? Wouldn’t anyone consider it a bit of a reward, a treat, even those that seemed content to live in the harem despite all of its restrictions? Even Skywarp had called it fun, and he if anyone never gave any indication that he wasn’t happy here. They’d never gleaned how genuine that truly was, but at least on the surface it seemed very genuine.

If even Skywarp appreciated it, probably the others did too. Megatron could be expected to know as much, and it would follow that he would show his appreciation of you by letting you leave the palace, however temporarily. 

Getting out of the palace had been their biggest hurdle as far as getting the slag out of here went. It wasn’t just about the harem wing, it was about the whole fragging place, that they didn’t even know the layout of, that was very closely guarded from everything they had seen. How were they ever going to navigate through the whole thing without being noticed, and somehow get through any door that actually led outside without getting caught in the act?

‘Difficult’ was an understatement as far as describing the feat went.

But here was another option. Get the permission to go out. That would be the greatest obstacle in the way of their escape taken care of, just like that. Oh, there was no way it was going to be easy even from there on. There would be guards, they were branded in a way that no doubt alerted others to their status and that couldn’t work out too well for them, and they didn’t know the map of the city at all. Once out, they’d still have no idea where to go, but… They’d be out. There would be a whole city for them to disappear in. And their brands? All they’d need to do was remove select pieces of their armor, including those that contained the markings—though without making it look like they’d deliberately removed something, which was going to be a bit more difficult. Ruin their paint jobs a bit because he expected they would stand out so badly with their current looks, change their optical color to red to blend in a bit better… Would that do it?

It was still going to be difficult. There were far too many things to take into account and control, risks to minimize, backup plans to have… But it would be a chance. It would be a real chance, not just a pipe dream. It was something they could have a proper shot at, that they could actually succeed in.

They could still fail, that was always a possibility, but pits, the odds wouldn’t be completely against them. 

That was the theory, at least. First it would be prudent to get out even once without immediately trying to run away from their chaperons and cohort, just to get a feel of what they were getting into and a more solid idea of how things worked. Once they had that… Then they could make a run for it.

And on the other side of that? No more of this. No more Megatron, no more harem. Oh, they’d be exchanging one set of problems for another—the matter remained that Kaon was going to be a terribly difficult city to live in without that much touted citizenship—but what they would go into was the lesser evil. Who knew what the frag they’d need to do to survive, maybe they’d need to sell their frames, whatever, it wouldn’t matter.

They’d be free, and it would be better than here. They would have the chance to aim for whatever they wanted. Escape from the city itself? Maybe. 

But even if they never got that far, just living within the city as honest to Primus free mecha would be… Pits. He wasn’t sure he’d ever before looked forward to anything as much.

They’d been here as captives for too long already.

What would they need to do to actually get the rights to leave the palace, though?

They dispersed their cubes as one after fueling their respective frames. Sideswipe went to entwine their digits; Sunstreake squeezed his servo back. When he glanced at his brother, Sideswipe was already looking at him, determination in his optics.

More than a little fear too, though. That would probably be the most emotionally trying part of this all, what they’d need to do to get picked for the outings. Megatron was the keyholder and it was his good graces they’d need to get to to have a shot at this whole thing. No one and nothing else.

Could they be blamed for not finding that thought very appealing? It was their only choice, but slag, doing whatever to please the dictator? After everything he’d done to them? Despite everything he was? 

It left an incredibly bad taste in his mouth. If he was already forced to lick pedes… Next step would likely be to do so voluntarily. They couldn’t be too obvious about this, couldn’t appear that their change of heart was altogether sudden, but weren’t they already quite far down the road of acquiescing? Sideswipe in particular? No, Sideswipe probably wouldn’t need to do too much to make his concession seem genuine, as if Megatron had truly won over him and got to reap the benefits of his hard work in Sideswipe’s submission.

But Sunstreaker… He still argued. Even if he ultimately gave because he was never given another option and no way out, he still fought in whatever capacity he was allowed to. He couldn’t abruptly stop with that without inviting suspicion, could he? He’d still need to… Let Megatron beat him down, if not physically, then emotionally—act as if that was affecting him, that he didn’t have new hope to pull strength from, that he was caving.  

After everything Megatron had already done and without any of them knowing his true strength, they’d likely even believe it. Megatron hadn’t won and he never would win, but he could make it look as if he had. Do what it took to prove as much.

Give in in all ways. Do every humiliating thing Megatron demanded of them to test their subservience, show their submission—pretend, pretend, pretend.  

Sideswipe gripped his servo tighter. Sunstreaker knew their apprehension. They needed to do this, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. He was sure it would be fragging horrible, that Megatron would push them to their absolute limits to make sure their state of spark and mind was truly what they made it out to be. 

And they’d need to withstand it, even as they made it look like they failed to do just that. 

This wouldn’t be easy. None of this would be easy, but it would be worth it. There was a reward waiting for them, their freedom, their life, theirs to take–

If they just did this first. 

They could do this.

Sideswipe nodded lightly and Sunstreaker gave him a small smile in return. They’d have each other through this like they’d had each other through everything. If they threatened to forget why they were doing this, they could remind themselves with their other half. If things started to feel like too much and like it might be best to give up for real… They could remind themselves.

That was their added strength. There was only one of them, but to be in two was a dimension the whole sparked did not have. They could let their desire to keep both halves of them safe keep them going—as long as they remembered what true safety was, and that they’d never find it here.

Safety would be out of Megatron’s grasp. 

But first… Gain his approval. Gain his trust. Would it be enough if they just showed their spirit, broken, bent to him? No, he doubted that. They’d need to go a step further and gain his favor to the point that he’d see it fit to reward them. 

Everything on the path to that goal… They could do. They’d keep in mind what they were doing it all for, and they could do it. Whatever it took—no matter the pain and humiliation Megatron would put them through, although… Would it get easier once the tyrant began to believe they were done for? Would he stop playing with them so much after he was convinced their submission was no act? Stopped with his games, when there seemingly was no further need for them?

They could hope. Maybe things would be easier to bear if they earned Megatron’s normal treatment, whatever that was. It couldn’t be what they’d gone through so far. Surely the other mates wouldn’t be as content if they continuously went through the same? 

What did he know, though, maybe Megatron’s treatment never got better and things would remain as hellish as they ever did. But… They could hope.

How long would this take?

It didn’t matter. They’d get out of here, they’d make it back out there, and it didn’t matter how long of a game they’d need to play. It would be their game from now on, not Megatron’s.

Megatron would become the pawn.

All they’d need to do was not alert him to that fact.

--------------------------------------

That plan was all well and good, but putting it into practice turned out to be a bit more difficult. They were at the mercy of Megatron’s whims, and as it was, Megatron didn’t really… Well, Sideswipe wasn’t going to go so far as to say the mech disliked them or they probably wouldn’t still be here, but Megatron definitely favored a lot of other members of his harem more. Their novelty had sort of worn off by now, and while Megatron had continued to test them every now and then, it wasn’t at a predictable or frequent pace.

And it just so happened that Megatron didn’t call for them for a few weeks, nor were there any orgies. The tyrant didn’t seem to be busy, though, because other members of the harem still got summons as usual.

He just didn’t fancy the twins, apparently.

So they couldn’t really get started on the whole thing, even though they were anxious to do so because the sooner they made progress on that front, the sooner they’d be out of here.

It was a weird feeling to suddenly almost hope Megatron gave them attention, even as they continued to dread that very same thing. 

Sideswipe still tried to take the downtime as the downtime it was. Sooner or later Megatron would lay his optics on them again, and things would probably suck a lot at that point, even if they now saw it as a necessity and a step on their road to freedom. Through everything Megatron would still doubtlessly do to them, they’d just need to keep that in mind. There was a purpose to all of this, now, coming from themselves. They weren’t just Megatron’s toys anymore. They had newfound agency of their own. 

It was a good thought and a nice feeling, but they couldn’t let it show. That turned out to be easier than they might’ve initially expected, honestly. Sunstreaker had no trouble being as grouchy as ever and it really wasn’t even that much of an act, and Sideswipe… For as long as Megatron wasn’t singling them out, things were alright anyway. He could pretend they were. No one thought it odd if he was sort of alive for as long as he wasn’t getting any attention from the tyrant. 

And then there were the continued propositions, but at least he managed to escape any actual ‘facing in further practice.

Even if that sometimes meant literally escaping from someone’s hold or from the room or whatever else. The mates were just really, really bad at taking no for an answer. That was old news by now, though, and he could prepare for it and make sure he always had those escape routes planned, and excuses they might actually listen to on the tip of his glossa. 

No one dared approach Sunstreaker like that, still. 

Pastimes aplenty, it was, and Sideswipe was down for almost everything except the fragging. Games, tv, movies, actual books sometimes, more games… Dancing, tentatively. He did like dancing, and now that that bottle had already gotten uncorked before the dinner, it was nice to indulge in it a little bit, at the back of the entertainment room. They even got some miniature dance parties going on, and he just needed to ignore how obviously sexualized everyone else was dancing.

He just wanted to dance for the sake of dancing, not to arouse anyone. Was that too much to ask?

Knock Out continued to invite Sunstreaker to painting sessions whenever someone needed to have their paint jobs touched up on a grander scale. Sunstreaker enjoyed those, enjoyed learning, and maybe in another life they could’ve set up a bodyshop of their own and offered the services Sunstreaker was learning and having fun with. Sideswipe wasn’t going to entirely rule that out either. He wasn’t ready to. Who knew what they’d be able to do once they got Kaonite citizenships? They had no fragging clue how they were going to manage that, but with time, they would, he had no doubt about it.

And then… There would be a lot more they could do. They’d always need to be careful. He severely doubted Megatron was the type to just let his “property” go so easily, and for as long as they were in Kaon, they were too damn close to him. They’d need to watch themselves every step of the way.

But they could do it, and pits, they were going to enjoy their freedom.

It was ridiculous they needed to worry about regaining it in the first place. They were citizens of Free Cybertron, for Primus’ sake. Then, suddenly, there just was nothing free about them anymore.

But even if they wouldn’t get it out of the city just yet, back to the truly free portion of Cybertron, just being in the wild of the city would be so much more than they’d had in a long time.

“Sideswipe!” Twin Twist called from the door of the entertainment. When Sideswipe glanced up from the game board he’d been frowning at—he was still to actually win in this one, but he was getting better!—he could see the twin with… His twin all over him. You know, groping him. Very, very openly. And insistently.

Sideswipe raised an unimpressed optical ridge at the both of them and earned himself two unrepentant grins before Topspin continued where his brother left off. “Megatron called you in tonight! Eighteenth.”

And with that he managed to pull Twin Twist from the doorway, probably for them to go have a tumble in the berthroom.

Sideswipe’s snort of amusement was soon followed by anxiety—and anticipation.

This was it. Megatron was finally picking one of them out again, and they’d have the chance to get started good and proper. Sideswipe glanced to the other side of the room where Sunstreaker was already looking at him. His twin gave a small nod of encouragement and Sideswipe nodded back. He could do this.

But first, he had a game to finish. And win, maybe. Hopefully.

He’d give it his best shot.

---------------------------------

As it turned out, it wasn’t enough. But he was second! Not the first, honestly not even close, but with a bit of skill and a generous sprinkling of luck, he made it to second. So. He was going to feel good about that. 

Skywarp had come to watch the end of the game, seated behind him, and as soon as the last player finished, Sideswipe could feel the Seeker’s arm around him, pulling him back against the flier. “Heard Megatron wants you in tonight. Wanna prep?” Skywarp asked, peering down at him. Sideswipe made a face at him, but… This would play into their plans too. Megatron liked it when they were ready, and right now, they’d need to do what Megatron liked.

So despite the fact he wasn’t exactly looking forward to any of this, Sideswipe nevertheless nodded. Skywarp grinned at him at once, and before anyone could do anything, leaned down to kiss him.

Sideswipe could feel Sunstreaker’s growl from across the room, but this wasn’t… Harmful. He still didn’t want to be kissing the Seeker, exactly, but he’d agreed to the preparations, so… Sunstreaker stilled himself, because of that, and also because Starscream was watching him with a pretty wicked look.

And they weren’t going to get anywhere by displeasing Starscream, any more than they were going to do so by displeasing Megatron. They were pretty sure all Starscream would need to do was whisper a careful word into Megatron’s audial, and if Megatron’s opinion of them already wasn’t the highest, they would end up nowhere good from that. 

Besides, there was no proper infighting among the other mates. They would only stand out in a bad way if they started with it. 

Skywarp’s glossa pried its way into his mouth and Sideswipe reluctantly allowed that just as he reluctantly allowed everything else as the Seeker’s servo slipped down his front, right to his panels. Sideswipe spread his legs for Skywarp, an invitation he probably wouldn’t have needed, but that he took anyway, immediately getting to fondling his valve cover. And don’t get him wrong, it didn’t feel bad, but Sideswipe’s shudder still wasn’t one of pleasure.

He just didn’t want to be here, in this position, having this happen, no matter how many times before the exact same had already gone down.

But it was for his own good, both on the short run as well as the long one, now. 

He could do this.

As long as he didn’t focus too hard on it. Empty his head and let his frame do its thing. Skywarp was as insistent as always and continued to show his long practice at tasks like these, and Sideswipe’s frame was heating up in no time. He could feel wetness build up behind his panel and he didn’t want it, he so, so didn’t want it–

But he ignored that the best he could and let his cover retract. He’d agreed to this.

It was for the best.

Skywarp’s digits plunged into his valve the moment it was bared, and Sideswipe’s arching back wasn’t for show when the Seeker hooked his digits right against sensors that very much liked it. Sideswipe couldn’t help a quiet moan into their kiss and Skywarp’s engine purred in response. At least one of them was having fun with this.

They weren’t the only ones getting started, either. The game had lasted for a while—enough of a while that the other mates had gotten a little revved up on their own.

Now they were very intent on dispelling some of that energy, which was about the point where Sideswipe would’ve made his exit. This time though? This time he was actually participating, apparently, if only with Skywarp. The others could handle themselves.

Skywarp was… Thoughtful, in his own way, like he usually was. He worked with his digits until Sideswipe was well and truly soaked and rocking onto the claws penetrating him with small, restless motions. His vents were stuttering just a little, the arousal in his systems undeniable.

And still, he was the last one. The others had long since stuck a spike in someone else’s valve, while Skywarp patiently made sure Sideswipe was ready to go.

He wasn’t, but his frame was, and that was what the Seeker listened to. Sideswipe couldn’t blame him when his vocalizer straight up whined when Skywarp extracted his digits and broke their kiss, as if he was just that desperate for it. Skywarp chuckled at his back before two servos, one covered in lubricant, wrapped around his waist and lifted his whole frame up. Sideswipe managed to get his legs in a somewhat better position to bracket Skywarp’s lap, seconds before he was carefully lowered onto the Seeker’s spike.

Pits, he hated it. And he loved it. Their size difference was enough that he could really feel it, but not in a bad way at all. His calipers were pushed aside just so, his mesh stretched just a little bit, just enough that it felt like something without ever being too much. He doubted smaller spikes would've even satisfied him anymore, not after how far outside of his intended specifications Megatron had pushed and broken his frame.

Don't think about it. His vents hitched for entirely different reasons at that stray thought, but Sideswipe swept it from his mind as quickly as he could and distracted himself with what his frame was going through. Skywarp had lowered him until their groins were again flush against each other, then gave him some time. Sideswipe didn't think he would've really needed it, but it was a nice gesture regardless. His vents were coming just that much faster at the way Skywarp’s spike snuggled against the sensors at the very top of his valve, pressing, but not painfully. He couldn’t keep his frame from doing a restless little grind down on the spike keeping him open, just to feel those sensors stimulated a bit further.

Skywarp took that as a sign he was ready, but Sideswipe figured it would be kind of rude to leave the Seeker to do all the work, so when Skywarp’s hold on his waist tightened to lift him partway up, Sideswipe helped along by raising him on his legs. The burst of pleasure in Skywarp’s field seemed to come both from the fact he was using his spike, as well as Sideswipe’s… Reciprocation. 

For how little anyone here gave a frag about consent, they still seemed oddly happy when you even sort of gave it, or showed you had given it, or… Whatever. Something. Slag if he knew.

Sideswipe didn’t end up doing all of the work himself either, though. It was… Mutual. He lifted himself on his legs, but Skywarp guided and aided him and set the pace. He would hitch his hips up against Sideswipe’s aft and valve every now and then, pushing as deep as he would go, and frag it all but it felt… Good.

He could almost make himself believe he liked it. His frame sure did. He’d stifled his vocalizer because he couldn’t bear that much, to make sounds during this—as if it wasn’t already obvious to the whole world that what he felt was pleasure—but his engine revved out of his control and his vents came in uneven bursts, reactive to every motion of his frame. Up, then down, then back up, his sensors responding to every stroke of Skywarp’s spike along them. 

The Seeker’s ventilations had turned more ragged, too, his field simmering with his own arousal. Yet, as usual, Skywarp didn’t allow that to affect him overmuch, his servos remaining steady where Sideswipe soon felt anything but steady as the pleasure built in his systems until he could scarcely focus on anything else. His optics had closed themselves, his face contorting into expressions that spoke too much of his enjoyment, and field only helping to broadcast it to the whole wide world.

Was it any wonder the other mates struggled to take a no from him, when it was so obvious his frame had a good time every time he somehow managed to get caught up in these activities? His mind… Not so much, but they didn’t see that. Only Sunstreaker saw that.

But he tried not to battle himself now, and just… Let it happen. Let the pleasure roll over him in waves that he knew would drown him—don’t let his thoughts distract him from it. 

This was for his own good. It was alright. There was no reason to fight it. 

Until he was pulled under entirely. Sideswipe’s stubborn silence broke into a gasp when his frame locked up without giving him overt warning, slamming itself down onto Skywarp’s spike and then that final push against the sensors at the roof of his valve fully shoving him over the edge. He overloaded with a groan, arching up against Skywarp, valve clenching around the spike in him until Skywarp was coming himself. The Seeker’s hold on him tightened just a little as transfluid shot into his valve, and his valve, the damned thing, all but milking it from the spike he wasn’t sure he even wanted in there. 

For his own good. 

They were both venting heavily in the aftermath and Sideswipe knew he was leaning on Skywarp too heavily, but the flier didn’t complain. Instead his arms just… Wrapped around Sideswipe’s middle and held him close, there, still sitting on his spike, in his lap.

He’d cared so much about that just seconds before, but Sideswipe wasn’t sure he did anymore. Should he? But good overloads had a habit of sweeping thoughts and their kin from your head, and he felt like that had happened a little bit. His frame felt loose, just a little leftover charge was still tingling in his systems, unable to entirely leave him while his array was still in use, stretched—his sensors still held tight against a spike. None of it was… Unpleasant, physically. 

Mentally and emotionally?

Pit, he didn’t know anymore.

“Round two?” Skywarp asked right next to his audial, jerking Sideswipe from his slowly returning thoughts. He could hear a grin in his voice, but Sideswipe himself had to fight to keep quiet when Skywarp circled his hips in a way that was so reminiscent of how Megatron did it–

But that reminder wasn’t enough to keep his frame from gaining renewed interest in their activities.

Before he could say yay or nay—and he absolutely wasn’t certain what he would’ve said—Runamuck had spoken up in his stead. “I’ve got an idea for you, Sides.” He was grinning too, and Sideswipe found enough strength to look at him. Very suspiciously.

Skywarp, though, seemed to catch on, and carefully lifted him off his spike. Sideswipe hissed when his valve was abandoned like that, a heavy mix of transfluid and lubricant trailing out of him and soiling Skywarp’s spike and crotch. Of course Skywarp showed no indication that he minded, and he probably really didn’t, just set Sideswipe down in front of him before scooting away. Sideswipe glanced after him just in time to see Skywarp get grabbed by Hot Shot, and…

Well, Skywarp was definitely going to have a round two.

What about Sideswipe?

His attention snapped back to Runamuck—and Runabout, he was right behind his brother—when the white mech came right up to him, and… Snatched him, really. Sideswipe flailed, but before he could gain enough coordination to do anything useful, Runamuck had leaned back and pulled Sideswipe on top of him.

Then pushed him back, right onto his erect spike. Sideswipe’s valve reported an intrusion, but Runamuck was about in the same size class as he was. Stockier, but no taller than him. As he’d suspected, there wasn’t… A hell of a lot going on, down under. He could feel it, but it didn’t stretch him, not really.

It didn’t reach his sensors, not really. 

That was… Disturbing. He didn’t want it to be disappointing too, but it kind of was.

And about then Runabout positioned himself behind him, and Sideswipe suddenly had a very good idea of what the other set of twins was planning to do. For sure he’d seen them do it before on the other mates.

“Wait, wait wait wai–!” Sideswipe was cut off when he felt another spike nudge against the entrance of his valve, encounter some resistance, and then ignoring all that to–

Push in alongside Runamuck’s spike already in him.

Sideswipe’s frame snapped taut into a painful arch and his ventilations seized entirely as Runabout forced his spike in with his brother’s, and just like that, Sideswipe was impaled by two spikes. 

A delirious thought of how this was one way to get around their misshapen valves had just the time to be born before it died right off when the two started to move. There was a rhythm to it, no doubt coming both from their bond and the fact they had definitely done this before, and probably many times too, they’d had practice–

But Sideswipe struggled to focus on much of anything. He couldn’t complain about not feeling it properly, anymore. Primus, he felt it. His calipers were pushed, far and wide, because together the twins’ spikes were… Was their combined girth as great as Megatron’s? Or greater? Not as great? He couldn’t– Fraggit, he couldn’t tell, but it didn’t really matter either because no matter the exact stretch of his valve right then, it was nevertheless a lot. Enough. But not too much.

How could it not be too much?

And he’d been right in this position before, when Motormaster had fragged his face and those other two… What was that one’s name? Why did he try to remember?

Wildrider.

Names were inconsequential, but he remembered them, the two grounders that had taken a turn with him right after Motormaster, and how it had hurt–

It didn’t hurt now, but it had been just like this, him straddling a frame with another behind him, and he didn’t– He couldn’t–

Hold onto his thoughts. Sideswipe whined in confusion when Runamuck and Runabout fragged him in perfect sync, back and forth, in and out, holding him in place as much as he couldn’t even remember to try to get away– Did he want to get away?

Did he?

It felt good. He could barely focus on that, he could barely focus on anything, but somewhere in the haze he could tell his frame was feeling pleasure, that his charge was rising, that it… It… 

Felt good. It didn’t hurt, like it had, like it probably should’ve, it only felt good.

So good. 

He was moaning and he couldn’t quiet himself. He could feel the twins’ fields around him, surrounding him, their smugness and their own pleasure. They liked to drive his thoughts straight out of him, didn’t they?

Was one of them talking?

Both of them?

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“You and Sunstreaker should double team someone too. Bet you’d make it fragging good.”

“A little practice and you’ll be as good as us!”

Laughter. 

Sideswipe whined.

“We’ll even give you lessons!”

“I’d call this the first one but are you even lucid, Sides?”

More laughter.

“The first time is always the best.”

This wasn’t his first–

It touched him so differently than just one spike could, the stretch was more uneven, it didn’t hit his sensors the same, it was so different parts of him that were stroked and jabbed by their spikes and–

And–

His frame tightened further until he was pretty sure he was going to snap cables for sure. A cry was torn from him when an overload crashed right through him, charge crackling all across his plating–

But they didn’t stop. They didn’t overload, and they didn’t stop, and he couldn’t tell up from down anymore. Sideswipe collapsed fully over Runamuck the moment the tension left him, his vision breaking to whitenoise as they kept up with it and started to build another overload right on the heels of the previous one. Was it so hard to understand? They hadn’t come themselves. Of course they’d want that.

And Sideswipe could provide it.

Was that a good thing?

It didn’t really matter, they used his frame irregardless of his thoughts on that—not that he had very many good, well-formed thoughts. Mostly it was just a primal jumble of sensation his valve relentlessly fed him. The brothers rocked his frame with their thrusts and that became about the only thing he was aware of, and it felt like it just lasted and lasted forever, even though some distant part of him was pretty sure it was only a minute or two. They wrung a second overload out of him; this time he didn’t even manage to scream. His mouth fell open but no sound emerged.

His valve tightened and that only made the whole thing that much better, but it seemed to be enough to pull the other twins into their own overloads. He wondered what kind of feedback their bond provided between them, before the double load of come into his valve, hot and heavy, triggered a third, smaller overload that wiped the slate clean again.  

Then… Reprieve. Finally. Their spikes didn’t leave him immediately; they took their time climbing down from their peaks, but they weren’t moving. Sideswipe could slowly, very slowly, begin to piece reality back together.

Sunstreaker was… Not happy, that was one of the first things he noticed. But he hadn’t intervened either, because… Was this so bad? He’d agreed to prepare. With Skywarp, sure, but it wasn’t so far out there for someone else to take the invitation too.

And this wasn’t like with Wildrider and whoever his friend had been. Runamuck and Runabout weren’t as considerate as Skywarp, but they didn’t mean harm, did they? By now they had to know Sideswipe’s frame would be in a state where he could take their spikes at once without… There’d barely been any discomfort.

They hadn’t hurt him and they hadn’t tried to hurt him, had they?

It wasn’t so bad. 

Then they pulled out and Sideswipe shuddered from helm to pede as his valve was left in a mighty gape, just like what Megatron managed. More transfluid and more lubricant was draining out of him, on top of what his round with Skywarp had already created. It was a mess. A really big mess, but true to form, no one else seemed bothered. 

He shouldn’t let it bother him either. All he’d need to do was close his cover to keep it all from coming right back out, and then have a quick shower to clean his outside before Megatron would inevitably add all the more to it.

But he could shower again after that.

He shouldn’t let it bother him.

…Where was the command to close his cover, again?

Runabout left his back moments before Runamuck gently enough pushed him off of him and to the side. Sideswipe didn’t manage to scrounge up the coordination to not end up in a total sprawl over the seating arrangements, but that was alright probably.

He just. Needed a moment. That was all. 

A black servo waved in front of his optics and it really took him an embarrassing amount of time to focus on it, nevermind its owner. “Did we break you?” Runabout asked, though it was with an audible smile and without any real concern as far as Sideswipe could tell. 

There wasn't any reason for concern, really. He couldn’t blame the mech for not thinking there was. He’d just had the wits ‘faced right out of him. That was all.

Sideswipe lifted exactly one servo with more effort than he would’ve liked and gave a thumbs up.

Runabout and Runamuck both cackled, high fived each other, and then…

Wandered off.

Sideswipe cycled a heavy round of air, gushing it out with quite a bit of force.

So. That happened.

And what had they suggested? That he and Sunstreaker performed the same on someone at some point?

Wasn’t that a thought.

Speaking of Sunstreaker… His twin came over and sat down next to him—although making sure the spot he put his aft on was clean and not covered in ‘facing fluids, like… There was a lot of that now, but at least everyone seemed to have gotten it out of their systems. Most of the mates that had been around him had left, and the few that were still present looked all lax and shit. Content, for the time being, before their protocols would ramp back up and drive them to another session of more of the same.

What a life.

It wouldn’t be their life, though.

“We should give you a wash,” Sunstreaker noted, looking at the mess at his groin with some… Malcontent. Sunstreaker liked to be nice and clean, and Sideswipe couldn’t wholly say he didn’t like being that, too. And to be fair, the other mates had a habit of making sure they weren’t covered in all manner of fluids every hour of every day, despite how easy that would’ve been to manage. So, they weren’t the only ones in preferring to have clean frames.

Sideswipe nodded his full agreement, but actually getting up and going to the washracks and all that was… A little harder. His limbs didn’t really want to do what he was telling them to do.

At least he managed to close his cover! Finally. After this much delay. But it kept the puddle under him from growing even larger.

Eugh.

Sunstreaker eventually had to pull him up because he really didn’t manage that on his own, but once up, he stayed up. His legs managed that much.

They managed walking too, albeit a bit slowly. Not falling over was a good achievement already, though, and he didn’t do that at any point of their walk to the washracks where they went straight under a showerhead and let the solvent rain on him. He’d get dirty all over again soon enough so it was a little pointless, but it still made him feel better about his frame, and that alone made it worth it. 

They were just drying up when Skywarp walked into the washracks, looked around, then brightened when he saw them. “Want me to walk you?” he asked and offered.

Sideswipe nodded. Someone needed to do it anyway. Might as well be Skywarp.

Skywarp nodded back at him. “You about ready to go?”

“Yeah, just a sec,” Sideswipe said, double checking he was as dry as he was going to get and that his internals weren’t still dripping, before he pecked a kiss on Sunstreaker’s cheek and hurried after the Seeker that left the washracks a few steps ahead of him.

They stayed deep in their spark, with the expectation and hope that Megatron wouldn’t do anything so outlandish Sideswipe would rather not have Sunstreaker experience it live. As long as nothing like that went down… It’d be nice to be together, somewhere. Between them.

“I noticed you had fun with Runamuck and Runabout,” Skywarp grinned as the harem wing’s doors opened to them.

Sideswipe nodded a little carefully. “It was… An experience.” That was a diplomatic thing to say, wasn’t it? He still didn’t know what the frag he thought about it because it remained no one had asked if he’d like to get double penetrated, but… It could’ve been worse, too.

Skywarp laughed. “Always is! They’re really good at it. Bet you and Sunstreaker would be even better though, ‘least with some practice. You know, being split-spark and all.” Sideswipe had already nodded when Skywarp suddenly started to backpedal a bit. “Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t know what it’s like to be split-spark and I don’t want to assume things ‘cause you’re so rare, but… This sounds really dumb when said out loud and I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but you know, I’ve read things… Non-fiction things? And they say your connection’s even stronger than a bond so… I should shut up.”

It was Sideswipe’s turn to laugh, and he even surprised himself with how genuine it felt.

But it was kind of funny to see Skywarp so flustered. Usually nothing seemed to get to him. “‘Warp, it’s cool. Really. I don’t expect everyone to know a damn thing about us, and then they’ll assume all sorts of things. Gotten that a lot before. But it’s no bother, honestly. And at least you read non-fiction.” He was going for teasing with that last bit. “I haven’t had the chance to consume a lot of entertainment in my lifetime, but looking at what the rest of it is like, I figure the fictional things about split-sparks are going to be absolutely wild.”

That seemed to reassure the Seeker quite a bit, his wings doing this relieved little jerk and flutter. “Oh yeah, you should see the fiction. There’s everything from being heralds of Primus and Unicron to being Primus’ chosen ones to being a prophecy of the end of the world and a bunch more.”

…Yeah, that sounded pretty interesting. He’d probably need to see some of that for himself. Sideswipe shrugged with a chuckle. “Nothing like the unknown and mysterious to really tickle the imagination I guess.”

“True, that,” Skywarp agreed with a grin, and… Then they were at the door’s to Megatron’s wing, that the guards opened for him. Skywarp waved him a cheery goodbye. “Have fun!”

Sideswipe waved back before the doors closed on his heels. His smile died off once he was alone in the dim hallway and he… Sighed.

Right. Time to set their plan in motion all proper like and hope this wouldn’t go too badly. Maybe Megatron wouldn’t be in a crappy mood.

Unavoidable as the whole thing was, Sideswipe told himself to just get it over with and set down the corridor. As was the case every time, all the doors along it except the ones at the very back were closed and Sideswipe didn’t bother with them.

Just walked to the open ones and stepped into the lounge.

Megatron wasn’t alone. Soundwave was present too, as he sometimes was, but unlike before, the second wasn’t dismissed and didn’t leave.

Instead Megatron waved Sideswipe over, accompanying the gesture with, “Sideswipe. Come here.”

No room for misunderstanding, there. Despite his mounting anxiety—that he tried hard to shove down—Sideswipe walked over to the tyrant, Sunstreaker’s treatment still a little too fresh on his mind.

But no, Megatron didn’t manhandle him the same. He really never seemed to treat them the same. They got different touches applied on them—different methods.

It was… Scary, how Megatron knew to account for the differences in their aspects, and pushed in just the way he determined would get to each of them the most. Sideswipe couldn’t say he hadn’t been far too successful in that.

But no more. They had a plan now. They could withstand the rest of what Megatron still saw fit to throw at them.

Megatron was sitting in one of the armchairs around the low central table of the room, Soundwave on the end of the couch closest to him. Sideswipe took a route that didn’t take him past the second and circled from the other side of the table to stand next to Megatron. His spark was fluttering despite everything he tried to tell it and himself.

From now on, all would be fine. He’d just need to do what Megatron wanted, to please him, without letting it get to him too much.

He could do that.

Sunstreaker could do that.

They could do that.

He still didn’t manage to lift his helm, or his gaze from the floor. Maybe that was for the best, anyway. Anything more Megatron could have considered too prideful and defiant.

Not respectful enough.

Megatron’s legs spread to make room for… Him?

Yes, him. “Coax it out.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sideswipe murmured and moved around Megatron’s leg to kneel in front of him. He didn’t hesitate… Too much, he liked to think, before he pressed his lips against the tyrant’s codpiece, then applied his glossa too. Only moments after that he could feel comm. traffic pick up around him, between Megatron and Soundwave no doubt. With his own still locked, he couldn’t have even tried to spy on them, as much as he didn’t believe that would’ve ever worked.

So they were talking about something they didn’t want him to hear, while there was physical silence in the room, while Soundwave didn’t leave.

Just Sideswipe, expected to pleasure the dictator. His mate, as they were called. Frag that.

And frag this. He seemed to be the only one who thought this was awkward as fuck, though. Megatron and Soundwave just… Lounged, like they didn’t have a care in the world. Lounged and talked things Sideswipe wasn’t allowed to hear.

He tried to ignore that and focus on the order he’d been given, because this was their ticket to freedom. A very unpleasant ticket, but the reward would make it all worth it.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t already have a pretty good idea of what Megatron liked, either. Sideswipe did his best to use those tricks to try to get the tyrant’s panel open, soon preferably, but he got the feeling Megatron was keeping it closed just a little bit longer than what he might’ve in the past—past what level of arousal he had found enough to retract his cover before. It was hot against his mouth and his lips, a sure sign that what he did was working, but it still opened with what Sideswipe thought was a noticeable delay. 

Eventually, though, Megatron allowed it to retract. And still his spike didn’t push out despite his obvious arousal, because Megatron’s iron grip of himself was becoming legendary, much to Sideswipe’s chagrin. He kept his sigh strictly mental, at the very least, because it probably wouldn’t be the best of ideas to let the tyrant know he found this whole thing kind of tiresome.

But dammit, coax it out he would, just to get things closer to being over with. Sideswipe circled the tip still tucked away in its housing with his glossa, probed at the slit at the very head of it, leaned in close enough to kiss it—whatever that might convince Megatron it was acceptable to let it pressurize.

He got to work at it for a while that definitely tried his patience, but at least his annoyance was starting to drown out his self-consciousness—although Sideswipe wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing, because annoyance wasn’t an emotion he could let show. If he was just uncomfortable with the whole setup, that was one thing, but to find anything Megatron asked of him irritating? No, that wasn’t allowed, he knew that much with certainty. Sunstreaker had proven it enough times.

Patience. Perseverance. It paid off in the end, because after far too long spent on the task, the spike finally began to pressurize good and proper. This time Sideswipe couldn’t keep himself from cycling a physical sigh of relief, but luckily neither of the other two mecha present acknowledged it.

As more of the spike began to appear, Megatron gave him another order that Sideswipe really had been expecting already. “Service me.”

“Yes, my Lord,” he responded, just so Megatron wouldn’t find cause to blame him for inattention or disrespect, and… Got to work. This wasn’t exactly unfamiliar anymore, either, and while Sideswipe at first licked along the length, let his lips drag against it and only occasionally came to the tip to take it in his mouth, he knew that once enough of the spike was out, that wouldn’t do anymore. 

Before Megatron would need to tell him as much, Sideswipe reminded himself of what awaited them once they were done with all of this, took the tip in his mouth–

And then more than just the tip. He raised himself a little bit, changed the angle of his throat, straightened it just enough, hesitated–

But pushed himself further on it, until it hit the back of his throat. He corrected his position a little bit, closed his optics so tight… And forced the width of the damn thing into his intake. 

It hurt. He doubted it would ever stop hurting, and he hated it, and Megatron hadn’t even told him to do it!

But they needed to earn his favor. They needed to please him. If that took some initiative, so be it.

It worked. “Good, Sideswipe,” Megatron praised him in a rumble. Sideswipe almost whined, almost cried, because he didn’t want this, any of this, he didn’t want to pleasure Megatron, he didn’t want a spike down his throat, he didn’t want to be the cause for it, he didn’t want the pain–

But to escape this life, he needed to do this. He needed to please, even when it hurt on so many levels. 

This was necessary.

It wasn’t enough to just take it into his throat, though. As much as Megatron’s engine revved when he mistakenly tried to swallow despite his calipers having none of the room to actually do so, this wouldn’t be enough.

So… Sideswipe pulled back.

And then pushed back onto the length.

And then pulled back.

And repeated.

Would he have preferred flat out torture to this? Probably, despite what he knew Megatron to be capable of on that front. Megatron knew how to hurt.

He’d used this to hurt, too, and here Sideswipe was, doing it on his own. Unprompted.

Necessary. He needed to remember that. He was hurting himself, but it was necessary. Just one step on their road to freedom. Eventually it would be nothing but a bad memory, no matter how it hurt in the present.

He could do this.

He had to.

No matter how long it took. It wasn’t as if he could push or tease Megatron over the edge, he’d just need to be as tempting as he could, until Megatron decided enough was enough.

The comm. traffic around him didn’t end as Sideswipe bobbed his helm along the spike, and he had to wonder what they were talking about. Important dictatorship business? Or were they talking about him? His performance?

Could he assume he even had enough worth that the tyrant and his second would’ve discussed him? Probably not.

But both Megatron and Soundwave had already seen him in some pretty disgraceful situations. He could… Deal with this.

He almost couldn’t deal with it when he heard a door opening, followed by pedesteps coming from elsewhere in the room, approaching them with a fast clip. Sideswipe swallowed again, as unintentionally as the first time, and Megatron’s engine purred just so even as Sideswipe pulled back as far as he dared to to try to see past the tyrant’s legs at… Whatever was happening.

A servant was happening. They came with energon, and Sideswipe… Frag. Megatron and Soundwave were one thing.

Servicing the tyrant in front of a servant was another. They had to know what kind of slag went around in the palace, around Megatron, had probably seen a lot of it, but it wasn’t the same. If Sideswipe had felt self-conscious before, he felt ten times so now, fit to straight up squirm from his discomfort that suddenly had to do with more than just the ache in his jaw and intake. 

The servant glanced at him. Just one glance before he resolutely looked away, bowed at the two higher ranking mecha present, pretended Sideswipe wasn’t there, that Megatron didn’t have his spike out in the open and one of his mates between his legs to service it. Sideswipe couldn’t even read what they thought about it, if anything—how they felt about it, if anything. Was it just another day in the office for them? How many times before had they seen Megatron interface with someone? Delivered energon while Megatron was in the middle of things?  

And then he’d set down what he’d brought with him, and left.

Soundwave poured the both of them servings and handed the other cube over to Megatron so the tyrant didn’t need to do more than reach a servo, not even enough to disturb Sideswipe.

Sideswipe, who had forgotten he hadn’t remembered to move, up until Megatron pinched one of his horns.

He started, took stock of the situation—Megatron’s spike still lodged in his mouth, him and Soundwave sipping their energon, only their fields present, Megatron’s digits still on his horn—and quickly went back to work before he was given a verbal warning. 

The tyrant’s servo left his helm once he was back on task, which was approval enough. The comms flying around him slowed until it was just the occasional thing sent this way or that, and it looked like whatever business the two had been talking, it was mostly over with and they were just… Savoring their cubes. Chilling. Like friends might’ve.

Were they friends? Sideswipe had no idea of the exact nature of Megatron’s relationship with the second highest ranking mech in the city, although with how closely together he expected they worked, wouldn’t it make sense if they were something like friends? Was Megatron even capable of having friends? Was Soundwave, for that matter? After all the slag they did… They had to be so messed in head and spark both that he wouldn’t have been surprised if they just didn’t do emotions normal mecha would’ve called fitting for a friendship.

But what did he know.

What he did know was that Megatron was very much not overloading. Even as they worked through their cubes, he didn’t overload. Sideswipe could feel the charge in his systems and the heat wafting from him, but no. Megatron just didn’t want to overload yet, apparently. 

And Sideswipe was genuinely tiring. His throat went almost numb by now and his jaw wasn’t much better off. He didn’t feel good in the slightest and he didn’t want to be doing this, now even less than before–

But then, unexpectedly, Megatron’s servo came down to tap the underside of Sideswipe’s chin.

Sideswipe stilled in confusion for a moment—but not long enough that Megatron would’ve repeated the gesture—before he pulled off, carefully, because was that permission to get off? Megatron hadn’t even come…

At no point did Megatron stop him, though, and Sideswipe pulled back all the way until there was no spike in his mouth. Then he sat back on his heels, only glancing to the side when Soundwave got up. The second gave a shallow bow as usual, before he left. The lounge’s door closed behind him.

“Go to the berthroom,” Megatron ordered him, lazily almost. And what reason did he have to not feel a little lazy? He’d just gotten pleasured for… Sideswipe didn’t even want to know how long for. He had to have such a nice charge in his systems, and he’d just fueled, had good conversation probably… 

Sideswipe got up and with just a little bit of hurry walked over to the berthroom’s door. It opened for him and he stepped through, coming to a stop halfway to the berth. Megatron followed him a few moments later, his spike still very much out. “On the berth,” was the next instruction he was given, and Sideswipe did so, hauling himself up on the too high piece of furniture and scooting away from the edge to make room for the tyrant when Megatron followed him. “Hands and knees.”

This should be… Bearable. Sideswipe turned over and took the position he’d been told to take, and no later than that he could feel Megatron’s servos on him. They first landed on his hips, but then traveled up his sides, caressed along his frame. Megatron’s thumb traced along the brand on his shoulder.

It wasn’t wanted and it wasn’t welcome, and Sideswipe closed his optics even as he allowed it, because what else was he supposed to do? Tell Megatron to go frag himself? Such a good idea. 

“Open.”

Sideswipe retracted his valve cover, then grimaced good and proper when he could feel a mix of fluids released by the retreating panel. They dripped onto the berth and trailed down his legs and it was just the worst feeling.

...Not really, giving oral to Megatron was a hundred times worse, but it still wasn’t a nice feeling.

Megatron, though, just seemed amused by the whole thing, if his field was anything to go by. “Oh?” he questioned without really asking anything, and his servos traveled back down Sideswipe’s frame for what he assumed to be both of the tyrant’s thumbs to sink into his valve. They encountered no resistance.

More fluids seeped out.

Sideswipe thought some explanation might be in order for the state of his valve. “Runamuck and Runabout… They uh…”

He didn’t quite manage to finish that, trailing off instead. What was he supposed to say? That the two had fragged him at the same time, in the same opening?

Yeah, that’s what he probably should’ve said, wasn’t it?

Megatron seemed to catch on, though, which he probably should’ve expected after however many times the other set of twins had done that very same thing. And then… Megatron laughed. “They are a delightful pair, aren’t they?”

Sideswipe stilled in complete and utter confusion, every last one of his thoughts stalling at the… Sound. It wasn’t a big laugh, more of a chuckle, really, but it sounded so genuine and he hadn’t really… Believed Megatron was even capable of something like that. The mech was evil to the core.

And he’d just laughed. Genuinely?

And called two of his mates delightful.  

The digits disappeared from his valve while Sideswipe was still trying to make sense of it, replaced swiftly by Megatron’s spike. It slid in without a twinge, aided by the absolutely copious amounts of fluids present, and that didn’t help Sideswipe’s thoughts any. Skywarp was one thing, Runamuck and Runabout sure had been interesting and new, but only Megatron could fill every inch of him. His sensors sang their praises even as Sideswipe shuddered, hating his frame just a little bit more no matter how much this was to be expected.

Megatron’s field still felt… Light. Like he was in a honest to Primus good mood.

And he’d just laughed at the implications of what Sideswipe hadn’t managed to say.

Sideswipe’s vents stuttered at a harder thrust into his frame as Megatron slowly picked up his pace. He’d already had all the charge in his systems, but now he still seemed intent on taking his sweet ass time with Sideswipe’s valve as he’d taken his time with his mouth. There was something languid about his motions, the deep strokes, how he sometimes pulled entirely out before plunging back in. 

Sideswipe? Sideswipe didn’t have the same ability to stave off his overloads indefinitely, and he was trying to fight down his own charge in no time at all as Megatron started to play with his frame. His servos cupped his aft, stroked, squeezed, and Sideswipe’s arms shook as the pleasure in his systems multiplied far too fast.

“This really is your weak spot, isn’t it?” he could hear Megatron muse a second before there was a slap on his aft. Sideswipe jolted at the bit of sting, but it really wasn’t that hard.

Not hard enough to hurt in a bad way.

He moaned before he could stop himself, and there it was again. Megatron chuckled.  

Had Primus suddenly stopped existing? Would they fall into the blank of space at any moment, their planet disappearing from around them? 

What was happening? 

He was getting fragged, that’s what. That was about the only thing Sideswipe was sure of anymore with Megatron thrusting in and out of his valve and toying with his frame without restrictions. He whined, then whined harder, and his arms shook all the more until his front end collapsed entirely under the barrage of sensation from his hind.

“Arms, Sideswipe,” Megatron reminded him, and… Right, hands and knees? This wasn’t hands and knees, this was knees and shoulders.

But he couldn’t quite find it in himself to push himself back up.

“Or do you need some help with that?” Megatron took pity on him with a growl that didn’t really sound annoyed, but that had Sideswipe stilling in trepidation nevertheless.

He was pretty sure it was for a reason when Megatron reached and caught him by the throat, forcibly pulling him back up, his helm tilted back uncomfortably.

And then Megatron tightened his grip and a bit of discomfort on his spine became the lesser concern over the burst of static his vocalizer produced—all it could produce, anymore. He could feel the parts in his neck grinding against each other in a way that was all too familiar, but Megatron tutted him when one of Sideswipe’s servos wanted to come up to… Pry the tyrant’s digits off? No, that wouldn’t have worked anyway.

At the bit of reprimand Sideswipe let his servo fall back to the berth, as little as he was supporting his own weight anymore. Megatron did most of the work.

His ventilations had quickened from more than just arousal, which had gotten temporarily stamped down by the memories. Only temporarily though, because Megatron was still very much fragging his valve and his frame couldn’t just ignore that, not even with the fear bringing a new tremble into him. Megatron had already mangled him like this once. Because of something Sunstreaker had done, or hadn’t done, that time—had Sideswipe really earned the same with his own actions?

What had he done so wrong?

But… Megatron’s hold didn’t tighten further. It was tight, tight enough to cause pain, but not damage. It was as if Megatron knew the exact limits of his frame and decided to not cross them.

Sideswipe was almost grateful for that, even if relief couldn’t displace enough of the uncertainty to remove the tension from his frame. Megatron could still change his mind. Sideswipe could still make a mistake, and Megatron could change his mind and decide to punish him. How likely was that? He didn’t know, but it was a possibility, wasn’t it?

He didn’t want that.

“You’re settling in, aren’t you?” Megatron asked from him so conversationally, but with the pressure on his vocalizer, Sideswipe wasn’t in much of a position to respond. It was a very one-sided conversation.

That didn’t seem to bother Megatron very much. "Interfacing with Runamuck and Runabout… And Skywarp, I hear.” Where had he heard that from? “I know my harem is welcoming. You needn’t fight it—and neither does your brother. He’s holding back more than you are, isn’t he? Do tell him to loosen up a bit.” Was it Starscream? Did Megatron know about his harem’s inner workings, without even being present, because of Starscream?

Pit, it was getting hard to think. The charge was beginning to swamp his systems good and proper. Megatron likely noticed, because he sped up his pace a bit more. Sideswipe couldn’t keep his frame from jerking back against him and his spike.  

“That’s it, Sideswipe,” Megatron muttered at him, using his free servo to again slap his aft. Sideswipe despaired the way his frame responded at once, arousal lurching higher until he was gasping for cool air, dancing on the edge of release. “Overload for me,” and as he said that, Megatron snapped his hips forward, right against the roof of his valve. 

It wasn’t his choice. Was it, and he wouldn’t have overloaded on fragging command, but the grind and pressure against his innermost sensors took the choice right out of his hands.

He overloaded. He would’ve probably made some sound if Megatron didn’t keep his hold; as it was, Sideswipe could only spit static as charge exploded from his core, crackling across his entire frame until the pleasure almost turned to pain.

Almost, but not quite. It remained as pleasure despite it all, and it blew his goddamn mind all over again, as if Runamuck and Runabout hadn’t done that thoroughly enough.

Distantly he could feel Megatron slamming against his aft one more time before the tyrant’s overload joined his own, extended it, his transfluid only adding to the mess his valve had been to begin with. Megatron had held on for this long, and for what? Sideswipe didn’t know. Just to enjoy having a constant charge in his systems?

It didn’t matter. He’d chosen to overload now, and it brought heaven down and hell up on Sideswipe. He would’ve wailed.

There was just more static.

It took forever for his overload to actually taper off, and he couldn’t tell if that was in part because Megatron’s overload took a while, but that wouldn’t have surprised him with how long he’d held it off for.

It took forever, but eventually it did, and Sideswipe gasped as the release of charge abruptly ended. Megatron let go of his neck, and he had none of the strength to keep himself up. He only caught himself on his elbows, bowing his helm onto the berthtop. His frame… The aftereffects of his overload couldn’t be called just a buzz, it was so much more than that. He felt sensitized from helm to pede and his valve was still spasming with the aftershocks, drawing a pleased rumble from Megatron.

Sideswipe grimaced, but that expression was short-lived when Megatron pet, then slapped his aft, like he hadn’t already done that enough. With his sensors already so alive it did things to him like nothing had ever before. Sideswipe moaned, then keened when Megatron repeated the whole thing. He didn’t even know if he would’ve wanted to pull away, but he knew better than to even try. 

Megatron hadn’t left his valve and only picked up an easy pace again.

And fondled his aft.

Then slapped it.

And again. 

It was too much. His valve hadn’t had any of the time to recover from his previous overload, so sensitive, and already a next one was building, and his aft was no better, and Megatron had no mercy for him, none whatsoever. His keening morphed into sobs that had nothing to do with negative sensations—he wasn’t even sure if there was any negative emotion. There should’ve been. Probably. Right?

But he couldn’t hold a thought long enough to decide if he minded this whole thing or not.

“Yes, I think I’m keeping you.” Megatron sounded... So amused.

Was that a good thing?

Was that a bad thing?

Was that according to plan?

...It was, wasn’t it?

( Next )

[little-ligi]

Whumptober - No. 30

No. 30 - Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 1565

Gwaine knew he had a large gash on his right thigh, just above his knee. The slow dribble of hotness down his shin was proof enough, even if the pain wasn’t. Gwaine looked down at his leg, considering whether he could get away with it or not.

If Merlin found out, he’d be subjected to some kind of horrible smelly, sticky poultice. But if he could just last until they got back to Camelot, he could hide in his chambers and clean it out with nice fresh water by himself.

The bandit’s blade that cut him had obviously been nice and sharp. The slice through his breeches was thin and not frayed at all, you wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking closely. As long as he kept to the right side and slightly behind Merlin, he should be fine. He could ignore the pain.

“Keep up, Gwaine,” Lancelot called, looking over his shoulder with a smile.

“Yup, coming.” Gwaine trotted forwards to catch up with the other three, his jaw rigid to stop himself flinching as pain shot up his leg.

He tried to think of something else to take his mind off the pain. He’d much rather be at the tavern right now. Not trudging back to Camelot, without their horses who’d spooked when the bandits jumped from the trees and attacked them.

“I’m thirsty,” he complained after a while.

“You’re always thirsty,” Arthur muttered.

“We got any ale? Merlin, you got any ale?”

Merlin turned and grinned at him. “Yes, of course, here.” He pulled his waterskin from the loop on his belt and chucked it to Gwaine.

“Really?” Gwaine unstoppered the waterskin and tipped it to his lips. It was, of course, just water. He frowned. “Oh yes, very funny.” He lobbed the waterskin back, without bothering to put the stopper in. It sprayed a shower of water over Merlin and Arthur as Merlin caught it.

“Here.” Lancelot tossed him an apple. It might not be ale but it was a fairly good second choice. He could always count on Lancelot.

He crunched it as they walked on. Merlin and Lancelot started talking, Merlin pointing at the plants growing under the trees. Trust those two to be discussing wildflowers. Gwaine rolled his eyes. Which he regretted when he missed the root sticking up from the ground in front of him and nearly tripped over it. Pain exploded in his leg again, burning and aching. He gasped. Luckily no one seemed to have noticed.

Arthur had dropped slightly back from Merlin and Lancelot now, his head down as he trudged silently along. Gwaine was about to throw his apple core at him, just to see if his reflexes were quick enough to catch it, when Arthur winced and wrapped a hand around his arm, squeezing it and clenching his teeth. He held it for a minute or so then pulled his hand away. Gwaine noticed blood on his palm. Arthur frowned and balled his hand into a fist, glancing guiltily over at Merlin then continuing on like he’d never done anything.

He was clearly trying to hide his injury from Merlin too. Probably for the same reason as Gwaine, Gwaine knew Arthur hated the poultices. Well, he wasn’t going to rat him out. Even if it would be funny to watch him squirm. A bit hypocritical though.

Instead he threw his apple core into the trees. The rustle and thud of it falling to the floor through a plant made Merlin jump. Lancelot’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Realising what the noise had been they both turned to look at Gwaine. He gave them one of his blinding grins. Merlin rolled his eyes, turned and carried on walking. Lancelot glanced at Arthur.

“Arthur?” he said suddenly. Arthur let go of his arm guiltily. “Are you hurt?”

Merlin whipped around and fixed Arthur with his steely physician’s scowl. Gwaine was sure Gaius must have given him lessons on that look. The resemblance to the old physician was uncanny. Except Merlin’s eyebrow didn’t arch quite so impressively.

“It’s nothing,” Arthur said forcefully. “Just a scratch.”

He made the mistake of waving his hand casually. The hand with the blood on the palm. Gwaine snorted.

Merlin marched over and rolled up the chainmail sleeve. Arthur pushed him away. Merlin, being Merlin, tripped backwards and fell on his arse. Gwaine leant against a tree to stop himself falling as his body shook with repressed laughter.

“Let me look at it, you prat,” Merlin snapped, bouncing back up to his feet and grabbing Arthur’s arm.

Arthur winced. His face had the put out pout of a prince not getting his own way. The expression he got pretty much whenever Merlin was around. Gwaine caught Lancelot’s eye and they both tried not to laugh.

Merlin rolled Arthur’s chainmail up, removing his vambrace and pushing his gambeson sleeve up. There was an ugly gash across his upper arm, his bicep, elbow and forearm covered in blood.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Merlin yelled.

“Didn’t want to make a fuss, did you, Princess?” Gwaine said with a laugh and a slap to Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur glared at him, but it was nothing compared to the glare Arthur was getting from Merlin. Lancelot sniggered.

“Well, I’m not using my bloody neckerchief again,” Merlin complained.

He reached for the front of Arthur’s chainmail, hiking it up and snatching at his shirt underneath. He ripped a strip from the hem.

“Hey!” Arthur shouted. “That was new.”

“Well, now it’s not. That’ll teach you for ignoring an injury like this.”

Merlin pulled some leaves from a little pouch in his pocket, grinding them between the ball of one palm and the heel of the other. Once they’d started releasing their oils – and funny smell – he placed them over the wound and tied the strip of shirt tightly around Arthur’s arm, tugging the knot to make Arthur flinch.

“Never get on the bad side of a physician,” Lancelot whispered exaggeratedly loud to Gwaine. “They know exactly how to hurt you.”

“And take great delight in it,” Merlin growled fiercely. Or as fiercely as Merlin could manage, which was about as scary as a bunny rabbit.

Arthur smacked Merlin around the back of the head. Merlin yelped.

“Come on, get moving!” Arthur ordered. His face was rather red.

Gwaine chuckled as he pushed off the tree he’d been leaning on. His leg gave another protest, shaking as he put weight on it. He gritted his teeth, focussing on the ache in his jaw and ignoring the pain in his leg. He could do it, they weren’t far from Camelot now.

Merlin and Lancelot kept shooting covert glances at Arthur as he marched ahead of them. At least that meant they weren’t looking at Gwaine. He let himself limp.

They got a fair way without any incident, all of the silent so as not to provoke Arthur’s annoyance. If Gwaine hadn’t been concentrating on not letting it look too obvious he was limping he would have poked the sleeping bear. Teasing Arthur was one of his favourite things to do after all. Instead he focussed on not hurting himself.

Another bloody tree root turned out to be his downfall. It caught his left foot, and as he staggered forward to stop himself falling flat on his face, all of his weight landed on his injured right leg. He crumpled with a shout.

Oh no. Merlin was onto him. Kneeling at his side he ran his hands up and down both of Gwaine’s legs until he found the rip in his breeches and the blood underneath. He yanked at the hole, tugging the fabric away to look at the wound.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“That’s a cut, Merlin. You’d think a physician would recognise one of those,” he said conspiratorially to Lancelot. Lancelot raised his hands and shook his head, not letting himself be pulled into Gwaine’s joke.

“And you didn’t tell me because?”

“I… didn’t think you needed to look at it,” Gwaine tried, shrugging and pulling a face.

“You’re joking?” Merlin spluttered, incredulously. “I’m travelling with idiots!”

He pulled more leaves from his pouch.

“Oh, do you have to?” Gwaine whined, wrinkling his nose at the horrid herby smell.

“Yes!” Merlin shouted at him. Physician Merlin wasn’t as fun as plain old servant Merlin.

Gwaine received the same angry treatment as Arthur had, complete with a strip torn from his shirt. He sighed. He’d liked that shirt. Arthur looked slightly sympathetically down at him, giving him his uninjured arm to pull him up. He wobbled slightly but had to admit his leg did feel a bit better with the pressure of the bandage around it.

Merlin got to his feet, brushed his hands on his breeches and frowned at the other three. He turned on Lancelot, poking a finger accusingly into his chest.

“What about you? Are you hurt too?”

“Fit as a fiddle, Merlin, I promise,” Lancelot said with his striking smile. Merlin’s frown melted. Gwaine scowled at Lancelot. Charming smug git.

And being the charming git that he was he came over and pulled Gwaine’s arm over his shoulders so he could support him as he limped.

Gwaine grunted and Lancelot smiled at him.

“You’re welcome,” he said pleasantly.

Gwaine squeezed his shoulder. He could always count on Lancelot.

[jesatria]

Fic: Simple Pleasures, Chap 9

Title: Simple Pleasures Fandom: Kushiel’s Legacy Characters: Isidore d’Aiglemort, Anne Livet Pairings: Isidore/Anne Word Count: 5,130 Rating: NC-17 Summary: The story of Isidore d’Aiglemort & the gardener’s daughter of Lombelon. WIP. Disclaimer: I do not own Kushiel’s Legacy. This is only for fun & no profit is being made from it.

Previous Chapters:

1. The Visit

2. Desire

3. The Harvest Festival

4. Triumph

5. Gifts

6. The Eagle Unbound

7. Lighting the Candle

8. The Longest Night

Chapter 9: The Final Parting

           I didn’t mind being with child.

           Other women hated it, I came to understand. Between the monthly courses brought on by lighting the candle and the many pains and discomforts childbearing women were forced to endure, I understood why some wished Eisheth would close their wombs. Mayhap I would feel that way in time, after I’d borne more than one child, but not now. That isn’t to say I enjoyed the vomiting or back pain, but those things were not enough to detract from my happiness. I had chosen this. I wanted this child, our child. Early summer couldn’t come soon enough.

           It was extremely difficult to bid Isidore farewell when he left. Spring was in the air, a time when I’d normally rejoice at the first green shoots to poke through the thawing ground. This time I’d spent the better part of the winter with him and thus it was much harder to see him go. War was coming. We did not speak of it; I sensed he was reluctant to do so. At first I thought he didn’t want to spoil the occasion of our first Longest Night together, but it continued for the duration of his visit. I came to suspect his reluctance was due to my condition, never mind that I was hardly some delicate flower to faint at the mention of war. I suppose he meant to spare me the stress that was sure to follow if I knew the details. Regardless, he told me enough that I understood this was far more serious than the usual border raids. The Skaldi found a leader to unite them and they meant to invade. I’d learned enough from Isidore over the years to know he kept the border forts well-garrisoned and watched the passes closely. Surely that would be enough to hold off an invasion along with the Royal Army. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of apprehension that rose in me whenever I thought of Isidore on the border. It was the only thing that spoiled my happiness.

           Bit by bit I grew used to my new status. I didn’t miss the more tedious of my chores, such as cleaning the manor. No longer being responsible for my share of that meant I could pursue other things. The quilt was one of them. It was my first time making one entirely on my own—my previous experience had been working alongside the other women making quilts for the household. It was true that I hardly needed to make one myself for our child, who wouldn’t lack for blankets, but I wanted a child of my body to have somewhat made with care by me. I’d made shirts for Isidore for the same reason. In time I would make clothing for our child too.

           With the arrival of spring, I returned to the gardens. It was the first time I’d done so since becoming lady of the manor. I could’ve hired a gardener to tend to the gardens according to my specifications, but I chose not to. The gardens had been my father’s charge for as long as I could remember and I was not about to give them over to another.

           “Are you certain you ought to be doing that in your condition?” a familiar voice asked. I looked up from the lavender bed to see Marcel, evidently deciding to stop for a chat on his way to the orchard.

           “Thank you for your concern, but this is hardly taxing.” I was far enough along now that my condition was quite apparent. I’d even had to make myself some new dresses and alter others to accommodate it.

           “You’re sure? Because I doubt d’Aiglemort would want you overexerting yourself.”

           “I’m quite sure, Marcel. I’ll stop if I feel tired or ill.”

           He knelt down until he was level with me. “Do you think you’ll have much time for gardening once he makes you his consort and you’re a mother?”

           “I certainly intend to make time, whatever happens,” I replied. Mayhap I could tend to the gardens at the townhouse Isidore offered to buy me. That would be my one requirement—I certainly didn’t need anything fancy. The prospect of being able to design and plan my gardens, not merely choose what I planted in plots laid out by someone else, was an exciting one.

           Somewhat softened in Marcel’s face. “I’ll miss you once you’re gone, you know.”

           I smiled. “I know, and I’ll miss you too. But you know I won’t be gone all the time. I love this place too much not to spend a portion of my time here.”

           “That’s good to know. Still, I’ll miss you.”

           After Marcel left, I let my thoughts wander. They were wont to take familiar paths these days. I couldn’t help wondering what our child will be like. Isidore wanted a son he could teach Camael’s Arts, but I had no preference. Boy or girl, I meant to teach our child to appreciate growing things as I did. Mayhap our child might even join me when I worked in the gardens. I would make sure the L’Agnacite heritage wasn’t lost beneath the Camaeline. I hoped the child would have Isidore’s beautiful hair. In my mind’s eye, I could see a girl who looked like me but for the silver hair or a boy who was the spitting image of his father.

           The first buds were just opening on the trees when Isidore returned to Lombelon. I could tell right away that he was not himself. He was tense, though his face brightened at the sight of me. “Somewhat’s bothering you, I can tell,” I said once we’d settled into the privacy of the master suite. “Care to tell me?”

           He looked away. “It’s nothing, Anne, just the impending invasion. Soon enough the passes will be free of snow and the Skaldi will be upon us. I cannot stay here long, but I had to see you again. You are well, I hope?”

           “Yes, aside from the common complaints of a woman with child.” I laid a hand on my stomach. “I’m managing just fine, though I have to admit I’m quite ready for the birth.”

           “We are into spring now. The start of summer is not so very far away.”

           “No, and yet time moves so slowly. Have you thought much about our child, what it might be like?”

           He pursed his lips, considering the question. “I have, yes.”

           “Personally I’m hoping it has your hair.”

           An amused expression came over his face. “Have you now?”

           “Of course. It’s beautiful.”

           “I’ll freely admit it’s my only vanity. So yes, I’ve also imagined our child inheriting my hair,” he answered, grinning.

           “Blessed Elua let it be so,” I said with a smile. “You are still hoping for a son?”

           “Yes, though I’d be willing to teach our daughter Camael’s Arts if she’d a mind to learn. Truth be told, I can’t see any child of mine not being drawn to the sword.”

           “Is that how it was for you?”

           He nodded. “I started learning around the time I was learning to read. I can still remember how it felt, the first time I picked up a practice sword. Somewhat inside of me cried out in happiness at how right it felt.”

           “That’s quite young to begin, is it not? I imagined you started at age ten, as the Cassiline Brothers do.”

           “Not in Camlach. I don’t know how it is in the other provinces, but it is common for Camaeline peers to begin training at such a young age,” he replied. I suppose that made sense if you were born to wield a sword.

           “Is it the same for the girls?”

           “I cannot say. I never had a sister, or indeed any close female friends until I went to the Shahrizai. If I had to guess, I’d say they begin later. Camaeline women don’t take to the battlefield, but they are expected to defend themselves.”

           Try as I might, I had a hard time picturing a noblewoman, even a Camaeline one, wielding a sword. “Do they carry swords as men do?”

           Isidore chuckled. “Some of them might. They certainly own them and bear them as needed. Camaeline noblewomen will defend themselves and their castles at need.”

           I’d never heard of any D’Angeline woman doing such a thing. It certainly wasn’t done in L’Agnace. “Would I be expected to do that?”

           He was quiet for a moment before answering. “Camael willing, there will be no more Skaldi attacks for some time after I deal with them and you’ll not need to concern yourself with such matters. The Camaelines won’t expect a gardener from L’Agnace to know how to defend a castle.”

           I let out a big sigh “Well that’s a relief!”

           “You are no Camaeline. They’ll notice that, as surely as everyone here can see I’m no L’Agnacite.”

           “I could tell the moment I set eyes on you, though I was quite preoccupied with how beautiful you are.”

           “Were you indeed?”

           “I was.”

           “Well, I wish I could say I noticed you when I first arrived, but I didn’t. There was much to take in. You only caught my attention when you brought me that first bottle of pear brandy.”

           “We owe a debt of gratitude to Thèrese, for choosing to send me up with that brandy,” I replied, leaning my head against his shoulder.

           We spoke of names for the first time that night. I lay propped up in bed, a stack of pillows behind my back, while Isidore rubbed oil onto my belly. The motion of his hands soon soothed me so much that I began to doze.

           “I had a thought about names.” His voice startled me into alertness.

           “Oh?” I hadn’t given the topic much thought, for all the time I’d spent imagining what our child would be like.

           “If we should have a son, I’d like to name him Maslin.”

           “A pretty name. I like it.” He gave me a small smile in response. “Maslin was your father’s name, was it not?”

           “Yes. I thought we might follow tradition.”

           The babe moved at his words as if in agreement. “That would be good. If we have a daughter, we could name her Louise after my mother.”

           For a moment I thought he might insist a daughter be named after his mother, but he didn’t. Instead all he said was, “Louise d’Aiglemort? That does have a certain flow to it.”

           “Well, there’s that decided. Maslin for a boy; Louise for a girl,” I remarked. He continued to massage me and I closed my eyes in contentment. He’d rubbed my feet earlier in the evening, which I greatly appreciated. Any relief from the aches and pains that came with my condition were quite welcome.

           “You look as content as can be,” Isidore observed.

           “I am. The only thing that could make me happier would be you staying here until the birth.”

           “You know I cannot do that, much as I wish I could.”

           “Yes, but I can’t help wishing it was so,” I replied.

           He ceased his rubbing and moved to lie beside me. “I will do whatever I can to be here for the birth,” he said gently, black eyes softening as he met my gaze. “I cannot promise more than that, and there is a real possibility that I will fail.”

           My hopes deflated at his words. Every time I’d imagined giving birth he was beside me, despite knowing he was needed to deal with the Skaldi. I’d held that hope since I discovered I was with child and it died hard. Isidore saw the disappointment in my face and laid a hand on my belly. “I will not make false promises to you, Anne. All I can promise is that I will try. The Skaldi will be defeated by then, Camael willing.”

           “Camael willing.”

 **

           We spoke more about the future the next day. Isidore was due to leave the day after that and we were determined to spend as much time together as we could. Despite his assurances, the impending Skaldi invasion lingered in my mind. This was rather more serious than the border raids he’d spoken of previously. What would happen if the Skaldi were able to breach the border defenses? I shuddered at the thought of a horde of barbarians raping, pillaging, and plundering their way across Terre d’Ange. These fears I mostly kept to myself, not wanting to mar our time together. It was the last time I would see him before the invasion, and I did not want it filled with talk of coming war.

           It was a chilly spring day, cold enough to warrant wearing a cloak when walking outside. We walked together in the orchard, where the laborers who tended the trees could be seen here and there going about their work. It was chilly enough that the sun peeking through the clouds gave little warmth. Beside the buds on the trees, here and there green shoots poked their way through the earth. I’d always loved spring. It was heartening to see the first bits of green coming up after months of winter. Yet I did not feel that way this spring, rare for a L’Agnacite and unheard of for a gardener.

           “I’ve been giving some thought to matters of inheritance,” Isidore began, “I know very well how deeply you love Lombelon and it seems fitting that our child should inherit it.”

           “Elua willing, our child will love Lombelon as much as I do.” The babe was half-L’Agnacite, after all, and surely that wouldn’t all vanish beneath the Camaeline heritage.

           “Indeed, I cannot imagine any child of ours not inheriting your L’Agnacite love of the land,” he replied, amused.

           “Neither can I,” I said with a grin, “for I do not mean to let our child be ignorant of that part of its heritage. What of your other estates? Would our child inherit them as well?”

           He took a moment to consider the question. “Mayhap. We shall see.”

           “Because politics may demand you marry some noblewoman?”

           “Yes. You do understand that such a marriage would not mean me casting you aside?”

           I nodded. “I know well enough how you feel about me to be certain that wouldn’t be the case.”

           He took my hand in his and ran a calloused thumb over it. “You are first in my heart, now and always. No future wife of mine will ever come between us. And if it transpires that I need not marry for politics, I would be pleased to have our child succeed me as Duc or Duchese d’Aiglemort.”

           My child, ruling a province. “That would be… a great honor.” In truth I cared very little about such things. Our child inheriting Lombelon meant more to me than becoming a Duc or Duchese. That a child of my blood would inherit the home I loved was so much more than I’d ever dreamed. With that inheritance, my child would be a peer of the Realm. I smiled a little at the thought—not bad for the grandchild of a gardener.

           “We shall see but Lombelon, that is certain. I’ll see it done once the babe is born and officially acknowledged by me,” he said. “It is easy enough to change my will and dispose of my estates as I see fit.”

           “Do you think you’ll still want to come here often once I am living with you as your consort?” I asked. All this talk of estates had me wondering how much time I’d be spending at Lombelon in the future.

           “We can come here as often as you like,” Isidore replied, “and you would be welcome to come here without me if you so desired. I’ll not expect you to remain at my side wherever I go. I doubt you’d enjoy the border fortifications.”

           “No, I daresay I would not. I recall you once telling me there were almost no women to be found there, not even Servants of Naamah.”

           “There’s little in the way of comfort to be found. Hardly a place I’d take my consort, even with the border perfectly quiet and peaceful.”

           This talk of the border brought the fears I’d tried to bury back to the surface. “Will it be a long campaign, do you think?”

           He looked away, taking time to consider his answer. “I am hopeful that it will be. The combined might of the Allies of Camlach and the Royal Army should suffice to drive back the Skaldi.” There was a note of tension in his voice that hadn’t been there before; I suspected he was more worried about the battle to come than he was letting on, not wanting me to worry overmuch. Well, it was too late for that now. My worry must’ve shown on my face, for he gave my hand a squeeze of reassurance and stroked my cheek gently. He said nothing; there was nothing to say on this matter that hadn’t been said already.

           Did I know, then, what was to come? I did not. All I had was a nagging worry, born of what he’d told me of the Skaldi. I suppose many women have felt the same when their lovers have gone off to war. It is my own misfortune that those worries would prove to be horribly correct, and in ways I couldn’t have begun to imagine. That last day we spent together became all the more precious. I was for enough gone with child by then that long walks tired me, so we returned to the manor after a short walk through the gardens and nearest orchard. Instead we retired to the manor, where we passed the rest of the day in quiet companionship, savoring each other’s presence. Things had progressed to the point where simply being together was enough. That being said, we were certain to make good use of what we both knew would be our last night together for some time. It would indeed prove to be our last together, but for a far longer time than either of us anticipated.

           We took our time that night, hands exploring each other’s bodies as if for the first time. The feel of his calloused hands on me never failed to stir my desire, and this was no exception. Isidore took the lead, as he’d done every night of this visit, and I was content to lie on the plush pillows and let him pleasure me. He moved slowly with the languisement, licking and sucking until I thought I might die of pleasure. With me now so far gone with child, he insisted that I relax and let him take over. I was more than happy to do so. That never lost its appeal for me, who’d been a servant for so long, being serviced by another.

           The Trois Milles Joies lists positions considered most comfortable for a woman with child. We’d already sampled a few on this visit. After he brought me to the peak of arousal for a second time, I turned on my side and spread my legs. My foot came to rest on Isidore’s shoulder as he situated himself between my legs. He moved as slowly as he had with everything else that night. I closed my eyes and savored the feeling of him inside me, of his hand gripping my thigh. I almost didn’t want my climax to come so I might remain in that moment. But come it did, for I could not preserve the night forever. Later we lay closely together, both of us spent and satisfied. I lay on my side, with him pressed up close against my back, one arm thrown protectively over my stomach.

           The morning came too soon.

           Since being relieved of my servant duties, I’d taken to lingering longer in bed than I would have otherwise, even when Isidore wasn’t there. This morning was no exception. If I remained in bed, perhaps the day wouldn’t begin and Isidore wouldn’t leave me. I wondered if he felt the same, for he did not rise as early as he usually did. After some minutes had passed, I felt him move off the bed. I turned to watch as he dressed, fixing the image of his perfect body in my mind. I never tired of looking at him, especially when he was unclothed. He was well-aware of it too, and I swear he would deliberately take his time dressing for my enjoyment. This was not one of those times, much to my dismay. There was naught for me to do then but rise and don my own clothes.

           Isidore handed me a small wooden box once I’d finished dressing. “A gift for you. Since I’ll not be here for your birthday, I thought I might give it to you now.”

           I opened it to find a delicate snowdrop pendant on a silver chain. The white flower was inlaid with pearl and the green stem set with emeralds. “Oh!” No one had ever given me such a valuable gift, and I found myself at a loss for words.

           “You told me you’d like to see snowdrops.” His voice was soft. “This will have to do until I can take you with me to Camlach.”

           I slipped the necklace over my head. The chain was long enough that there was no need to undo the clasp. It came to rest just above my breasts. “It’s beautiful. I will wear it and think of you until we are reunited.”

           We left the bedchamber and walked into the sitting room. A meal waited for us on the table. I immediately spread jam on a thick slice of baguette and took a bite. I was well-accustomed by now to the increases in appetite brought on by my condition. Even so, I was a bit surprised to find myself still hungry after finishing my meal. Indeed, the meal passed all too quickly and there was no more delaying the inevitable.

           I met Isidore in the courtyard to bid him farewell, as was our custom. A few other members of the household were present, as were his men in their familiar black-and-silver livery, but we might’ve been alone for all the attention I paid them. It was a clear spring day, with a hint of winter’s chill yet in the air. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me softly. “Return to me,” I breathed once we’d separated, resting my head against his chest, “return to me and see our child born.”

           “I have every intention of doing so,” he said, stroking my hair with a gloved hand. “If I should not return… I left you enough coin to keep you and the babe for a while. You will name it as we discussed?”

           “Yes. Maslin for a boy; Louise for a girl.”

           “Very good.” I leaned my cheek against the rich velvet of his doublet; his hand moved to rest on my back. “Anne, I want you to know that though it is unlikely I’ll be able to write much, you will be in my thoughts every day we are parted.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Every soldier knows there’s nothing quite like the promise of returning home to loved ones to keep him going through the hell of war. I want you to know that I’ll carry the memory of you with me along with the promise of our child and hope they will see me through.”

           Tears slid down my cheeks, soaking into his doublet. “Anne.” I lifted my head to look up at him. His black eyes were filled with a terrible love. “Anne, love, please don’t cry. I don’t want my last sight of you before I go to war to be with tears running down your face.” He removed one of his gloves and gently brushed the tears away. That he called me “love” was enough to show the depths of his feelings. He rarely did that.

           “That would hardly be a memory to sustain you through the hardships of war,” I replied, giving him a small smile.

           He brushed the last of my tears away. “Indeed it would not.”

           I stroked his beautiful hair and gave him another kiss. “I trust that will be a better memory.”

           “Rest assured that it will.”

           We kissed and embraced for a little while longer until the parting could be put off no longer. “I love you,” he said as we separated. “Sometimes I think I haven’t said that as often I should have.”

           “It doesn’t matter. I’ve known it in my heart, as you know I love you.”

           We parted truly then, and I watched as he mounted his horse, waved to me, and rode down the path to the gate with his men following close behind him. I remained where I was until his distant figure vanished from sight.

           I never saw him again.

 **

           It is an unfortunate thing that the mind will retain the memories of the worst moments of our lives when we’d much prefer to forget them if we could. I would gladly do without the memory of the day my world came crashing down around me. Spring had come in earnest by then and the pear trees were fully leafed out. Many flowers had already started to bloom. A few weeks had passed since Isidore’s departure and I wondered how he was faring. Surely the mountain passes were open by now and the Skaldi invasion had begun.

           I was now in the last weeks of my term. Early summer, the priestess had told me, or mayhap late spring if the babe was minded to come early. With some reluctance I had to cut down on my time in the gardens, as I tried easily. The birth really couldn’t come soon enough. This was my mood, then, when the news arrived.

           Lombelon was never starved for news. Close as we were to the City, we heard things. Couriers passed by frequently and would often share news with us. It was one such courier who brought the news that was to devastate me. I was in the upstairs sitting room when he came, working on the quilt. It was very near to completion. The noise downstairs was clearly audible with the door to the room open. I set the quilt aside and rose from my chair, awkward as I now was. I’d made it halfway down the stairs when I heard the news the courier brought.

           “The Duc d’Aiglemort has turned traitor to the Crown!”

           The words were a dagger to my heart. I gripped the railing tightly as the room seemed almost to spin around me. Isidore, a traitor? Surely not! He always was mindful of his duty to protect the Realm from the Skaldi. I wouldn’t believe it, I couldn’t believe it…

           “The Skaldi have invaded through the passes of Camlach, a horde such as has never been seen in recent times!”

           He’d been preparing to fend off the invasion by making sure the passes were well-defended. How many times had we spoken of this, and how it was his duty to protect the Realm from the Skaldi. “No,” I heard myself saying, “no. He wouldn’t do that. The Skaldi must’ve broken past the border defenses. They have a strong leader…”

           But the courier shook his head. “You are mistaken, Madame. I have just come from the front and heard the news from those who were there.”

           “Then they must be mistaken! He’d never let the Skaldi through the passes intentionally!”

           “D’Aiglemort left the southern passes lightly defended so the Skaldi could pass through. He meant to use them to claim the throne for himself.” A small crowd had gathered around the courier by now. “But the Skaldi turned on him, and he fled with his army into the mountains.”

           I didn’t want to believe it. It was too awful a thing to contemplate, that the man I loved could betray our nation in such a way. Yet the rational part of my mind pointed out that a courier riding to the City had no reason to lie about such a thing. What purpose would he have in making up things about Isidore? It’s true, that part of my mind insisted, otherwise why carry such news to the City? This I understood, even as the rest of me rebelled at it. I was lover to a traitor, carrying a traitor’s child…

           My legs seemed to be made of jelly. I clung to the railing so tightly my knuckles were white and sank to my knees, mind reeling. Footsteps sounded on the stairs as some of the crowd noticed me and meant to see that I was unharmed. Hands grabbed my arms and carefully lifted me up; I couldn’t have said whose they were.

           “Anne!” someone cried out.

           “Quick—she might lose the child!”

           I could not say what exactly happened next, only that my head was spinning and the shock of the news rendered me unable to focus on anything else. The next thing I can recall clearly is lying on my bed. I turned my head to see Thèrese sitting in a chair at the bedside, watching me intently. “Thèrese?” I asked, sitting up.

           She held up a hand and I settled back down on the pillows. “You’re in shock from what you just heard. You need to rest and steady yourself.”

           My hand came to rest on my stomach. Nothing felt out of the ordinary, indeed the babe moved as if in response to my apprehension. I breathed a small sigh of relief. Had I fallen down the stairs, the worst might’ve happened. Thèrese’s gaze moved from my face to my stomach. “I’m so sorry, Anne.”

           Everything was a haze. All I could think of was the revelation that Isidore was a traitor. He’d never said anything to me indicating he coveted the throne, not once in the years we’d been lovers. The only time I could recall him showing any sort of ambition when he told me about the triumph he and Baudoin had been grated by the King. Yet it had clearly been growing inside him for years and he’d kept it from me. I had to wonder—how well did I really know him? What else had he kept from me? “Oh Isidore, how could you?” I whispered, turning away from Thèrese. After a few minutes passed, I heard her chair scrape across the floor followed by the sound of her shoes as she walked out of the room. The tears flowed then, as if a dam holding them back had burst.

[pocket-luv101]

Happiness || Chapter 8

Fandom: Servamp Characters: Mahiru, Kuro, Licht, Hyde Pairings: KuroMahi (main), LawLicht (side)

Summary:  Mahiru found a baby in front of his orphanage and he thought that it belonged to Kuro. But the infant could be the key to finding his lost mother. {Historical Romance// Family AU}

Ch.1 || Ch.2 || Ch.3 || Ch.4 || Ch.5 || Ch.6 || Ch.7 || (Ch.8) ||

“Someone, please save me.” Hyde groaned the plea as he collapsed onto the couch. He was woken early in the morning by the children and he hadn’t been able to catch his breath since. Licht was busy cooking breakfast for twenty children so Hyde was left to watch over the orphans. They would pull on his arm and demand him to play eight games at once. He was exhausted and he wondered if he and his siblings were as energetic. He understood why his brother slept in so often when they were kids.

Hyde felt a light tug on his hair and he reluctantly opened his eyes. A young girl stood next to the couch with a book in her arms. She appeared to be four years old. She had large, expressive eyes so he knew that she wanted him to read the book to her even before she asked. He was taken aback by the way she phased her request. She dropped the thick book onto his nose and cause him to roll over in pain.

“What the fuc—” He stopped himself from swearing when he remembered that there were children nearby. Hyde was certain that Licht would be angry with him if he accidentally taught them swear words. He sat up and picked up the book where it fell onto the floor. He found that it was a collection of fairy tales and flipped through the stories. “Which one do you want to hear? Beauty and the Beast was my favourite when I was your age. It has magic and drama.”

“Licht always read that one to us. Can you read us another one?” She climbed onto the couch and sat next to him. He slowly flipped through the stories and waited for her to choose one. She placed her hand on a page and pointed to an illustration. “Flying princess! She must be an angel. Licht says I’m an angel too and I’ll be adopted soon.”

Hyde didn’t know how to respond to her confident statement. Most orphans weren’t able to find an adoptive family and they would have to go out to the world alone. For the children to have such hopeful eyes, he knew that Licht raised them well.

While he was born into privilege, he travelled often and saw orphans at the docks. He thought of the broken eyes they had as they begged for money. He would give money to them but he wished he could do more. Since his mother left and his father died, he understood the feeling of being lost in the world without guidance. His siblings were all struggling with grief and loss so he couldn’t turn to them.

“When you get adopted, I hope you remember the family you have here.” He said in a soft voice and patted her head.

“Licht says that a lot too.” She looked to where Licht was cooking in the kitchen. “Are you an angel too, Mr. Servamp?”

“I’m sure Lichtan have told you that I’m not. I’m just a regular human.” His answer was mixed with a small chuckle. Hyde started to read the fairy tale to her. The other orphans noticed him with the large book and gathered around him to listen to the story as well. He showed her the picture and then flipped the book around so the other children could see the imagine.

Once Licht was finished cooking, he walked out of the hot kitchen to tell the children to wash the kitchen. He was slightly surprised to find Hyde reading to the children. Licht had never seen the kids so engaged with a story. Hyde didn’t notice him enter the room and continued the tale with different voices and wide gestures. “The witch told the Prince that the only way to break the Princess’s curse was to catch a falling star. He didn’t know how he would do this. What do you think he should do?”

“A giant net!” One suggested.

“Maybe a magic spell?”

“You will have to wait to find that out until after dinner.” Licht’s voice interrupted the story. The children appeared disappointed but he didn’t want the food to become cold while they finished the tale. He steeled himself against their pleading eyes and gestured for them to stand. “Wash your hands and set the table for breakfast. The quicker you’re finished eating, the sooner you can hear ending.”

They followed his instructions and dashed into the kitchen to wash their hands and grab the dishes. As Hyde replaced the book on the bookshelf, Licht walked to him. “You can leave that on the couch. The children will ask you to read it as soon as we finish eating. Now, go prepare for breakfast. You’re a role model to those kids so you have to be on your best behaviour.”

“You made me breakfast as well?” Hyde couldn’t hide his surprise. His reaction caused Licht to roll his eyes. He took the book from him and lightly tapped it against his chest. Pride hardened his blue eyes and Hyde thought of how attractive he was.

“Your brother guilted you into staying to help take care of the children. I don’t want to accept charity given out of guilt. Breakfast should be a good payment. I’m not a good cook like Mahiru but it’s edible.” Licht told him and set the book down on the couch. “The kids seem to like but be careful if they get too attached to you. I don’t want them to be hurt.”

“I think they’re great kids, even if they’re a little tiring. I won’t do anything to hurt them.” He wanted to reassure him yet doubt clouded Licht’s expression.

“You might do that even if you don’t mean to. Every time someone comes in, they get hopeful for the future. They can’t help themselves.” Despite Licht’s hard eyes, it was clear to see how much he cared for the orphans. He didn’t want to see them hurt by hope but having them become disillusion would be worse. They might never be adopted but Licht did his best to give them a fulfilling childhood.

“If I hurt them unintentionally, you’re free to kick me.” Hyde said and a small chuckle escaped Licht. He hadn’t heard him laugh before and he thought it was charming.

Licht walked ahead of him to where the children ate. He didn’t sit down but took care of them as they ate. He handed a napkin to a boy to wipe his face and then fixed a girl’s hair so the strands wouldn’t fall into her food. Without looking, he gestured to an empty seat he had set out. “That’s your breakfast, Shit Rat. Finish it before it gets cold.”

“Yes, Angel Cakes.” He gave him a sarcastic smile and sat in the seat. He looked down at the plate of eggs and bacon yet he doubted either was edible like Licht claimed. Hyde poked at the food and glanced around the table. They all ate the food happily. He felt someone poke his side and he turned to the child next to him.

She smiled up at him and said, “Eat. It’s not the best in the world but it’s still good. Licht works hard to cook for us each morning so we pretend to like it. His eggs are better than the bacon.”

“I love bacon.” Hyde lied. He scooped his eggs into his fork and gave it to her. He stole the charred bacon from her plate and said, “I’ll trade you eggs for them.”

“You can have my bacon too!” The child on his right said and gave him a portion of his food. Others quickly followed and Hyde found a pile of bacon on his plate. He was certain that they wanted to avoid eating the bacon by giving it to him. He only chuckled and bit into the burnt meat. Licht watched him interact with the orphans and a smile softened his face.

“I’m back!” Hyde entered the apartment but he was quickly stopped by Kuro. He stepped into the foyer and gestured for him to be quiet. He pointed through the living room’s door to where Mahiru and Machi were asleep in a rocking chair. Even as he slept, he held her safe and secure in his arms. There was a jacket over Mahiru’s lap that he recognized as Kuro’s. He likely placed it on him after he fell asleep.

“Mahiru just got Machi to take her afternoon nap. He was tired and he fell asleep too. Let’s not wake them up.” Kuro said and then nodded towards the dining room. “The tea is still hot so my butler can pour you some if you want. There’s something I need to tell you and you should sit down.”

“Shouldn’t we put Machi in her crib? It’s dangerous if he accidentally drops her in his sleep.” Hyde asked and walked to the rocking chair. He was still doubtful that his mother was still alive and that she had another child. He didn’t want the baby to be hurt though. It was clear that Mahiru cared for children so he was surprised that he would be so careless with Machi.

Before Kuro could stop him, Hyde placed his hand on Machi’s swaddle. He was taken aback when Mahiru suddenly lifted his hand and struck him. Hyde stepped back with a groan and placed his hand on his nose. “Fuck. This is the second time today someone hurt me like that.”

“Sorry, Hyde, I should’ve warned you. Mahiru has the instincts of a mother bear even while he’s asleep. He’ll punch you if you try to take Machi.” He said in a small whisper. “He’s tired so he goes back to sleep immediately. With Machi, we get half the amount of sleep we usually do.”

“I’ve only worked at the orphanage for a night but I understand the struggle of raising a kid.” He said. He saw the way Kuro carefully adjusted the jacket on his lap that had fallen off.

Their voices woke Mahiru and he opened his eyes to find Kuro’s face inches from him. They both blush and Mahiru leaned back in the rocking chair. The chair swung back and his lips accidentally brushed against Kuro’s cheek. For a breathless moment, neither of them moved. His skin was warm like he remembered and the familiar heat drew him closer.

Mahiru felt a small tug on his shirt and he looked down. Machi had woken as well and she made soft whimpers. He lightly placed his finger over her palm and she held it in return. She started to suck on her other hand so he knew that she was hungry. He slid under Kuro’s arm and stood up. “Machi’s hungry. I’m going to prepare a bottle for her. Do you want to talk to your brother about Reika’s visit while I do that?”

“Our old nanny visited?” He asked. They walked to the kitchen and Mahiru handed Machi to Kuro so he could get a bottle for her. At first, she turned in his arms but she calmed down after he comforted her by patting her stomach. He sat at the table and faced his brother.

“Reika came this morning and she hasn’t changed since we were children. The visit was… a little overwhelming.” Kuro told him and then let out a heavy groan. “Sit down, Hyde.”

“In my letter, I requested that they send me information through a letter since I would be too busy to speak with them in person.” His brows drew together. “The reason I wanted a letter was to have everything in writing. In the past, people would tell me one thing but then change the story. A letter would be the best way to hold them accountable to their lies about mother. What did she say?”

“Reika claims that mother had a lover and they went to France the night she disappeared. I questioned her about this and she seemed very confident that this is what happened. She didn’t tell us earlier because Mother asked her to keep it a secret.” Kuro spoke in a gentle voice because he didn’t want to overwhelm Hyde. He knew that Hyde cared for their mother and didn’t want to think she left them willingly.

After a long moment, Hyde asked: “Did she tell you the name of the lord?”

“No.” Kuro didn’t expect for him to be so calm.

“It has been a popular rumour that mother had a secret lover and that’s the reason she disappeared. There are as many whispers about her being kidnapped. Reika’s word isn’t enough for me. She might’ve put on a convincing act for you but I’ve been told too many lies to believe her word alone.” Hyde leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

“How should we investigate what she told us?” Kuro trusted his brother’s opinion. He looked down at Machi and lightly tickled her cheek. They were both skeptical people but her presence was the best lead they had to find his mother. She didn’t understand the conversation and only babbled incoherently. Her bright eyes told him that she wanted to communicate with them.

“Mahiru, I think Machi is getting impatient for milk.” Kuro told Mahiru and she nodded.

“I’ll feed her in the living room so we won’t interrupt your discussion. We don’t want to bother you.” He set down a pot of tea between the brothers before he lifted Machi into his arms. “If you need me, call my name and I’ll come.”

“You can stay.” Kuro stopped him from leaving by placing his hand on his arm. “I would like for you to listen and give your thoughts. You’re smart and you see things most people miss. Machi won’t bother us if she’s distracted by her food.”

“If you’re sure.” Mahiru said and sat in a chair next to him.

[rwby-redux]

Deconstruction

Worldbuilding: Dust II

If Part 1 was the nuclear response, then Part 2 is death by a thousand paper cuts. Rather than focusing on just one massive problem with Dust, this time we’ll be discussing the smaller, albeit more numerous problems. Tempting as it is to keep our crosshairs on the obvious target, it’s important to remember that all of the subtle discrepancies—a throwaway line here, a contradiction there—eventually add up.

Today is all about what happens when those small problems get out of control.

Second verse, same as the first. Before we get started, I want to briefly revisit that list of traits so we’re all on the same page.

There are four basic types of Dust. They can be combined either naturally or artificially to produce new types that have their own specific characteristics.

Dust can be triggered by the Aura of humans and Faunus.

The default state of Dust is crystalline. The powdered form sold in shops is the result of processing and refinement.

The color of the Dust denotes what type it is.

Dust becomes functionally inert outside of Remnant’s atmosphere and no longer exhibits its inherent elemental properties.

Dust can be injected into the body in order for the wielder to use its effects more directly. Doing so requires a certain amount of discipline, and can be extremely painful without taking the necessary precautions.

Dust can be imbued into weapons like swords, or woven into clothes.

Dust can be used as a fuel source, to the end that Remnant’s technology is almost exclusively powered by it.

Semblances can interact with Dust in such a way that their skills are augmented, resulting in the temporary acquisition of new subskills or secondary characteristics.

Dust is volatile and prone to explode when subjected to certain stimuli.

Seeing as we’ve got a lot of ground to cover, I’m gonna keep my main talking points under neat little headings, so everything stays nice and organized.

Treating Dust as a Fossil Fuel Analog, and How It Relates to Technology

To say that Dust is a parallel for coal, natural gas, or petroleum is to miss the point entirely. Dust isn’t like these things—Dust is these things. For everyone who’s been watching the show since it first aired, this isn’t anything new. RWBY hasn’t exactly been subtle about establishing those comparisons. Dust is a natural resource that’s scarce, finite in quantity, found in underground deposits, reliant on minority labor in order to be mined, monopolized by a single supplier, and environmentally hazardous due to the extraction process.

A Dust drilling rig and refinement factory owned by the SDC. Excavating Dust resulted in anthropogenic pollution that destroyed Vacuo’s ecosystems, and depleted its natural resources. | Source: World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 4: “Vacuo.”

Like I said, it’s not exactly subtle.

The reason why I bring this up is because, to the best of my knowledge, the show has never concisely explained how Dust works as a fuel. When coal is burned, for example, it produces heat, and releases nitrogen oxide and sulfur dioxide into the air. Like, the coal doesn’t just stay coal when it’s being used up—as it’s being burned the coal is physically being reduced into the form of byproducts, like fly ash and slag. Similarly, when you operate a vehicle with gasoline, the fuel gets converted into exhaust gas by the 4-stroke engine. The compressed air-and-fuel mixture partakes in a combustion reaction when the spark plug ignites it. The byproducts of this process are carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and water.

See where I’m going with this?

If Dust is a fuel source, then we need to understand what physical changes are taking place when it’s reacting/being consumed by various technology.

And the series…really, really doesn’t show us that.

Does the Dust get broken down when used? Is the elemental energy inside only released when the Dust is subjected to mechanical stress? Is that why Dust is sensitive to small amounts of energy and explodes when someone so much as sneezes at it? [1] Are all Dust types equally as volatile? Is there a threshold for the amount of energy Dust can be exposed to before it explodes?

Let’s assume, for the moment, that all of the aforementioned are true. Physically breaking a Dust crystal is analogous to burning a chunk of coal, in that mechanical stress is the catalyst for releasing its elemental energy. If we follow that thread of logic, then it means that Dust powder is the result of breaking down Dust crystals into finer particulate matter.

Keeping the analogy in mind, this means that Dust crystals are to coal what Dust powder is to fly ash. A byproduct. Leftovers from the initial fuel consumption process.

So why is powder Dust considered a “refined” form of fuel? How is a byproduct energetically more efficient than the initial source that it’s derived from?

If I had to hazard a guess, I’d argue that Dust as a fuel source is more like a combination between burning coal and splitting an atom. Maybe when Dust companies “refine” Dust, what they’re doing is preemptively grinding the Dust down into a powder, and then—what, flash-freezing it somehow in the middle of it releasing its energy during the breakdown process? And then the flash-frozen powder Dust is stored in some sort of canister, or cartridge, or battery that can indefinitely suspend Dust in its energy-release state until it’s ready to be used? That way the refined version (the powder) cuts out the step that requires a person to physically destroy the crystal in order to release its energy.

It’s not an unsound proposition, and with enough well-presented pseudoscience, I’m sure viewers would be willing to give it a pass. The problem is that the canon ostensibly refuses to tell us any of this. Having your fandom do your homework for you so you don’t have to explain your magical fuel isn’t good storytelling. And the more RWBY continues to withhold its lore—or worse, refuse to develop it entirely—the less credible the setting feels. There’s only so much an audience is willing to suspend its disbelief before pedants like me come along and start poking holes in it.

While we’re still on the topic, I want to quickly touch upon the second issue I have with Dust being Remnant’s de facto fuel source.

Although the show did its best to visually emphasize Remnant’s reliance on Dust, it wasn’t until World of Remnant, Volume 2, Episode 1: “Dust” that we got our first concrete evidence of just how extensively it was integrated into everyday life:

“Since its discovery, man has concocted a multitude of ways in which to harness these mysterious crystals. From airships to androids, Dust has made its way into practically every facet of technology. […] Dust ammunition serves as a more practical application in today's modern society. With the technological advancements in weapon design, warriors need merely choose the right cartridge for the job and pull the trigger.”

We don’t have to question the validity of this under the assumption that Salem is an unreliable narrator, because Qrow says more or less the same thing in later episodes.

“The cold climate of Solitas forced its settlers to adapt. It developed a more advanced technology—and they did it faster than the rest of the world—because they had to, to survive. But it was the Great War that really kicked things off. New forms of Dust application and weaponry allowed Mantle to expand. More and more territory was set aside for Dust mining and research. The territory beside the Kingdom's combat school, Alsius, was the most opportune area to construct a new R&D facility.” | Source: World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 3: “Atlas.”

While this conclusively established Dust as the predominant fuel source, there was still some lingering ambiguity of whether or not other sources of energy—petroleum, natural gas, coal, solar, wind, geothermal, hydro—were as developed, or whether they existed at all.

Our first tentative answer to this question came up during Rooster Teeth’s 2015 Extra Life livestream: [2]

Gray Haddock: Is all technology, including scrolls, everything in the world of Remnant powered by Dust? Is all technology Dust-based?

Kerry Shawcross: You’re making me commit to this right now?

Gray Haddock: No, no, no.

Kerry Shawcross: Okay.

Gray Haddock: Most? Some? A lot?

Kerry Shawcross: I would say that a lot is.

Gray Haddock: But there might be some alternate stuff out there. Maybe. Ish.

Kerry Shawcross: Yes. Unless I change my mind later.

Take a moment to let that sink in. At the time this aired, Volume 3 had already been written and animated, and the third episode had just been released on the website. This is one of RWBY’s lead writers admitting that they didn’t have a definitive answer, and the answer that he gave could be subjected to change later down the road. 

Words cannot begin to describe how insane that sounds. That’s like J. K. Rowling deciding after Prisoner of Azkaban, you know what, I’m tired of wizards using wands to cast spells. From now on, everyone’s going to use human femurs!

You can’t just change the show’s rules on a whim. A lack of consistency and adherence to worldbuilding kills any believability your story might’ve had. And more importantly, why didn’t you figure this shit out before the series first began?

Sorry. I’m getting sidetracked.

Instead, let’s look at how well the answer he gave held up. Did RWBY give us any evidence of other fuel sources existing apart from Dust?

Short answer: No.

Long answer: Yes, but I have to qualify that statement, so bear with me for a moment.

The next time we’re given another direct answer, it comes to us from The World of RWBY: The Official Companion.

From Part 1: Origins of Remnant - Types of Dust:

“This technology doesn’t use our fuel,” explains Patrick Rodriguez. “Dust makes everything work. We take tech, put Dust into it, and go with that aesthetic. When I was creating cars for Volume 1, Monty told me to design the motor for how they’d work. I diagrammed a whole engine that ran on Dust, and we never even showed it!” [3]

And then again in Part 2: The Characters - Yang Xiao Long:

“There’s no gas [in Remnant], just Dust,” says art director Patrick Rodriguez, “and Yang’s motorcycle works using combustion Dust.” [4]

It looks like we have our answer at last. An answer that’s infuriating and rife with contradiction, but there it is, plain as day: not only is Dust Remnant’s sole fuel, but alternatives don’t exist. Period.

If that’s the case, then why did I say earlier that they did?

Because throughout the entire course of the series, from Volume 1 onward, the artists have included one very important thing: Plastic. Polyamides used in toothbrushes, polycarbonates used in eyeglasses, polystyrenes used in plastic cups—every one of these things exists in the show. And do you know what plastic is made from?

NATURAL GAS AND FUCKING CRUDE OIL.

So unless RWBY wants to introduce yet another fictional substance to the show, then it needs to reconcile with the fact that yes, oil and petroleum exist, and yes, they’re potential alternatives to Dust.

Look, if the show insists on having plastic products, but not have oil or gas be fuel sources, then there’s a very easy way to get around that. The show has already gone to lengths to establish the SDC as Remnant’s version of BP, right down to both companies using acronyms instead of their full names. Just like real-life oil tycoons, you could have the SDC use resources like lobbyists, lien, and government influence to stymie the alternative fuel industry. Like any morally-bankrupt monopoly, the SDC would be threatened by competitors in the energy sector, especially if those competitors were developing technology based on renewable resources, like solar or wind. In a world where a limited resource like Dust has a stranglehold on the kingdoms, Jacques Schnee would do his damndest to ensure those alternatives never saw the light of day.

See? Problem solved.

Treating Dust as a Gemstone Analog (and Some Other Minor Nitpicks)

Okay, this complaint isn’t as important in the grand scheme of things, but I have to ask: why are Dust crystals treated like gemstones? No, seriously. Look at how the gems on display in this shop

A display case full of various crystal Dust types in From Dust Till Dawn. | Source: Volume 1, Episode 1: “Ruby Rose.”

differ from the ones seen in unharvested deposits.

Large, jagged deposits of unmined Fire Dust embedded in the ceiling of a cave. | Source: Volume 7, Episode 3: “Ace Operatives.”

The Dust for sale was likely cut, as evidenced by the additional facets not present on the unmined deposits. Then again, if you look at the Gravity Dust found at Lake Matsu, Dust might actually belong to the hexagonal crystal system (with and without pyramidal terminations), so a few of those facets could be natural. Regardless, the implication seems to be that on some level, the Dust was treated post-production.

An unmined Gravity Dust deposit found on one of Lake Matsu’s floating islands. | Source: Volume 5, Episode 2: “Dread in the Air.”

Why I bring this up at all is because if Dust crystals are only going to get broken down while being used as a consumable fuel source, then why waste time cutting and polishing them? It doesn’t really make any sense.

While we’re on that subject, how the hell does a person cut a Dust crystal without blowing their fingers off? Seriously. This shit’s like azidoazide azide. You could fart at it from halfway across a room and it would still somehow find a way to explode.

Which also begs the question of how Hazel isn’t dead from repeatedly jabbing what is basically a stick of dynamite into his arms every time he goes berserk. At the very least, shouldn’t he be suffering from severe health complications? His Semblance nullifies pain, but there’s no way it can skirt around the ramifications of what would basically be acute chronic Dust poisoning.

Dust, and How It Relates to Aura

Like any hardcore fantasy enthusiast, I’m a sucker for floating islands. I don’t care if they’re overused and cliché. That is peak aesthetic, and nothing you say will ever convince me otherwise.

That being said…

Remember how the show repeatedly tells us that Dust can only be triggered by humans and Faunus? Meaning that its effects can only be activated in the presence of Aura?

If that’s the case, then how are any of Matsu’s islands floating? If Aura (or mechanical stress, I suppose) is a prerequisite for activating the elemental properties of Dust, then shouldn’t the islands all have fallen into the lake? It’s not like there are people hanging around out there to keep them passively airborne.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Remnant is some sort of genius loci à la Gaia hypothesis, and the planet generates its own Aura (which would explain why Dust becomes inert when leaving the atmosphere—it’s no longer within range of an Aura). But without more information to go on, we’re left scratching our heads at how this contradiction of nature can exist.

At the very least, consider this: If this ambiguity managed to generate a discussion in the fandom on what the hell is up with Lake Matsu, then shouldn’t that have also generated an in-world discussion between the characters? Fantasy setting or not, people are people, and we are an inherently curious bunch that love to ask questions about the unknown. Given that we had three volumes dedicated to the cast going to school, it always struck me as a weirdly wasted opportunity. An academic setting is the perfect place to script conversations like that, simply because it organically allows the story to teach the audience alongside its characters without everything feeling contrived.

But I digress. At the end of the day, this is far from my biggest grievance with Dust, but I felt it was still important enough to warrant being mentioned.

Cultural Aspects of Dust

There were a lot of ideas I wanted to talk about concerning Dust and its impact on culture—like if there was specific terminology for people who worked with Dust (like a Dust-cutter being called a “lapidary,” or “collier” being used as a slur for Faunus). Or if there were Dust-specific idioms or sayings. Or if there were superstitions and folk stories about Dust that still get passed along.

But we’re almost 3,000 words in and I want to try and keep things concise. For now, I’m choosing to focus on just one of those ideas instead, one which has always weirdly fascinated me: weaving Dust into clothing.

Fun fact: Did you know that in the 1700s, people used to wear clothing made with a green pigment that was derived from arsenic? Contact with the skin would give the wearer extreme chemical burns. Similarly, in the 1850s, aniline (a poisonous compound from the indigo plant) was used to create a dye that, when it was absorbed through the skin, would cause skin irritation, nausea, and dizziness. And well before we figured out that asbestos was carcinogenic, fibers made from it were often used for uniforms in professions that dealt with fire. Apparently, it’s really heat-resistant. And let’s not forget lead face paint, the skin-melting makeup that was all the rage in sixteenth-century Europe. [5]

The reason why I bring up all of these comically awful fashion trends is because, to reiterate, Dust is really explosive.

And people on Remnant used to just casually sew it into their clothes. Like, no big deal, I’m just going to wear my jacket with the custom Fire Dust sequins on the lapels and pray to god that no one bumps into me while I’m at the market. Maybe tomorrow night I’ll wear my hat with the Ice Dust embroidery to the banquet. I just hope I can avoid physical contact with another human being so my head doesn’t get encased in a block of ice.

Believe it or not, none of this is meant as a criticism, strictly speaking. On the contrary, I wish the show had taken the time to explore this neat little bit of lore, rather than consign it to a throwaway line. Because I think it would be fucking hilarious if Dust-woven clothing was the equivalent of radioactive and carcinogenic fashion trends. Not only would it enrich the history of Remnant and expand upon its worldbuilding (which it sorely needs), but it would be an organic way to explain to the audience one of the inherent dangers of unmanufactured Dust.

And just like that, we’ve finished covering Dust. Mostly, anyway. I have a few minor gripes, but nothing that can’t wait. Next time we’ll be discussing the topic near and dear to my heart, the thing I’ve been waiting for weeks to talk about: the Grimm.

-

[1] Volume 1, Episode 2: “The Shining Beacon - Part 1.”

[2] “Rooster Teeth's Extra Life Stream 2015 Hour 3-RWBY Crew & Matt/Jeremy Kiss.” YouTube video, uploaded by John Green. November 09, 2015. 51:44 - 52:09. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFCK-OwGoLA&t=51m44s]

[3] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 36.

[4] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 71.

[5] SciShow. “10 Dangerous Fashion Trends.” YouTube video. March 20, 2016. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hhXeUQOuRaw]