#and how its in stark contrast with the way he refuses to give up for even a second refuses to doubt his surefire belief in kageyama the way

[theheightofdishonor]

when I mean quit traumatising me with thoughts about a volleyball manga, I meant it. What am I supposed to do with the knowledge that Hinata knew his weakness from the start and seeking individual growth (greed being a positive thing) doesn’t make him any less of a team player? Or that their extreme love for volleyball is what isolated them until they found each other? (or how entirely besotted Kageyama was with Hinata right from the start lmao) But really, reading your posts give me a greater appreciation for the manga and I didn’t even know that was possible! Thank you for your analysis, although I will be suing for psychic damage every time I see your posts in my feed because I end up thinking about them too much. I really like that you love Haikyuu so much, that love is contagious and you make me like it more.

Dunno, personally I find it fun to inflict my brain rot on others. The joy of suffering together or whatnot.

As for what to do with it, you can always just spin all that around your head for eternity and spit it out in various ways the way I've been doing for like 2-4 years now. Or use it to extrapolate even more insane heartbreaking headcanons and aus. They're both fun!

(Re: kageyama being besotted for hinata, that reminds me I have a post somewhere about kageyamas canon three step journey of falling in love with hinata but idk where it is. If I have time to find it I'll repost it for you because it's a good post (they make me want to chew on glass))

Im glad that I make you love hq more because honestly, there's few things better than being able to share your love of something with someone else and when you can bond with other people over that shared interest. It's sooo delightful. And like personally, interacting and having conversations and talking at people makes me like it and think about it more. It's also the way that i flesh out my thoughts. Whenever I post something especially long on here, it usually because I talked about it recently to or at someone.

Feel free to sue me for psychic damage, I find the idea utterly delightful but also you're really to blame because your asks make my day and make me want to write more about hq and kagehina

[queenofwands89]

The Storm Within (Part Two)  Tyler Owens x fem!reader

Part 1

Summary: Following the events of the first part, a severely injured Y/N lies in a coma while a heartbroken Tyler waits by her side, wondering if she will ever wake up.

Warnings: Hospital, Reader is in a coma, Fluff, Sad Tyler, Slightly angsty.                                              

Notes: I didn't expect so many people to read the first part, let alone want a second, so thank you—it means a lot. I rushed to write this to avoid making you wait any longer, lol. I'm currently accepting writing prompts for Jake Seresin, Tyler Owens, and Glen Powell.

Enjoy byeeee!

Two weeks have slipped by in a blur of sterile hospital corridors and the endless hum of medical machines. Each passing day is a battle against time, unrelenting in its indifference, and Tyler's world has shrunk to the confines of your hospital room.

Tyler sits by your side, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but refusing to close. He's lost count of the hours he's spent watching the rise and fall of your chest, willing you to wake up. The constant beeping of the heart monitor and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator are his only companions.

The rest of the storm-chasing team visits regularly, each holding onto hope in their own way. Boone leaves a fresh bouquet of wildflowers on the bedside table every other day, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the clinical white of the room. Dani brings her laptop, working quietly in the corner, refusing to leave until Tyler is forced to rest. Dexter makes sure Tyler eats, even if it means feeding him himself. And Lilly, with her unwavering optimism, often slips into the chair opposite Tyler, regaling him with stories and laughs to keep the darkness at bay.

One evening, as the crimson hues of the setting sun penetrate the blinds, Tyler is gently persuaded by Lilly to step outside the room, if only for a few minutes. The fresh air at the hospital's small garden is a reprieve he didn’t know he needed. He takes deep breaths, trying to shake off the weight that's settled on his shoulders.

As he walks back towards your room, he overhears a hushed conversation between two nurses. "It's been two weeks, and she's still fighting. It's remarkable," he hears one of them say. A glimmer of hope ignites in his chest. You're a fighter; you always have been.

Pushing open the door to your room, Tyler's heart skips a beat. One of the doctors, Dr. Emerson, is standing by your bed, reviewing the latest results. Tyler rushes in, anxiety and hope warring on his face.

"Any changes, Doc?" Tyler asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Dr. Emerson turns to him, a small, comforting smile on her face. "Her vitals are steadily improving. The brain activity shows promising signs. She's still in a coma, but these are good indicators. It’s just a matter of time."

With those reassuring words, Dr. Emerson gives Tyler a gentle nod before turning to leave the room, the other doctor following closely behind. The soft click of the closing door lingers in the air, marking the transition from clinical observation to personal vigil.

Tyler takes his seat beside you, gently holding your hand. "Hey, beautiful," he begins, his voice soft but steady. "I know you can hear me. I thought I'd share some stories, like old times."

He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Remember the first storm we chased together? God, we were terrified but so exhilarated," he chuckles. "The sky was this angry shade of gray, and the wind was howling like it was possessed. We had no idea what we were doing, but we felt invincible."

Tyler's eyes glisten with unshed tears as he continues. "You kept yelling at me to keep the camera steady while you took notes. I think I was too busy being amazed by how fearless you were. The tornado touched down so close, and we got caught in the downdraft. But you... you never lost your cool. You guided us out of there like it was just another day at the office."

He squeezes your hand gently, hoping for any sign of acknowledgment. "Then there was that time in Kansas. Do you remember? We were staying at that run-down motel, and the power went out during the middle of the night. We ended up sitting in the car, wrapped in blankets, watching the lightning storm. You said it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. I couldn't take my eyes off you."

The corners of Tyler's lips lift into a sad smile as he recounts more memories. "You were always the brave one, Y/N. Like that time we drove into the eye of the storm. Literally. Everyone told us it was too dangerous, but you convinced us, and we did it. And I'll never forget the look on your face when we made it out in one piece."

A silence hangs in the air for a moment, the only sounds coming from the steady beeps and hums of the medical equipment.

"I'm not gonna lie, Y/N. These past two weeks have been the hardest of my life. Seeing you like this... it's killing me. But I know you're fighting. You always do," Tyler says, voice cracking with emotion.

Tyler leans closer, his head resting on the side of your bed. He speaks softly, almost to himself. "You know, Dani was telling me about how you kept her sane during her first storm chase. She said she wouldn't have made it if it weren't for you. And Boone, he's a mess without you bossing him around. Dexter too. None of us are the same without you."

He looks at your serene face, a fresh wave of determination washing over him. "But we all believe in you. We know you're coming back to us. And when you do, we'll be ready with stories and laughs and everything that's been missing."

As the sun sets outside, casting a warm glow over the room, Tyler continues to talk. He recounts every little detail of your adventures together, from the funniest moments to the most heart-stopping ones, painting a vivid picture with his words.

The world is a foggy blur as consciousness slowly begins to seep back into your mind. The silence in the room is broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the medical machines. Your eyelids feel heavy as you struggle to open them, a sense of disorientation clouding your thoughts.

As your eyes finally flutter open, the dim light of the room gradually sharpens into focus. The first thing you see is Tyler, slumped in the chair beside your hospital bed. His hand grips yours tightly, as if even in sleep, he cannot let go. His face is etched with lines of stress and fatigue, evidence of the nights he has spent by your side.

For a few moments, you simply watch him. Even in his exhausted state, there’s an undeniable tenderness in the way he holds your hand. You notice the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble that has grown from days of neglecting himself. Deep down, an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love wells up within you. You realize now more than ever just how much he means to you.

Gradually, you muster the strength to give his hand a weak squeeze, something to pull him from the depths of his weariness. His eyes flutter open slowly, confusion briefly crossing his features before they lock onto yours. Instantly, his face transforms—a mix of shock, awe, and profound relief.

"Y/N..." he breathes, his voice shaky and filled with emotion. Tears pool in his eyes, and you can see him fighting to hold them back, but it’s a losing battle. As the realization washes over him, that you’re finally awake, his tears begin to fall freely. "You’re... you’re awake. Thank God, you’re awake."

A lump forms in your throat, making it hard to speak, but you manage a small smile. "Tyler," you rasp, the single word carrying all the emotions you can't yet express.

He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing fervent kisses to your knuckles. "I love you, Y/N. I love you so much," he chokes out, his voice breaking with raw emotion. "I thought... I thought I’d lost you. I’m so sorry, Y/N. For everything. For the things I said. I was scared and I handled it all wrong."

You can feel the wetness of his tears on your hand, and it breaks your heart to see him in such pain. Gathering what strength you can, you shake your head slightly. "No, Tyler. We both did things we regret. I pushed you away when I should have let you in. But we can’t change the past. We can only move forward."

He nods, his teary eyes never leaving yours. "We’ll fix this. Together," he vows, his voice filled with a newfound determination.

Your smile grows a bit stronger, as you grip his hand with a bit more strength. "Together," you echo, the word binding the two of you in a promise of unity and hope.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Tyler repeats fervently, his tears now mingling with a relieved laugh.

You can't help but let out a light giggle, the sound so sweet to Tyler’s ears. "I love you, I love you, I love you," you reply, your heart feeling lighter for the first time in a long while.

Tyler chuckles softly, his expression softening as he looks at you. "I think the doctors are going to start charging me rent for how long I've been here."

You laugh weakly, the sound like music to his ears. "Well, as long as you don't start claiming squatter's rights. We might have to evict you."

His laughter mingles with yours, the room now filled with a warmth and happiness that seemed impossible just moments ago. "Deal. I'll leave when you do," he declares, his voice brimming with love and commitment.

The path to recovery will undoubtedly be long and arduous, but for now, the hardest part is over. The heavy cloud of uncertainty has lifted, replaced by a glimmering beacon of hope. The room, once cold and sterile, now feels warm, filled with the palpable power of your mutual love and commitment.

As the rhythmic beeping of the machines continues to fill the background, you and Tyler share a moment of silent understanding, knowing that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them hand in hand. "I love you," he whispers once more, the promise of these words a soothing balm to your soul.

"I love you," you whisper back, sealing the bond that will carry you through the days to come.

[novaursa]

Hello! So grateful you have opened up your requests 🥰

Could I get one of cregan showing his wife, targ!reader, the wall for the first time?

The Wall

- Summary: Cregan takes you to see the Wall, and Silverwing comes with you.

- Paring: (wife) targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is bonded with Silverwing.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

You feel the northern chill in your bones the moment you step foot beyond Winterfell. The air grows heavier, colder, as if the very breath of the Old Gods wraps around you, sinking its icy tendrils into your flesh. It is a different kind of cold—more relentless, more biting than you have ever known in the southern lands of your birth. But then again, you expected nothing less when you agreed to accompany Cregan Stark to the Wall.

Your husband rides at your side, his fur cloak draped over broad shoulders, a sight that fills you with warmth. His face is set with the solemnity that marks his heritage, but there’s a softness there for you—a softening of his eyes whenever they meet yours, a gentle squeeze of his hand on your arm when the wind howls too sharply. His presence beside you feels like a shelter, a warmth against the harshness of the North.

“I’ve waited long to show you this,” Cregan murmurs, his voice low but carrying over the wind. There’s a rare lightness to his words, a pride that makes you smile, despite the cold biting at your cheeks.

“You speak of it as if it’s something magical,” you reply, teasing him gently, though you feel a hint of excitement bubbling beneath your words. The Wall is something that has lingered in stories and songs, a place you’ve only heard about. Yet now, you are about to see it with your own eyes.

“Some might say it is.” He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, sending warmth down your spine. “It’s a sight unlike any other. Even your dragons have their limits when it comes to the Wall.”

Your heart gives a little tug at his words, reminding you of Silverwing, the great she-dragon bonded to you since your youth. You’ve heard the stories too—of how Silverwing, despite her strength and size, refused to cross the Wall during the reign of Queen Alysanne. The tales had puzzled you, and a part of you wondered whether the creature you shared a bond with would behave the same when you reached the ancient barrier.

As the hours stretch on and you grow closer to your destination, the Wall finally emerges on the horizon—a towering monument of ice and stone, glowing eerily under the weak northern sun. The sheer size of it takes your breath away. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, as though it will shield you from the awe that grips your chest.

“There it is,” Cregan says softly, his hand brushing against yours. His voice holds a note of reverence, as if the Wall itself is something holy. “The edge of the world.”

You stare up at it, the enormity of it humbling you in a way nothing ever has. The Wall stretches impossibly high, a barrier that seems to separate not only land but realms themselves—the living and the dead, the known and the unknown.

But what captures your attention more is the sound of wings cutting through the cold air. You turn your gaze upward just in time to see the massive shadow of Silverwing circling above. Her pale, silvery scales shimmer in the dull light, a contrast against the grim, grey sky. Yet, even as she soars closer to the Wall, you see the familiar hesitation in her flight. She slows, wings beating in slower arcs, her great head turning toward the ice as if sensing some invisible barrier.

“She remembers,” you whisper, half to yourself, half to Cregan.

“Aye,” he agrees, watching with you. “The Wall holds a power older than all of us.”

You urge Silverwing with a thought, your connection with her as strong as ever. She flaps her wings harder, drawing closer to the Wall’s towering height, but just as before—just as the tales told—she stops short. Her massive body hovers in the air for a few moments, and despite your urging, she will not go any farther. The invisible force seems to push back, a resistance neither of you can break.

A quiet frustration stirs within you. “She won’t cross it,” you murmur, though you already knew this might happen. You watch her large, majestic form retreat just enough to hover out of reach.

Cregan, who has been observing quietly, steps closer to you. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his warmth. “Perhaps she knows something we don’t,” he says softly, his breath warm against your ear. “The dragons have their wisdom, even if we don’t understand it.”

You nod, leaning into him. His presence calms you, as it always does, and you relax into his embrace. But then, something shifts.

A low, rumbling growl echoes through the air, and you turn your attention back to Silverwing. The dragon’s wings beat harder, her growl growing into a roar that vibrates through your chest. She lowers her body, as if preparing to charge, and you feel her agitation through your bond—a new determination, a will that wasn’t there before.

“What is she—” Cregan begins, but you hold up a hand, silencing him.

Silverwing surges forward, her massive wings flaring as she approaches the Wall once more. This time, there is no hesitation. The invisible force that once stopped her seems to buckle under her will, and you watch in astonishment as Silverwing pushes through the barrier. The cold air whips around you, stinging your face, as her great form crosses over the Wall, her wings carrying her higher into the northern sky.

“She did it,” you breathe, hardly able to believe what you’re seeing. You can feel her triumph, her exhilaration, as she soars over the frozen wasteland beyond. It is as if the Wall’s ancient magic has finally yielded to her strength—or perhaps to something deeper, something connected to you.

Cregan’s hand tightens on your waist, and when you look up at him, you see the awe in his eyes. “You’re the first Targaryen to make it past the Wall,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Silverwing wouldn’t have done that for anyone else.”

Your heart swells at his words, at the pride you feel through your bond with Silverwing and the warmth of Cregan’s affection. You turn in his arms, your fingers brushing against his cold cheek before you kiss him. His lips are warm, soft, a contrast to the sharp cold around you.

“Perhaps she knew it was time,” you whisper against his lips.

“Or perhaps she follows her rider,” Cregan replies, his voice low and tender as he pulls you closer.

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped in his embrace, as the Wall looms behind you. Silverwing’s triumphant roars echo in the distance, and for the first time, you feel as though the North has truly welcomed you.

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Fifteen-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: this chapter is literally just angst. complete freakin angst. two broken hearts that refuse to acknowledge it. pretty poetical. i know i said no love but now im not so sure.

****FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

"You're coming with me, Emily," you asserted, arms crossed over your chest, your eyes narrowing at her as she was lazily sprawled out on her bed, clearly uninterested in your predicament. "There's no way in hell I'm going alone...you can bring Michael."

Emily let out a dramatic groan, her hands instinctively flying to rub her tired eyes. "But...there's a Gryffindor party that night too...we'd much rather go to-"

"Emily!" you interrupted, advancing across the room toward her bed. You leaned against the footboard, your expression pleading. "Please, please...after everything that happened with Berkshire, I'd prefer not to go back into their bloody common room by myself...plus I don't even drink! Like I don't even know-"

"Okay, okay!" Emily hastily sat up, cutting you off as she sensed your rising panic. "Gods, you're giving me a headache...I'll talk to Michael about it..."

A sigh of relief escaped you, but the tension still clung to your shoulders like a heavy cloak. You spun around, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on you as you threaded your fingers through your hair in frustration, each strand a tangible reminder of your racing thoughts.

Your mind buzzed with a whirlwind of worries. What should you wear to fit in yet not draw too much attention? How would you deflect offers of drinks without seeming rude or standoffish? And most pressing of all, how did you even find yourself entangled in this mess? The truth was, your inability to refuse others had led you down this labyrinthine path, a maze of social obligations you couldn't escape.

Emily's voice broke through the heavy silence, as delicate as the softest feathers--cautiously adjusting her tone now that she'd sensed just how stressed out you were.

"Hey, you'll be fine," she reassured, her words a gentle caress in the midst of your turmoil. "You're with Tom, he'll make sure no one bothers you, I'm positive of it."

Emily's comforting words washed over you, but beneath the surface, your thoughts spiraled into a tumultuous whirlpool. The past two weeks had been a stark contrast to the passionate chaos you'd experienced with Mattheo. Since ending things with him, your tutoring sessions had turned quiet, punctuated only by the distant echo of pages turning and the bland murmur of academic based conversations.

Although Mattheo continued to give you his full undivided attention in your sessions, the silence hung heavy between you, a reminder of the void left by your fractured connection.

And in the midst of this emotional vacuum, you found unexpected solace in Tom's company. The regular meetings continued, but they had expanded beyond the boundaries of academics. Flirting had entirely woven its way into your conversations, each playful word adding a charged tension to the air. Now, his invitation to the party on Saturday night dangled before you like a tempting, yet daunting, prospect.

However, regardless of his advances, your feelings for Tom were far from romantic. It wasn't love that stirred your heart when you thought of him, but rather a sense of obligation. The Guild, with its intricate web of social dynamics, demanded a delicate balance. To maintain your position, you felt compelled to go along with Tom's desires, to keep up the facade of mutual interest. It was a game you didn't want to play, but the stakes were too high to ignore.

As Emily's reassurances attempted to quell your anxieties, the knot of obligation tightened in your chest. The looming party represented not only a night of uncertainty but also a reluctant sacrifice to uphold your standing in the Guild. The weight of your choices pressed down on you, a reminder that sometimes, obligations could feel as suffocating as the absence of passion.

"Yeah," you responded, your voice a grumble underlined with frustration. "Talk to Michael and let  me know what he says... I'm heading up to the Tower, I just need some time alone."

Emily's expression softened, sympathy flickering in her eyes. "I'll handle it," she assured you. "Take your time up there, lots of stars to count, wouldn't want to miss one because you're rushing..."

You rolled your eyes at her snark, chewing on your lip to stifle your grin. "Yeah, yeah." You said. "Thanks, Em."

With a bleak smile, you grabbed your bag and pushed out of your dorm room, mind racing as you made your way up to the tower, the castle covered in its usual blanket of darkness, given it was already past eleven pm.

You thought back to that first week of tutoring sessions after you and Mattheo had called things off, how every moment spent in his presence felt excruciating. Sitting in such close proximity to him--being forced to look into his deep, intoxicating eyes, trace the scars that adorned his skin, and fixate on those perfect lips while knowing you'd never get to be anything other than platonic was a torment for your already aching heart.

For those initial days, your mind was a battleground of conflicting emotions. Thoughts of what it had felt like to have his hands exploring your body, pulling you close against his firm frame, haunted your every waking moment. His newfound silence only served to further infuriate you, although the reasons for your frustration remained elusive--you had wanted this separation, knew you needed it more than anything, yet part of you resented how effortlessly he seemed to cast everything aside, as though it had all been a meaningless fling to him, despite the amounts of passion you'd experienced.

The internal turmoil left you in a relentless tug-of-war between contentment and bitter disappointment. With every missed touch, resentment began to coil in the pit of your stomach. Despite yearning for the way he made you feel, your chest was a maelstrom of conflicted emotions. Gratitude warred with irritation; you were thankful that your life lacked complications that could jeopardize your post-graduate career, yet infuriated that Mattheo hadn't even tried to fight for you.

It stung, the way he seemingly dismissed you as though you were just another girl, another notch on his belt, disregarding the depth of what you shared.

Or, you guessed at this point, what you thought you had shared.

As you settled into the quiet solitude of the Astronomy Tower, the vast expanse of the night sky above became your sanctuary, the stars twinkling like distant diamonds against the vast canvas of space. It was your haven, a place where you could lose yourself in the mysteries of the universe. Surrounded by your celestial charts and notebooks, you immersed yourself in your research, the quill in your hand gliding over the parchment as you recorded your observations.

In the midst of your cosmic exploration, a sudden intrusion shattered the tranquility of the Astronomy Tower. Mattheo, his presence unexpected, settled down beside you. The mere sight of him sent your pulse racing, a rapid drumbeat in your ears. You shot your head around, scanning the surroundings as though you'd forgotten where you were, your mind racing with questions. Why the fuck was he here? The unexpected encounter left you beyond shocked, your eyes wide with surprise and curiosity.

"Matt-" your voice faltered, the surprise of his presence momentarily stealing your words.

"Couldn't sleep," he muttered, his voice carrying a weight of restlessness, as if the night sky outside held answers he desperately sought. "Don't allow me to interrupt."

He cut you off before you could regain your composure, not even bothering to spare a glance in your direction. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, his silence echoing louder than any words he could have spoken. The unspoken tension between you hung in the air, heavy and palpable, a reminder of the unresolved emotions that lingered beneath the surface.

"Um, okay." You cleared your throat, attempting to steady your voice, and resolutely returned your focus to the celestial tapestry above.

The stars glittered, seemingly oblivious to the complicated tornado of emotions unfolding below. As you continued your silent analysis of the night sky, you became aware of Mattheo lighting up a cigarette. His movements were deliberate, every flicker of the lighter, every draw from the cigarette, seemed to carry a weighted significance. Despite your attempt to ignore him, you could feel his eyes on you, his gaze like a tangible presence that bore into your skin, even without direct contact. The night stretched on, the only sounds the soft crackling of burning tobacco and the occasional rustle of paper as you made notes, each moment steeped in a tense stillness, waiting for something to break the fragile equilibrium.

And then, Mattheo's voice sliced through the quiet of the night, his question hanging in the air like a challenge. "What are you even doing?"

His question caught you off guard, a shock registering in your eyes as you assumed he was merely asking to mock you. Nevertheless, you gathered your composure, your passion for your research overcoming your initial surprise.

"I'm studying how stars and planetary alignments affect magic," you explained, your words measured yet enthusiastic. "The positions of celestial bodies influence magical energies, shaping the potency of our spells. Understanding these cosmic patterns is like deciphering the universe's manual for mastering magic."

Mattheo's eyes narrowed, a hint of skepticism coloring his voice. "Stars affecting magic?" he said, his tone dismissive yet laced with a sliver of intrigue. "Seems a bit far-fetched, Raven."

His words hung in the air, laced with icy indifference, yet there was an undeniable glimmer of curiosity, a flicker of interest that betrayed his cold exterior. You met Mattheo's skepticism with a determined gaze.

"It may sound far-fetched, but it's already been proven that magic is intertwined with the cosmos," you replied, your voice steady. "The alignment of stars and planets creates unique energy patterns. Understanding these patterns can give us an edge in harnessing magic. It's not about belief, it's about tapping into the natural forces of the universe..." you let your words linger for a moment, finally dropping your quill and releasing a long sigh. "Why are you always so dismissive of everything? Don't you have dreams Mattheo, don't you have passions?"

Mattheo took a slow drag off his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly before he released a plume of smoke that danced in the air, curling and twisting like ethereal tendrils. His eyes, usually guarded, met yours, holding a glimmer of something unreadable.

"Everyone dreams, Raven," he said, flatly. "But life isn't a fucking fairytale, sometimes dreams are crushed before they're born."

Your silent reaction spoke volumes as you studied his face, the way his chocolate curls framed his brooding eyes, holding countless secrets within their depths. Mattheo's words slowly dug into your shoulders, heavy with the weight of harsh truths. You released a long sigh, the reality of his words settling in, before you cautiously spoke.

"If everything was dipped in gold, it'd never grow..." you whispered, your voice soft yet resolute, as you turned your eyes back to the stars. "And not everything sweet is sugarcoated, Mattheo...sometimes life stings, and you have to fight for what you want, but that doesn't mean you toss away the wand, does it?"

For a moment, Mattheo's silence hung heavy, punctuated only by the soft exhale of smoke curling from his lips. The tendrils of fog obscured the canvas of stars, casting a mysterious veil over the night sky. When you turned to meet his gaze, you discovered his eyes already fixed on you, their depths shimmering with an enigmatic intensity.

"Even stars burn out, Raven," he said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that seemed to echo the somber truth of the universe. "Sometimes, there's nothing you can do but watch."

Something panged in your chest, a jolt of pain spreading through you as Mattheo's words settled into the night air. For another brief, fleeting moment, your eyes met, and there was a flicker of understanding between you. You glimpsed his lips, and he glimpsed yours, a silent exchange of unspoken sentiments.

Swiftly, you looked away, turning your attention to the moon, its silvery glow casting an ethereal light upon your face, silently gathering yourself as you fought off the heat that was swarming your cheeks.

"You know what I appreciate more than the stars?" Mattheo's voice cut through the night, a hint of intrigue in his tone as he finally shifted his gaze off of you. "The moon."

You raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "And why is that?"

"It's the one constant," Mattheo replied, his gaze fixed on the night sky. "Stars might fade, flicker, but the moon persists...it's just...there." His voice was calm, almost distant, as if he was lost in thought. "No drama, no shows...just silent influence--one that can pull an entire fucking ocean from shore to shore...that's a power that can't be diminished. Subtle, yet absolute."

You nodded slowly, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the night. The world around you seemed to fade away as you felt your pulse increase, an unspoken tension hanging between you.

"Silent influence," you murmured, your voice thoughtful. "A power that commands without demanding, a force that shapes without shouting…I think it’s a potent reminder of strength in simplicity."

"Beauty, too," he whispered, his voice almost a caress. "A reminder of the beauty in simplicity."

The words danced around you, laden with prescribed meaning, and you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to this conversation, something unspoken yet deeply felt. A vast silence filled the space around you, thick with a growing tension as Mattheo's eyes, intense and unreadable, locked onto yours, their depths echoing a multitude of emotions. You felt his fingers graze against yours as they were planted on the ground next to your thigh, a subtle yet electrifying touch.

At the feeling of his flesh grazing yours, even in as something as simple as this, your breath hitched, and a rush of heat surged through your body, making every nerve ending tingle with anticipation. After two whole fucking weeks, just as you’d finally stopped moping, just as you finally felt as though you could breathe without thinking about him, it was as if the universe itself had conspired to bring you two together in this charged moment, leaving you both suspended in a space where words were unnecessary, and the raw connection between your souls spoke volumes--his hand, touching yours, this is how galaxies collide, you thought.

"It's been two weeks since you've even bothered to bloody look at me, Mattheo..." you whispered, your voice trembling like fragile autumn leaves in the wind, scared to acknowledge the reality of your situation, but knowing you needed to. "It all meant nothing to you, yeah?"

Mattheo's gaze remained unwavering, his expression stoic and seemingly emotionless as he absorbed your words. His silence spoke louder than any response he could offer, leaving you with a hollow ache in your chest. The pain of his indifference cut deep, a stark contrast to the fiery passion that once consumed both of you.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and filled with a restrained yet undetectable emotion. "Even if I said it didn't, would it really fucking matter, Raven?"

At his words, your heart rung, realizing that no matter how desperately you clung to the fragments of what you once shared, the reality was undeniable--the passion that once ignited between you two had flickered out, leaving only smouldering embers in its wake, and there was no reason for you to be upset over it--given that this was exactly what you fucking wanted.

Yet, with a heavy heart, you turned away, your gaze fixed on the distant horizon, searching for solace in the vast expanse of the night sky. You found yourself unprepared for the intricate complexities of your current reality--finding it amusing how your parents had dutifully cautioned you about the monsters lurking under your bed and the cruelty of schoolyard bullies, but never bothered to forewarn you about the captivating chaos that a disheveled boy with pretty eyes; ones that seemed to hold the fucking galaxies in their midst, and a demeanour infused with smoke and silver-tongued eloquence, would bring into your life.

"It would matter to me, yes." Your voice quivered as you confessed, the vulnerability in your words palpable in the night air--you kept your eyes fixed out in front of you, not daring to look at him. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, Mattheo..."

Mattheo scoffed, pulling out another cigarette, his movements deliberate yet filled with a sense of bitterness.

"You seem perfectly happy distracting yourself with my brother," he retorted, the words laced with a harsh edge.

Frustration welled up within you, your hands rising to your face as you rubbed the tension from your eyes, trying to find the right words amidst the chaos of emotions.

"Gods, you're unbelievable...that's exactly what ruined us, Mattheo," you said, your voice firm and weary. "Your constant issues with your brother, your need to control every damn thing... I just can't decipher your fucking intentions. Whatever 'us' meant, it drowned in the chaos you brought into it."

Mattheo's expression remained unreadable, a storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke calmly before he finally spoke, his words weighed down by an unspoken burden.

"Maybe some things are just meant to drown, Raven." He said, bluntly. "You and I both know that."

You met Mattheo's gaze squarely, your eyes filled with hesitation and the weight of unspoken truths--his flat dismissal of your words bothered you, sparking irritation through your veins, but you couldn't drop his prior insinuation regarding his brother--it was time you cleared that up once and for all.

"For the record," you began, your voice faltering slightly, "I don't feel anything for your brother. I never fucking did. It was never, ever about him." The confession hung heavy in the air, your heart pounding as felt as though you’d revealed a vulnerable piece of your soul. "It was always about you," you added, your voice barely above an audible whisper. "I..."

"Stop," he said, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and desperation. His body tensed, as if bracing for an impact. "Whatever you were about to say, don't say it."

Mattheo's voice came out as a sharp command, cutting through the tension like a knife through the darkness. His words lingered in the chilled night atmosphere, a heavy barrier between you, guarding his emotions like a fortress wall. Your throat tightened, constricting like a vice around your words. Each beat of your heart felt like a war drum, its thunderous rhythm drowning out any other sound.

"Why?" You hardly croaked.

"Because," Mattheo replied, his jaw clenching with the intensity of his suppressed emotions. "There are two fucking things in life you can't take back, Raven--bullets and words.“ he paused for a moment, inhaling a sharp breath. “Always make sure you hit what you aim at, and that you mean what you fucking say.”

Mattheo's words hit you like a tidal wave, crashing against the fragile walls of your resolve. The words rolled around you, creating a unstable bridge that stretched across the chasm between your bodies, threatening to collapse under the weight of suppressed emotions--and after a moment that felt like an eternity, you exhaled, accepting his now-hardened demeanour and deciding to just drop it, you switched the subject.

"I...I was just going to say...Tom invited me to the party in your common room on Saturday," you whispered, voice trembling as much as your fingers were. "I plan on going."

Mattheo's body tensed, his jaw tightening even further, as if to mask the rising anger within him. He avoided your gaze, his fists clenching involuntarily, struggling to contain the emotions surging beneath his calm exterior.

"And do you think that's a good idea?" His words sliced through the air, sharp and pointed, echoing the turmoil within him. "Have you ever attended a party here, even once?"

You shook your head, your voice barely audible as you admitted, "No, but I can't say no to him, Mattheo...I can't jeopardize my position in the guild. I've worked so hard for it, my entire educational career..." the desperation in your tone was palpable, the weight of your responsibilities bearing down on your shoulders. "It's rather maddening how quickly I transitioned from one Riddle capable of shattering my fucking future to another...it's like I can't catch a break."

The space between you and Mattheo sat heavy with unspoken words, an abyss of silence that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The soft glow of the dim light accentuated the shadows dancing across his face, emphasizing the muffled frustration etched into his features. Each puff of his cigarette punctuated the quiet, adding to the palpable tension in the air.

"I wasn’t planning on going to that," he finally replied, his voice carrying an unusual firmness, as if he was trying to convince himself too. "I quit all that shit."

Your voice caught in your throat, shock freezing your words as you tried to process his revelation.

"You-" you began, but he cut you off, his tone flat, devoid of its usual edge.

"Drinking, drugs," he said, his eyes meeting yours with a glint of determination before he gestured towards the cigarette between his fingers. "These are next."

You struggled to find your voice, your mind racing to comprehend the magnitude of his decision. The man who had drowned himself in alcohol more times in one week than you could count on two bloody hands had fucking quit it all. It was almost impossible to believe.

"Wow," you breathed, your words laced with a mix of disbelief and exasperation. Part of you still rolled with disappointment over his absence at the upcoming event, but a flicker of hope dared to spark within you. "That's great, Mattheo...that's a huge step for you..."

Mattheo's silence hung in the air, his eyes searching your face as if seeking answers in the depths of your gaze. Time seemed to stretch, the weight of the world seemingly sitting heavy between you. With deliberate slowness, he blinked, extinguishing his cigarette on the ground beside him, never breaking eye contact.

"You're too good, Raven," he whispered, his voice surprisingly steady, resonating with a mixture of admiration and regret. "Such an angel...you should know, I was never unaware that you fucking saved me."

His words hung there, pregnant with meaning, as if he was acknowledging a debt he could never fully repay. The vulnerability in his eyes was a stark contrast to the usual stoic facade, revealing the depth of his emotions in that fleeting moment. Mattheo's gaze continued to bore into yours, his eyes intense as if he had stumbled upon something precious he couldn't bear to lose.

In a move so gentle it felt like a caress, his hand lifted to your face, his thumb tracing a feather-light path over your cheek. His voice, soft and tender, carried a weight of sincerity that resonated deep within you.

"Everything will work out..everything you've worked so fucking hard for will eventually pay off," he whispered. "I would have never deserved you."

Your stomach twisted, and your heart seemed to pound against your sternum with a deafening resonance, drowning out the world around you. You couldn’t feel your fingers or the cold or the fucking emptiness of your heart because all you could feel was him. All you could focus on was the overwhelming fucking urge to climb into his lap and kiss him until you couldn’t breathe, kiss him until the only thing embedded within the tastebuds on your tongue was his fucking taste. He is everywhere, he is everything--in every pulse of your desires and the depths of your soul, and then he whispered,

“I will be there, for you, on Saturday,” his voice was a low, husky murmur, filling you with warmth. “Just incase.”

And as he withdrew his hand from your face, the loss of his touch was like a phantom ache, a reminder of the connection you desperately fucking craved. His eyes, deep and intense, lingered on your lips for a fleeting moment, a silent testament to the desires that simmered beneath the surface. As he pulled himself up to his feet, he broke his eyes from yours, and with deliberate steps, he retreated, the distance between you growing--but just when you thought he would disappear into the night, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And to answer your question--yes, I have dreams…” his voice, laden with a mix of vulnerability and yearning, hung in the air like a fragile promise. “But they’re only good when you’re in them.”

——————-

Find sixteen->

[leclsrc]

sweet pea ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, dad charles/pregnancy au, fluff!, humor, super slight angst

word count: 4.6k

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?” “Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm.”

Or: you finally reap what you sow after fooling around with your best friend. The reaping in question is a kid.

notes... some nsfw allusions, nothing too bad. if pregnancy isnt ur thing this is all about it so.

auds here... i hated this for a long time so i thought id never post it hahahah but i will now bec i just redid some scenes and its okay in my eyes... also this is a bit overdue. i hope u like it everyone! :) title from this

It’s an hour before the race and you’re absent from your usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, you’re leaned against the wall of the tiny motorhome bathroom, silently digging your toes into your sandals. Charles knocks twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. He beams when he sees you, goes, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He offers a hand, but you let your eyes shut, refusing to take it. You fail to even make eye contact, holding up the plastic stick that’d been in your clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s an omen, a portent, a cursed thing, casting your best friend into silence.

It’s cold and sterile in the bathroom—a stark contrast to where other families might find out they’re pregnant for the first time. You imagine a lemon yellow room bathed in noon sunlight and a happy balding doctor going “It’s positive, mama!” You picture a white family SUV in the parking lot, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness.

Instead, you get: “Do you have COVI—oh.”

“Yeah.” You say, pursing your lips. You swallow. “Oh.”

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?”

“Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm,” you counter, lifting yourself from the wall and bumping past Charles on your way out and into his room. He follows, brows knitted together, muttering something French under his breath. 

“By that logic, that’d mean you’re an alien now, too. See, your kinks have finally met their match.”

You turn, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He almost collides with you, his eyes trained determinedly on the positive pregnancy test in his hand. You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Seriously. Jokes? Right now?”

“I mean—”

“Whatever,” you say, waving him off. “Just go and drive. We can talk about this later.”

“I’ll dedicate the race to the little alien.” He giggles, mimicking a champagne spray, waving the invisible bottle back and forth toward your still-not-showing stomach. His accent switches to a measly English one when he goes, “Oh my Gawd! And there goes the alien Leclerc! Wins in first! From pole!”

“Get out. Or so help me God this baby is growing up without you.”

He ends up winning. (“Should I dedicate every race to the ali—” “Stop calling it that.”)

—

This is nothing but a final culmination of your very layered relationship with Charles. For years, you two had comfortably gone by the “best friends” label, with a hidden “with benefits” clause. You’d grown up together, separated only when you went to university in New York. Your re-arrival in Monaco, coupled with the both of you having grown older and more independent, marked the start of the sex.

It works like clockwork. To relieve stress, to celebrate, to cure boredom. At some point, both of you just inwardly admitted there was a certain weakness to it. A glass of wine, a stick of tobacco, and you’d give in to the temptation easily. Then, in the morning—sometimes in Monaco, other times in foreign countries where your body feels like it’s still three a.m.—you come to a mutual agreement to never do it again.

But you always do, laughing in between kisses, mumbling whispered nothings between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or against the wall, or—that one time—on the balcony.) And now there’s proof of it. Well, barely any yet, you realize, staring at yourself in the mirror of Charles’ hotel room. You turn and flop yourself onto the bed, but face-up. You inch yourself toward the headboard and lean against it in a half-seated position.

“I can’t believe I’m…” You sigh. Finally, the jokes fizzle. This is the real talk.

Charles burrows himself next to you, shirtless and in a stupid pair of boxers with red hearts all over them. You’d gotten them as a Valentine’s Day gag two years ago, but now you’re thinking of the future, of telling this kid their dad has a pair of heart-decorated boxers. Momentarily, and temptingly so, you weigh the options of telling Charles you were joking and running away before sunup.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks. He’d learned the phrase from some obscure American rom-com, if you recall correctly. He uses it constantly, and for many years, improperly.

“I’ll give you them for free,” you say, breathless with worry. “We’re having a kid.”

A hand places itself on your knee. You almost jerk away, but you relax. “What do you want to do?”

“With?” You ask, emptily. There’s so much to do. “The baby?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but also us.”

“We’re not dating,” you say, a bit sharper than intended. 

“We could.” He pauses. “For its sake.” He pokes your abdomen.

“I don’t—” You inhale, trying to reorganize all your thoughts. “I don’t want people thinking we’re suddenly dating and engaged and happy just because I’m about to pop a Charles Jr. out. I mean, what are you going to do with your racing? With a kid on the way, how’s travel going to work? My job? My masters?” 

“I think… I think you and I are lucky enough,” he says slowly, “to be able to weigh all these options without losing too much time or resources. I will support you no matter what, and you know that. And really, who cares if people think we ‘date’ because of the baby? You and I have been ‘dating’ since we were eleven.” 

You don’t realize you’re crying until your laugh is mixed with a sob. You don’t know if you’re sad, pissed, overwhelmed, loved—or all four. “Okay? So… let’s both think about it. More you than me. And tomorrow, we can weigh this all over again. Let’s sleep on it. Remember? La nuit—”

“—porte conseil,” you finish tearily. “Okay.”

—

It’s two weeks later. Charles gets stuck in the paddock doing something or other for Sunday, so you’re left to your own devices in the parking lot. Five minutes of waiting turns to fifteen, then a half hour. That’s the catalyst for your mid-evening freakout—suddenly you’re thinking about all the times you and this weird thing inside you might be alone, left for work, by an athlete dad.

“Are you okay?” A voice asks when you’re heaving out another dry, panic-induced sigh. You turn, finding it familiar, and see Seb behind you. He may have been Charles’ teammate, but he’s a friend to you, too, and you find he’s always the most grounded in heated discussions.

“Seb,” you croak, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” Your voice breaks on the ine, and suddenly fat tears roll quietly down your face.

You tell him eventually, when he asks you again if you’re okay, making him the second person to know; still, the telling doesn’t get easier. You didn’t even tell Charles, you think. You merely shoved a Clearblue stick in his face and waited for the goofy reaction that would undoubtedly meet your ears.

“A baby,” he says softly. Happily. “Congratulations. This is a big step… but you don’t sound excited.”

“I mean,” you say in between waves of tears, “I am? I am. But—it happened so fast—we’re not even officially together—and Charles is—”

“Do I need to talk some sense into Charles?” Seb asks suddenly, concerned. 

“No. He’s—he’s being great. Really supportive.” You wipe the tears and fresh ones come. “He’s happy. You know him. I think I’m just overwhelmed. I mean I’m the one who’s toting this baby around.” 

“Take it one step at a time,” he muses. “See a doctor, work out non-race schedules with Mattia, get everything in order. If I know you, this baby will be in the best hands. And that’s not even counting Charles.” He pulls you in for a hug that lasts ages, one that says thank you and I love you better than words. You inhale, find the tears have stopped. You realize what comes after this—it’s telling everyone else. Lily, your best friend. Carlos. Charles��� family. Your family. The fans, oh God you’d forgotten about the fans. The social media announcements. 

Charles strolls into the parking lot—runs, more like, with apologies spouting out of him, just two minutes after Seb leaves. He presses a delicate, apologetic kiss to your forehead, a hand on your stomach. “Hey,” he says. Then, to your abdomen, covered by a sweatshirt, “Hey there, alien.” You wonder what this will be like in two months. In seven. In nine.

—

You tell your families over lunch on a lucky off day. There is little surprise—just tears from both your moms and Arthur teasingly asking you to recount the details of conception. You’re in a sundress serving crostini when Pascale pulls you aside to the back of the yard.

She presses a kiss to your cheek, one of conviction and faith. “I always knew,” she says. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

—

The drivers all find out one way or another, news trickling through the grapevine like honey. You share it to Lily first, and of course she tells Alex. You tell Lewis, too, over spring rolls that he claims will power up the baby when it’s born. Charles tells Pierre, who tells Yuki, and Carlos, who tells Lando. You tell Mick, who hugs you and says, “Oh my god! I already knew, Seb told me. I kept wanting to say congratulations.” 

It’s a matter of two weeks before everybody knows. You know because you’ve barely taken a step into the dimly lit Ferrari motorhome when you halt and bolt back outside, harboring yourself a few metres away at a safe distance. Charles, who had been walking beside you, arm looped around your waist, turns, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“No. Nuh-uh. It smells in there.”

He sniffs the darkness, fumbles for the light switch. “No it doesn’t.”

“It smells like”—you grit your teeth, trying to identify the stench—“cheese. And champagne.”

“Why would it smell like che—”

He bangs the light open and illuminates a surprise party. The entire grid starts cheering, having unheard the entire conversation. There’s a huge banner that says CONGRATULATIONS PARENTS, and on a makeshift table in the centre, an assortment of cake slices, cheese, and flutes of champagne. Charles laughs with delight at the surprise, and then turns to find you squatting on the ground, trying to quell your stomach. 

“Give me five,” you say, waving him off.

He returns after ten to find you still trying to calm the waves of nausea. You hear his footsteps and heave yourself up, standing to face him. “I asked Esteban and Max to evacuate the place of cheese and champagne. It’s just coffee and cake now. I even got three fans going.”

“Desolée,” you say, miserable. He wraps two big arms around you, nestling his chin atop your head. “I feel like a high-maintenance monster.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not the monster. The alien is.”

“I told you to stop calling it that,” you say, shutting your eyes and leaning into his touch. “Before it catches on.”

“Okay. E.T.? Spock? Open to suggestions.” Hand in yours, he walks you gently to the party, arising loud cheers again. In between sips of hot water, he says, “How about Chewy?”

—

The sense of smell proves to be useful in endeavours elsewhere.

“You never clean your car,” you say, lying horizontal on the leather seat and picking bits of dirt off. “I can smell month old Cheetos.”

Charles watches you obsessively nitpick at the detailing. “Last time you looked like this, I gave you a baby.”

“One more word,” you warn sharply. 

“But seriously, be careful. The alien might get stressed.”

You brace yourself for the stupid words that will indubitably follow.

“Don’t worry. If it falls out I’ll plop it in a race car and it’ll be the next Hamilton. Imagine how light it’ll be.”

There it is.

—

Your first trip to the doctor’s is interesting. Charles insists on wearing a wig because he’s so easily recognized in Monaco, so now you look like you’re conceiving a baby with Weird Al Yankovic.

The doctor wheels in a cart with a monitor and all the necessary equipment, and even if it suddenly feels all too real, Charles squeezes your hand and you’re calm again. “I’m back,” she says, sliding into a wheely chair beside you and gelling your stomach.

“Hi, Back,” Charles responds in a crude, twangy Texan accent. The dad humor starts early, you suppose.

You grit your teeth to try and excuse his embarrassing behavior, but suddenly the monitor clicks open and there it is. It looks like the ones in movies, print-outs from friends, but at the same time it doesn’t. It looks different. Special. Yours. You zero in on it, breathless. That’s yours. The doctor says a couple minor things—nothing worrisome—and when you turn to relay it to Charles in case he’d zoned out, you find his face splotchy.

“Are you crying?”

“That’s ours,” he says, dipping down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s mine and Charles’, not mine and Bob Ross’,” you say, but you pull him closer anyway. 

You order two printouts. The week next, you discover that Charles snuck back in to order an extra eight and has mailed them out to friends and drivers. You find out because Kylian Mbappe messages you “Due in April? Make me godfather!” on Instagram.

—

Gradually, you fall into a pattern of being queasy constantly. You get nitpicky with meals, and not irrationally—Charles had fed you a spicy hotdog and you’d gone half a bite before hurling it, and your breakfast, into the nearest toilet. You find solace in your cravings—all of which happen to be the same everyday.

Chinese takeout from just about any restaurant ends up being your best friend. You somehow can’t stomach anything but that specific cuisine, much to your own surprise. You find new ways to combine them with each other. Rice paper wrappers with chow mein. Hotpot with fried rice. If you’re not eating Chinese, you reduce your appetite to crackers or hot tea to avoid becoming too nauseated.

It’s poetic almost, the way he sets out the food carefully, in the order you like them. He always presses a kiss to your forehead after. 

Around this time, you develop a crazy sex drive, waking Charles up at numerous points of the night, begging into his neck for something, anything. You last an hour before you’re asking again. This proves especially difficult before races, where Charles gives in a bit too easily and Carlos has to knock on the door, going “You have to finish somewhere else too, Charles!”

—

You insist Charles hold off on telling the fans, for a few months. It goes okay until your outfits on the paddock evolve into the variety of “Charles’ hoodies” to hide the increasingly evident bloat of pregnancy, and nosy fans start speculating all over Twitter. That’s when he sits you down and gently tells you he thinks it’s time you both announce it.

You’re sitting beside him in his hotel room, after two calls with his bosses, trying to formulate the proper announcement. You download PicsArt to make it pretty and clean and formatted—because the poor guy was about to post a Notes app screenshot—and then it’s on the Internet. 

“She’s truly MOTHER,” one fan comments. Despite yourself, you press the heart icon beside it. It’s your bit of comfort when you catch sight of the nastier comments under the post.

—

You’re ironically gifted an ancient 80s aerobic exercise DVD for mums by Lily and Alex. You’re sure it’s older than you. Charles, though, in his valiant effort to connect with you and Chewy, does the routine everyday. You wake up to the electronic synthpop and Charles doing booty squats in the living room.

The permed instructor smiles through the scratchy 80s quality and goes, “You are rocking it, momma!”

“You hear that?!” Charles pants. “I am rocking it!”

—

Your first parenting fight ends up being one over the baby’s name. Yeah. Of all things. You don’t know why you’re so worked up about it, considering you don’t even know the gender of the baby yet. You arrive in Monaco to mark the first of five off days and Charles makes some random, offhand joke about naming the baby Daryl, and you suddenly start rambling on and on about how it’s too ugly, even if you’d never thought about names before now.

“It’s not going to be Daryl. It won’t be Daryl,” Charles says, hands on your shoulders. You heave another sob. “Please stop crying. You never cry. I’m a bit freaked out.”

“It’s—just—that,” you hiccup, “I—don’t—want to name a—our—baby—Daryl.”

“Yeah, yep,” he says, soothingly. “I got you. It’s not going to be Daryl. Never. We don’t need to decide anything. You gonna calm down for me?”

“I can’t—stop—crying,” you snivel desperately, burying your face in your hands.

He presses a firm kiss to the corner of your quivering lips, and you tug him in for a real one. You calm down when you pull away, exhaling. You gaze at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Blame the alien,” you sniff. 

He kisses your stomach, which shows signs of pregnancy more and more as the days pass. “Hear that?” He whispers into the skin. “She’s blaming you, Chewy.”

—

Your next trip to the doctor’s is with your appointed private physician, Dr. Davies. Two minutes before the doctor walks in, you make a serious and compelling order for Charles to remove the Weird Al wig, which he does—but stores in your bag, “just in case.” It’s also his opporunity to play teacher’s pet and showcase how involved he is in your pregnancy, which, judging by the amount of weird cultish pregnancy books he’s burned through, is very much so.

“It’s gonna be a boy,” you declare while you’re being gelled up. You’re past the point of denial and bloat, now showing way too obviously. “Mom’s intuition.”

“Well, all the books say it’s a girl,” he says proudly.

“Yeah, they also say drinking lemon juice while trying to conceive gives you a girl. I’m sure scientific accuracy was their greatest objective.”

“Girl.”

“Boy,” you say dismissively.

“Girl.”

“Boy.”

“Girl.” It’s not Charles this time, it’s the physician, with a small smile on his face.

You squeeze Charles’ hand so hard you’re half sure it’s chipped off and fallen to the tiled floor. You’re having a girl. Normally Charles would turn and make some petty statement about he’d been right, but—you’re having a girl. A pretty baby girl. You almost can’t believe it. He totally can’t, pressing kisses to your hair and face.

You let him buy pink paint later that day.

—

You predict it, but it comes—fights and squabbles over nothing at all.

First it’s about work, then housing, then his job, then the danger of his job. It’s petty, and usually you storm off in an emotional cloud of irrationality, brought down after a talk, a play-by-play, compromise, reassurance. It’s hard when you’re carrying around a human being, you want to say. Try being in my shoes.

“Can we talk?” Charles says, in the thick of another fight. You’re on the balcony of your flat, mulling over nothing at all. Your stomach is heavy, you’re always exhausted, you never feel pretty anymore even if Charles is always unfailing at telling you you are. 

“Okay,” you murmur, turning. You’ve already developed a habit of placing your hands on your bump always.

He inhales. “I’m scared.”

This is a first. And you realize—in these six months of being pregnant, Charles has been your rock, but has never expressed much fear until now. He’s always been good. Great. Supportive. “Of what?”

“Of—becoming a dad.” He pauses, as if to weigh his words. “I don’t have… a blueprint anymore.”

It dawns on you what he’s talking about. You accept the hug when it comes, holding the nape of his neck. He isn’t crying, but is close to it. His voice is shaky when he continues, whispers against your ear. “What if I don’t know what to do?” 

“Baby,” you say, weakly. You push him gently so he’s looking into your eyes. “If the way you’ve taken care of me the past how many months is any indication of how you’ll treat this alien, I know she’s in good hands. You’ve got so much of your dad in you. You’re caring, sweet, you even got a headstart on the dad jokes.” He laughs. “I want this. And the only reason I ever did was because I knew you’d be with me, being an amazing dad, and an even better…”

“Boyfriend,” he says. His eyes hold hesitance—but you quell it with a nod.

“Boyfriend,” you echo. “For now.”

—

The nursery looks like a nursery in February. It was a storage room in Charles’ flat that had really, at some point, become yours, too. Full of boxes and old suits and memories, it’d taken weeks to properly store everything and make way for the furniture. Charles, of course, insists on painting it himself, with the shade of pink he purchased especially for the room.

He hits his head twice and touches the wet paint. There’s a handprint embossed above the bassinet. (Yours is next to it, at his insistence.)

—

You’re a yoga ball by mid-March, having trouble sleeping and dealing with everything being swollen. Charles helps you through it all, turning the heating up and down every time you get even a bit scratchy with the temperature in the flat or motorhome. Your cravings also morph again at this point, into rigatoni that Charles cooked sometime over winter; he requests Ferrari add an induction stove to every race weekend motorhome that you can make it to so he can cook it at your beck and call.

The season begins. Every race is dedicated to Chewy, and every race is won.

—

It’s early morning in late March when Dr. Davies sends you an email with a one-liner that sounds firm enough to set you and Charles in place after two races that involve you being flown around.

Absolutely NO more air and long car travel for Mommy. 

“Can we manage?” You mope, rereading the email, genuinely distressed as you watch your boyfriend pack for Australia. It’s a long haul flight, with only one stopover in Zurich, and you’re filled with anxiety. There isn’t a compromise—until you’re popping the baby out, Charles needs to try and score the title.

“You know I can always drop out of races,” he says softly. “That’s what reserve drivers are for.”

“It’s not the same,” you argue. “I’m just worried.”

“You’re not due ’til the 12th,” he assures you. “I’ll be back then, even if it means dropping a race.”

He leans down and kisses you softly, rubbing your shoulders and ankles. “I’ll be back before you know it. Get some sleep first, okay?” He repeats the sentiment to your stomach, adding a kiss and a bye bye Chewy. You drift off to a sorrowful sleep when he departs, a slow ache in your lower back blooming that feels just like many of the other slow aches lately. 

You’re up after a half hour with discomfort. You suppose something is just up with your sleep position, and readjust yourself. The discomfort sharpens, then melts. You sigh with relief, a long whistley exhale, and sleep again.

Bliss lasts about three hours, then you’re up again, groaning. You’re not due for a prenatal yoga class until four in the afternoon, and your body isn’t used to being awake. Hell, it’s not used to being this pained. You shift once, twice, trying to sleep with fruitless and exhausting attempts. It takes a while, but in between shifting positions and trying to make yourself yawn, it registers.

“Chewy.” You groan, cupping your gigantic bump. “Seriously?”

—

The first person you call is Charles, naturally. He should be in Zurich, but maybe signal is spotty or something, because none of your texts or calls ping. So you move down the list to the person you know will be in Monaco and not off racing, like everybody you know is—and it just so happens to be Dr. Davies.

You always thought Charles would be nowhere but beside you when you went into labor. But you’re here clutching the straps of your overnight bag being driven to the hospital, exhale, inhale, try Charles, try Carlos. Exhale, inhale. Try Charles. Try Carlos. Your contractions don’t quell; they only grow in intensity and you wince the whole ride through.

“Looks like it’s going to be a fast labor,” Dr. Davies says when he’s done checking you in and making sure everything is in order. You nod, breathless and flushed. You’ve called your mum here and she’s on the way with Charles’ but—Charles is the issue.

“I will weld myself shut if it means I’m giving birth without the dad,” you beg. “Without Charles.”

Charles, who picks up after forty-five minutes of radio silence. He’s in the jet. Give him an hour. “I will pilot this plane myself if I have to. Don’t do anything—don’t make any decisions without me.”

“Too fucking late.” You say, wheezy with labor. “I’m putting N/A on the certificate.”

“You carry Chewy around for nine months and I don’t get to meet her first?” He asks, in a last-ditch effort to cheer you up. You tear up, splotchy and red all over.

“We can’t call her Chewy. We never discussed names. And oh God it can’t be Daryl,” you say, whimpers turning into half-sobs of overwhelm and yearning. You’re scared. You need Charles, who’s been with you for every week, every milestone, every kick, every rigatoni craving. But he’s not here. You have Dr. Davies, and in five minutes you’ll have your mum and Pascale, but they are not Charles. You breathe heavy into the phone.

“I love you,” you say finally. “Please, I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says gently. “I love you. I’ll be there, okay? Just—just wait for me.”

—

Lil 3s ago

does it hurt?

i know it does but i’m trying to make u feel better

love from houston. i will call you ASAP.

You 1s ago

yeah it hurts so bad

apparently they don’t do epidurals

fuck europe

—

In between quiet periods and intense ones, you finally reach your peak. A nurse takes one glance and nods and your bed is disengaged and wheeling around again. Pascale squeezes your left hand, your mum the other. “Wait!” You pant, voice spent, totally tired, flustered.

The nurses exchange a look. “Ma’am—”

“No, you don’t understand. The dad, my—the dad—he’s out—and I don’t.” You pause, the onset of a cry coming on. Pascale takes the lead, firm, asking for a few more moments of patience.

“I can’t do this,” you say hopelessly, throwing your flushed head back. “No. Not without Charles.”

“I’m here,” Charles says, bounding through the door. He’s in official Ferrari gear and his hair is disheveled and he's clearly been crying. Had Chewy not been wedging her way out, you would’ve kissed him right then. You feel nothing but love.

“You’re a sneaky fucker,” you say instead, and the rest is a blur.

—

It’s an hour before the race and Charles is absent from his usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, he’s leaned against the wall of the motorhome, silently digging his toes into his shoes. You knock twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. You beam when you see him. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

His two girls.

Julia stretches out a chubby hand, but he smiles teasingly, refusing to take it. He holds eye contact, holding up the ring that’d been in his clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s a symbol, a sign, a blessed thing, casting his girlfriend into silence.

It’s a bit dark—a stark contrast to where other guys might propose for the first time. He imagines a Caribbean beach bathed in sunset. He pictures a Jeep in the sand, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness. He figures if you don’t like this, he’ll pay for that.

Instead, he gets: “You’re a doofus—oh.”

“Yeah.” He says, pursing his lips. He swallows, gives you the biggest smile of his life. “Oh.”

It’s perfect.

[starliights-shining]

Hi! I hope you're not busy, but can i request Bayverse Ironhide x female reader (russian if you could) who is a bit grumpy medic but is soft towards Ironhide and has russian nicknames for him. Free to refuse but if you chose to write this Good luck✨❤️

Hi Darlingggg!!!! I hope youre having a good day. I'm terrible sorry this is like almost a year later. I couldn't come up with a story plot that was worth the length and time. SO here's some headcannons about grumpy female medic and Ironhide.

Ironhide likes to think your grumpiness is cute. The way your brows knits together and your optics focus on something in your servos.

He loves the way your grumpiness alwways shows when working with the other autobots.

Everyone points out the stark contrast of your interactions with everyone and Ironhide. To the point where sometimes Bee gets Ironhide to ask you questions out of fear your optics.

They'll laugh when you were just mumlbing under your breath about something and then trun right around and smile at Ironhide when he says something.

Ironhide used to say he never noticed it, but recently since the Autobots arrival on Earth, he's able to really see and tell the difference with you. Its almost like you got grumpier when you arrived on earth.

He's also noticed your vocalizer sounds different. Your voice is cold towards your co-worker Ratchet. Your words roll differently than anyone elses, your e's now have a y put in their somewhere and your r's roll a lot more than they used too.

He remembers when you first reuinted that you sounded cold but felt warm. Your metal plating was like heated and your voice was deeper but soothing. You often mumbled another luange to yourself. Espically when transformered. It thought it was nice.

You were you to him, but you everyone else you were a grumpy you. Rougher tone and sharper words to others, epsically decpitcons, Thats when he noticed your insults were differnet. Harsher sounding than your original ones. He made a notice to ask you about it but always forgets until this last time.

Your voice came at him with the same warmth it always has. Your optics not even looking at him as you spoke. "Сладкий(sweetie) can you had me that." Your free servor pointing at a tool he's never seen before, But before his own servor starts to move he catches what you just called him. He stops for a second. Helm swivle to look at you over his shoulder plating. HIs one optic staring whole into your helm.

"What did you just call me?"

His voice wasn't aggressie or hard, he had a curiouse nature to it. Actually wanting to know what you called him. He saw you smile a bit from his place The corners of your mouth curving slightly.

"Sweetie, Do you not like it?"

Your question didn't need an actual answer. You knew he liked it. He's always enjoyed the little pet names you give him. Even the basic Cybertronian ones he enjoys. It sends a jolt to his spark, but this one made his entire frame zap. His servos almost feeling numb to its own touch.

"I never said I didn't like it. It's just differnt."

His servos handed you the tool you asked for. watching as you repaired whatever Bee was needing for his visor.

You gave the fighter bot a light tap on the helm, tellling him hes good as you sighed. He saw your shoulder plates losen when Bee walked out.

Ironhide made his way to you, servo resting on your lower back. He can see you soften for him. Optics whirling into a soft look as you took in his pressence. You could vivildly feel your spark humming with his touch.

"I think I prefer your new pet names."

He smiled, watching as you lighten up and think about all the names you can call him.

"How about Котенок(cat). Your optics looked for anything that said no in his face plating. He just looked at you waiting for you to explain.

"It means cat, cuase you my little grumpy black cat."

You spoke, smiling bright at him and placing a servo on his chasis.

"I think your more of the grumpy Котенок, than me"

HIs attempt at saying the name was funny to you, his face contorting as he tried his hardest tp pronouce the word correctly, but failed horribly. You just laughed at him, your optics closing at you basked in him, Your grumpy large weapons specialist.

[moonmaiden1996]

Taming the Beast Part Four

Chapter 1, 2, 3.

As you stood before the towering creatures of wing and scale, an unsettling blend of awe and defiance coiled within you. The dragons loomed, formidable and ancient, their serpentine necks arching like the spines of a mountain range worn by centuries. Each beat of their wings stirred the air into a tempest, sending gusts whipping through your hair and tugging at your cloak. Their eyes gleamed with an eerie intelligence, fixing on you as if sensing your inner resistance, your instinct to resist being commanded.

The ground trembled as one of the dragons shifted its massive weight, the vibrations pulsing through your feet and into the marrow of your bones. Your Shadowcats, tense and bristling, growled low beside you, their presence a stark contrast to the dragons and the men astride them—men you now had every reason to distrust, not least of all because of the whispers surrounding your father’s death. Each seemed to know something they weren’t saying, and you wondered just how deep their schemes ran.

"Come now, wife. Your seat awaits," murmured Aemond, his tone a dark thread of amusement. ''You will ride with me to Kings Landing'' His outstretched hand was as steady as it was commanding, his eyes glittering with the thrill of seeing your defiance. You cast a wary glance from him to Daemon, who met your look with a smirk, his amusement curling as darkly as smoke from dragonfire.

"I am not flying on that thing," you declared, crossing your arms defiantly over your chest. "If I must travel, I’ll do so on my Shadowcats."

Daemon’s smirk widened into a wicked grin, his eyes flashing with a dangerous amusement as he stepped closer, boots crunching on the gravel. “Well,” he drawled, each word a blend of humor and threat, “there’s always the carriage. It’ll be a tight fit, you know… though we’d certainly find ways to make do, sharing the same space, perhaps even a single horse.”

His words held a promise both wicked and unsettling, his eyes drifting over you as if savoring your defiance. It was a choice, but you knew it for the trap it was.

You didn’t hide the spark of anger in your gaze as you turned to Aemond. His expression, cool and watchful, didn’t falter; if anything, his mouth twitched, suppressing a grin. “The Shadowcats are magnificent, I’ll grant you that,” he said smoothly, casting an appraising look at the sleek, bristling creatures by your side. “But a Targaryen belongs in the skies.” He stepped closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You would look magnificent up there,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Astride a dragon, fierce and untamed, as if born to it.”

Your pulse quickened at his words, and you struggled to keep your resolve as he and Daemon closed in, a pair of dragons in their own right, fierce and relentless. Daemon’s voice, low and smooth, drew you from your thoughts. “If you’d only come sooner,” he purred, tone half-taunt, half-hunger, “we wouldn’t need to rush to our own wedding like this. But now, the skies are waiting. Though I wonder…” he leaned in, his breath a whisper against your skin, “…how we’d ever manage to strap your Shadowcats to a dragon’s back.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself against the surge of emotion his words provoked, refusing to give in to their gaze, the fire of their combined intensity. "Fine," you bit out, every word laced with defiance. "I’ll go to King’s Landing with you. But let me be clear—I go on my own terms. I’ll take the skies if only to keep my Shadowcats safe from your… ambitions.”

Daemon’s hand found your waist, pulling you in, his voice a velvet murmur against your ear, “Ah, our fierce little wife, it’s your spirit we admire most. Do not worry, you will reunited with them soon, it won't take the rest of your party more then a month to get to use. Give us time to settle in.”

His words burned through you, setting off a spark of anger mingled with something darker, something thrilling. You met his gaze, feeling the heat of his proximity, the anticipation simmering beneath his amused smile. Aemond stepped to your other side, guiding you toward the dragon’s saddle, his hand firm yet intimate as his fingers brushed yours in a possessive, silent claim. You allowed his guidance, your jaw set, refusing to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the dragon beneath you. Its scales shimmered, warm and unyielding, radiating a power that pulsed through your body.

Aemond mounted up behind you, his arms encircling you, his strength pressing into your back. He leaned down, his voice a dangerous whisper in your ear, “Then let us show you what it means to be truly free. To soar above it all, fierce and untouchable.”

With a final protest from your Shadowcats, the dragon leaped into the sky, and the world below fell away. The landscape stretched beneath you, vast and endless. For a fleeting moment, you lost yourself in the exhilaration of flight, in the wild freedom, though it only took a heartbeat to recall the looming mysteries—the whispers of treachery and of your father’s untimely fate. You glanced back at the men who held you captive in this sky, men who, for all their passion, might have bloodied their hands with your father's end. And despite your resolution, you felt the pull of something dark and inevitable, a current dragging you towards a dangerous intimacy with these fierce, untamed men who had woven you into their designs. You had to do this, to enter the dragons den, the pit of blood thirsty animals for your father, your mother and grandmother, gods even your uncle. To find out the truth.

I am a little bit rusty with this story but I am back and have the rest of the chapters outlined. Please let me know what you think?

[moonsandmobilityaids]

To Walk In Part 2

Pairings: Remus Lupin x disabled!reader (Part of my poly!marauders x disabled!reader universe) Summary: You and Remus talk about the night before. Warnings: Mentions of catheters, self-worth issues Series Masterlist | Part 1

Your eyes flutter open to a new day, the weight of last night's revelation pressing down on you like a lead blanket. It's difficult to think of anything else but the dread that sits heavy in your stomach, churning with every thought of what Remus might be thinking now.

You remain still in bed, the soft pillow beneath your head offering little comfort for the turmoil within. Remus is there, propped up against the headboard with a book in his hands. The morning light filters through the window, casting an ethereal glow upon him and accentuating the worry lines etched around his eyes. His presence should soothe you, yet it only serves to remind you of your vulnerability.

The memory of the catheter from last night is still fresh, too fresh, and you can't help but shift under the sheets, causing Remus to look up.

"Love, you're awake," he says softly, closing his book and setting it aside. His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh reality of your situation, and for a moment, you want nothing more than to lose yourself in its warmth. But your anxiety refuses to be quelled, and you attempt a small smile, though it wavers at the edges.

“Mmm,” you hum in response, a noncommittal sound that does little to mask your unease. You draw the blanket up higher, a thin shield from the weight of his scrutiny. It's not that you don't trust him—it's just that right now, you can't trust yourself.

He doesn't miss the small gesture, the way you retreat further into the cocoon of fabric. His brow furrows slightly, concern etching lines onto his usually smooth forehead. He has always been perceptive, able to read between the lines of your carefully composed facade. It's one of the reasons you've always felt safe with him, why his presence has been a constant source of reassurance. But today, even his steadying influence can't quell the storm raging inside you.

"Would you like to speak about what happened last night?" His voice is so soft, a low murmur that barely disturbs the silence of the room. He's cautious, careful not to push too hard, but the question hangs heavy in the air between you, reminding you of the reality you're trying to keep at bay.

Your heart stutters in your chest, skipping a beat, and for a moment, you can't breathe. You don't want to talk about it—not because you don't trust him, but because speaking it aloud feels like an admission. An admission that things are different now, that *you* are different. And you're terrified of what will happen if you give voice to the fear that's been gnawing at your insides.

"I..." Your voice is barely audible, a whisper lost among the rustling sheets. "I don’t want you to see me...differently." The confession hangs heavy in the air, a secret shared in the quiet of the dawning day.

His frown deepens, his gaze never leaving yours as he leans closer. There’s a tension in the way he moves, like a string pulled taut, ready to snap at any moment. "What do you mean?"

You sigh, the sound aching with the weight of unspoken fears and frustration. "It's just... everything." Your hands move in vague gestures, encompassing the catheter, the wheelchair, everything. "I don't want you to think I'm not—" The words are there on the tip of your tongue, but they're too raw, too real to release into the world.

"That I'm not... attractive anymore," you finally whisper.

Saying it aloud feels like admitting defeat, and you instantly regret it. You turn your head away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, suddenly aware of how absurd your concerns must seem when stacked against the reality of your condition. How can you think about attraction when your body is a battlefield, when even the simplest tasks leave you breathless and weak?

Remus blinks, his brow furrowing as he tries to decipher the tangle of emotions behind your words. He doesn't laugh or dismiss your fears as trivial; instead, his hand reaches out, fingertips brushing gently against your cheek. It's a silent plea for you to look at him, to let him see you.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, and it's such a familiar term, one James often uses. But when Remus says it, it's different—softer, more personal, imbued with an intimacy born of shared secrets and quiet understanding. "You're not—You're still you. You're the woman I'm mad about, and nothing can change that."

His words weave a thread of comfort through the fabric of your thoughts, but it frays against the rough edges of self-doubt. "But last night... you saw me... struggling to use a catheter and then helped. That's not something I ever wanted you to see."

His hand leaves your cheek, warm fingers curling around your own, grounding you in their steadiness. "What I saw last night," he begins, voice firm yet gentle, like the caress of a summer breeze, "was strength. More strength than you realise you possess. And not a single moment of it—not one—made me think any less of you."

His words strike at the heart of your insecurities, each syllable a challenge to the doubts you've nursed in silence. You search his face for any sign of pity, but there is none—only the steady glow of sincerity.

"This isn't about pretending to be perfect," he continues, voice firm with conviction. "You're perfect for me, for us. Last night... it didn't change the way I feel about you. If anything, it made me love you more because I wish you'd let me in sooner. You don't have to bear this burden alone."

Your throat tightens, making speech impossible. His gaze holds yours, unwavering and sure. He means it—all of it. There's no hesitation, no shadow of doubt lurking behind his words.

"But... what if it becomes too much?" Your voice barely rises above a whisper, fear creeping into the spaces between your words. "What if one day, you decide it's too much to handle?"

Remus's hold on your hand tightens, his thumb tracing reassuring circles over your knuckles. A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, not out of amusement, but a quiet sort of confidence. "I'm not going anywhere, love. I'm in this with you, for better or worse. We've already faced so much together. I'm not afraid of this—and neither should you be."

His words crack the shell you've formed, seeping into spaces within your heart that you'd forgotten existed. You feel a slow and steady release of tension from your shoulders, the burden of the previous night lifting ever so slightly at his touch. He speaks no more, simply holding you with a gentleness that only Remus Lupin seems to possess.

"I... I don't want you to think I'm weak," you confess, your voice no louder than the rustle of sheets beneath you.

"You're the farthest thing from weak," he assures you, the certainty in his tone wrapping around you like a warm blanket. "You've faced things others can't even imagine, and you're still here, still fighting. That's not weakness. It's strength."

Something shifts within you, something small but significant. His words echo in the hollows of your mind, filling them with a truth you've long denied yourself. Perhaps he's right—perhaps you are stronger than you've allowed yourself to believe.

"And remember," Remus adds, his voice low and soothing as a lullaby, "if you ever need help with anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll be there. James and Sirius too."

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, all you can do is nod. Then, slowly, you find your voice again. "They don't know... about the catheter. Not yet."

Remus's eyes soften in understanding. "That's your decision to make, love. When you're ready to tell them, they'll understand. They care for you as deeply as I do."

His voice is a balm to your ragged nerves, making the promise ring true in spite of everything. The fear isn't completely gone, but it's quieter now, overshadowed by Remus's unwavering presence.

You look up at him and finally allow the ghost of a smile to touch your lips—a small victory, but a significant one. "Thank you," you whisper, the gratitude heavy in your voice.

Remus's own smile is gentle, the lines around his eyes crinkling in response. He leans in, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. "Anytime, love. Always."

[kizudnyy]

Aubrey's Sunset 2019 

― You stand before the grave of a young soul, a bittersweet smile spreading across your face as tears slowly spill down your cheeks. Your one true love is gone, and there’s no changing that. 

“Have we met before?” The voice of the dead rang inside your head.  Unable to process everything as reality struck you hard. You have repeated the cycle once more. 

"I…" you begin, your voice trembling as a weary chuckle escapes your lips. "I guess we have, huh?" 

I know the fandom and the whole ordeal itself is dead at this point, but I don’t fucking care cause the hyper fixation just got back to me and – As a writer, it is my DAMN duty to project my thoughts into the archives! To hell with the 2023-2024 problematic shit! 

CHAPTER 1: My deepest regrets, is to never tell you that ‘I love you’ 

The sun was beginning to set, casting a long shadow over the cemetery. The world around you have never felt so eerily still, so numb, and so-so cold. It was as if reality itself has taken a huge disliking to you and you only, letting you suffer such great consequences, and yet despite everything, it had held its breath for the presence of such deep sorrow. You could hardly believe that you were standing here once again, above the soil that had buried someone so important. A grave, a person’s spot that marked a resting place of one person who had meant everything to you. 

'Do you think we will be together in another universe?'

'I hope so.'

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The memories kept replaying back to your mind. Memories of your time together played in your mind like a film reel, each scene more vivid than the last. His laughter, his smile, the way he always seemed to know how to make you feel better—everything about him was etched into your heart.  

But now, he was gone. And you were left with only the remnants of what once was. 

“Why does it have to always end like this?” You muttered to no one in particular, your voice barely a whisper, making it seem like the question was meant to be answered by you. “Alex, Alex, Alex. Why!” Your voice was already trembling with emotion. The weight of the cycles that you went through, the endless repetition – a curse of finding him at your very lowest, to losing him at his peak. It was becoming too much to bear, too much for your little heart. 

But now, he was gone. And you were left with only the remnants of what once was. 

"Why does it always have to end like this?" you whispered to no one in particular, your voice trembling with emotion. The weight of the cycles you had lived through, the endless repetition of finding him and losing him, was becoming too much to bear. 

You knelt beside the grave, your fingers tracing the letters of his name carved into the stone. It felt cold and distant, a stark contrast to the warmth you had known in his embrace. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t bother wiping them away. This moment, this heartache, was all too familiar. 

And then, as if summoned by your grief, his voice echoed in your mind once more. "Have we met before?" 

The question lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the countless times you had met, loved, and lost him. Each cycle was different, yet the outcome was always the same—his life cut short, leaving you to mourn him over and over again. 

"I…" Your voice cracked as you tried to respond, the words getting caught in your throat. A bitter laugh bubbled up inside you, born of frustration and sadness. "I guess so, huh?" 

You leaned back on your heels, letting the stillness of the evening wash over you. The sky above was a canvas of orange and pink, the colors fading into twilight. It was beautiful, yet the beauty felt hollow in the face of your pain. 

A part of you wanted to give up, to let the cycle break and leave this endless loop behind. But another part, the part that still clung to hope, refused to let go. You knew that as long as there was even the slightest chance of saving him, you would continue to fight. 

The device that had brought you here, that had allowed you to travel through time, was still tucked safely in your pocket. It was both a blessing and a curse—your only means of seeing him again, and the very thing that condemned you to relive this tragedy. 

You pulled the device out, your fingers brushing over its smooth surface. It was small and vintage, yet it held the power to alter the course of history. But no matter how many times you used it, no matter how many variations of the past you lived through, you could never seem to change his fate. 

‘Remember, history isn't meant to be rewritten, even for love. It serves a purpose beyond our understanding.’ 

"One more time," you murmured, your resolve hardening. "Just one more time." 

‘...’ 

With a deep breath, you activated the device. The world around you began to blur, the colors bleeding into one another until everything was a whirl of light and sound. You closed your eyes, focusing on the one person you wanted to see more than anything. 

When you opened them again, you were no longer in the cemetery. The grave was gone, replaced by the familiar surroundings of a bustling town square. People milled about, unaware of the time traveler in their midst. 

And there, in the distance, was the boy you had come to find. He was younger, full of life and energy, completely oblivious to the fate that awaited him. Your heart ached at the sight, knowing what was to come, but you couldn’t stay away. 

You had to try. Even if it meant risking everything. 

As you made your way toward him, the sound of his laughter reached your ears—a sound you had missed more than anything. You swallowed the lump in your throat and called out his name, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hope. 

He turned, his eyes meeting yours with a look of surprise. For a moment, you saw a flicker of recognition in his gaze, as if some part of him remembered you, even if he couldn’t place it. 

"Have we met before?" he asked, his head tilting slightly to the side. 

You smiled softly, the words tasting bittersweet on your tongue as you replied, "In a way… yes." 

KIZU'S MULTI-FANDOM MASTERLIST

[archivalofsins]

The thing I love about Milgram is you can easily start to see how responsibility is viewed across cultures through how the prisoners are discussed. This is something brought up through the text through the pairing of Kazui and Amane along with the gap between their ages.

Something the series itself goes out of its way to point out from the beginning.

Q.06 What would you say is the difference between adults and children?

Kazui: Responsibility. Adults can’t just do whatever they want.

Amane: I don’t think there’s a strict boundary. There are adults who act like children just as there are children who are mature like adults.

Through putting their answers to this question together, we can discern a focal point of the story overall. Before it's brought to the forefront by Jackalope.

Responsibility. What it is, what taking it looks like, and who should have to take it.

These answer together to me read as.

Adults have to take responsibility for themselves. Ergo adults do not have the same freedoms or room for error/growth as they did when they were children. However, there is really no difference between people within these age groups as a child can be treated as an adult (adultification) and an adult can be treated like a child (infantilization). Children can behave in ways typically considered adult, while adults can exhibit behavior viewed as childish.

We see Amane's answer reflected in the ways,

Mu: Uses childish language, shifts blame/refuses to take accountability for herself, throws tantrums or pouting fits, spends a good chunk of her first voice drama crying and states she wants her parents.

Futa: Lashes out first to try to dissuade others and give himself a feeling of control over the situation, complain in nauseum, picky eater but critiques others eating habits.

Shidou: Picky eater but discusses the eating habits of others, poor communicator, uncompromising likely to keep trying the same method without changing it- This ties into why he asked to be guilty and his desire to have someone else put an end to him. Unlikely to change his pattern of behavior even if it's shown to be unbeneficial to himself and those around him. As shown through his crime. Stubbornly asserts he knows best anyway even when faced with someone who has seniority.

Such as Kazui. Shown on Amane's birthday after the attacks where he doubles down stating he knows he has other priorities. Kazui even verbalizes that Shidou is pouting when he tells him not to look at him like that.

22/06/27 (Amane’s Birthday)

Kazui: What’s up, Shidou-kun? You’re looking pretty down. I guess you must be tired, I’ve been relying on you a lot lately.

Shidou: Yeah, I just remembered…… today is Amane’s birthday. I’m just getting a bit sentimental.

Kazui: Hmm, it’s unfortunate, but at the moment we can’t worry about that. ……you understand, right? There’s something that you need to do right now. And if you tried talking to her your words definitely won’t reach her. Don’t look at me like that. We’ll just wait until the situation changes. Let’s do our best.

Shidou: Yeah. I’ll do what I can. I can’t have a child making a face like that. Even though we’re “murderers”…… we’re also the adults here.

In stark contrast to Yuno's response to Mu's birthday where Yuno properly prioritizes the dire state the prison is in over celebrating and asks Mu to do the same.

22/07/05 (Mu’s Birthday)

Mu: Hey~~~ Isn’t everyone a bit gloomy lately? I get that this situation isn’t ideal, but you’re really bringing down the mood for my birthday.

Yuno: Haha, surely even you can tell now’s not really the time for something like that right. Nobody’s really in the mood, or rather nobody has time time to deal with something like that.

Mu: Boo, how boring. You seem to be free, you can celebrate for me. Go on, celebrate.

Yuno: Wow, what a pain. I’m reading the atmosphere properly and keeping quiet. Well, you just go and have fun with Haruka. In the corner somewhere so you’re out of everyone’s way.

Yet Shidou despite Kazui's explanation still emphasizes how they as adults shouldn't be letting this situation cause a child to make such an expression, or be unhappy.

Mikoto: Using childish language, whines/throws tantrums when met with opposition or when not given the treatment he believes he deserves, shifts blame/accountability onto other parties, inclined to woe is me behavior even when there are others going through the exact same situation as him.

I won’t forgive you if this is happening to me even though I’m right./ Come to know me as an honest man, eat your words, gulp them down.

Oh also is noted in the text to tantrum by lashing out violently and breaking things when situations don't go his way.

Mikoto : AAAHHHHHHHHHH!! DESTROY EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING!!

Mikoto: [scream] You’re all fucking annoying! I’ll beat you all to death, pieces of shit!!!

It's through all these ways that the Milgram cast supports Amane's initial answer of there being children who act like adults and adults who act like children.

Such is the case with Yuno in comparison to her senior Shidou when it came to prioritizing the severity of the situation they were in over a birthday.

This mindset of Shidou's ends up greatly impacting how he engages with Amane.

At a glance it can appear that he is only projecting how he treated his own family and the children within it onto Amane. Yet it may not only be that. Shidou may in fact be projecting how he wished to be treated as a child on Amane as he may have done with his own children. As this is something that people can end up doing to their kids once having them. Trying to vicariously live out the childhood they didn't have through their kids.

Simply put, he may just really like pancakes, and none of his kids ever really did. I mean, they aren't making pancakes when the wife's there. I'm just saying.

In a lot of ways Shidou could be considered an adult version of Amane.

As he projects on others how he would want to be treated in contrast to how he did get treated. Something that Amane does a great deal as well.

This is something we see her do in her first voice drama when it comes to her reaction to Es' tardiness. Along with the way she attempts dictate her religious beliefs now that she is free of her parents input.

"Okay! I'm kind, so I shall forgive you. That's nice, isn't it? If my parents were in my place, you would have been lectured for another hour."

Amane's stated desires during trial two contrast with the implication of how she was taught in Magic and Purge March. As she was shown very little lenience or acceptance yet says she wants to alleviate the pain and confusion the guilty prisoners were facing.

Her definition of love also conflicts with how her upbringing was portrayed in both of her music videos,

Q.09 What is love to you?

Kazui: Being able to be as you are, and having that accepted.

Amane: All-encompassing, eternal affection.

Though her answer still aligns with the sort of love she states she wanted in Magic. A forgiving love where her apologies were accepted and she was given space to grow/become better. A love where her capacity to develop was recognized along with the fact that growth came through trial and error.

"Will you laugh with me and forgive me? I promise! I can only become a better girl!" - "Even I can say "I'm sorry". Even I have hope I swear! I'm going to be a good girl now! That's it!"

This also plays into Es' assertion that Amane actually did want to be treated like a child in her second trial interrogation.

This web of responsibility all spirals back on the audience and Es. A lot of fans of Milgram have blamed a lot of their actions on the series, the way it progressed, how others talked about it. The blame shifting transcending the work to become and endless bout of finger pointing with no end. Despite from the beginning Milgram through Jackalope blatantly stating,

"Yeah. Milgram leaves how it’s administered up to you. Whether you wanna make it heaven or hell, that’s your call."

Milgram has and always will be what the fans make of it, whether the audience enjoys the series, learns anything from it, or continues engaging with it is fully up to that audience member alone. Just as the ways we engage with it are up to our personal discretion as well.

In this game the audience has the power to vote based on whatever biases they may hold. Yet, with choice comes culpability.

"You can even make a decision on whether you like them or not… just be careful of the consequences, that's not my responsibility."

It's okay to like or dislike but when it's time to reap the consequences who will really be ready to eat what they've grown?

Well, it's not like it's my responsibility to answer that. That's something only time can tell.

[flurrys-creativity]

Royal Quest

Pairing: Kim Yugyeom (GOT7) x GN!Reader; Genre: Royal AU, Shifter AU, Historical AU, Angst, Fluff; Rating: sfw, PG-13; Warnings: mentions of blood, an accident and bandages, mentions of human sacrifices and fights; Wordcount: 2.094

Summary: Yugyeom got gravely hurt on his quest to kill the ferocious dragon. To his fortune you found him and intended to nurse him back to health. Would he accept that though with you being the ferocious dragon?

A/N: This is part of a deal with @daemour and I finally managed to pull off my part of the deal again!!!!

Yugyeom winced in pain from his sudden movement upon hearing pebbles and boulders rolling further down the mountain. He didn’t know how long he laid there, heavily injured from his fall, but it seemed to be enough time for the first animals to approach.

He forced his eyes open, vision blurry and unfocused, yet he saw something colourful a few feet away from him. A stark contrast to the otherwise grey surrounding. 

With his last strength Yugyeom tried to raise his sword, ignoring the pain that shot through his body. The metal clattered against the stone as he was unable to move his arm at all. Yugyeom bit on his lower lip, refusing to show any weakness. 

As the seventh son of the kingdom, with no chance of ascending to the throne and constantly teased by his older brothers, he grew accustomed to swallowing his pain and hiding his true emotions. For the same reason he decided to leave the safety of the castle and made his way into the mountains in search of the dragon that supposedly terrorised the citizens of a nearby town.

The castle had received a lot of complaints, saying they couldn’t mine any further without the dragon attacking them. The kingdom relied on the riches hidden deep inside these mountains and no dragon should prevent the wellbeing of the kingdom.

Yugyeom’s hand trembled as he still tried raising his sword, showing whatever had appeared in front of him that he wasn’t the simple meal it imagined him to be.

A thought crossed his mind, the possibility of a human having found him. “Who are you?” His voice sounded off, way too deep and raspy for his own liking.

He didn’t get an answer and that colourful thing didn’t move either. Yugyeom sighed and dropped the tension from his arm, his whole body relaxing as much as it could with all the pain numbing it. The thought he started hallucinating either from blood loss or from being alone for so long made its way into Yugyeom’s mind.

Despite the blurry vision Yugyeom tried to keep looking at the splotch of colour. Though even that became too much of a burden and his eyes rolled upwards. 

Dark clouds chased each other far up in the sky, giving the illusion there was no distance between the grey mountains and the grey clouds, the only difference being one of them moved around. A raindrop hit Yugyeom’s face. ‘Great’, he thought and closed his eyes. Though it wouldn’t be much of a difference with the coldness of his skin.

~

The scent of blood made you crawl out of your hideout, following your nose towards the source. You desperately hoped it was only the remnants of a wild animal being killed by a mountain lion or eagle. Anything would be okay, as long as the humans didn’t start sacrificing their animals or worse their own kind again.

It had been centuries since that happened but the horror still haunted your dreams from time to time. You had gone deep into the mountains as a result, far away from the humans in hopes of never crossing them again until a few years ago, when you came home to a ransacked bedroom. Seeing it smashed like that, you had gone berserk.

In hindsight you might have overreacted at that time but your instincts had run wild on that night.

You stopped in your movements, seeing an injured person between debris on the ground. Blood oozed out of several wounds all across the body and the human appeared unconscious until your eyes snapped to the shaking hand, taking note of the sword that clattered against the stone. 

You stood a few feet away from the human, not moving an inch while you observed the situation. Even when a deep male voice spoke to you, you kept silent and waited. Waited until the human actually lost consciousness.

Once that happened you changed your form, your scaly body now towering over the small human being. You grabbed the body with one of your mighty claws, careful as to not hurting him any further. You shielded the body with your other claw after you pushed yourself into the air and glided on the back of the wind. 

When you reached your home, you placed the human on your bed, pulling fur and other soft things closer to his body before you turned into your human form again. You stared at him, contemplating why you brought him into your home.

You didn’t know much about humans but he looked like a fighter with the sword and the shiny plates covering most of his body. You definitely didn’t want any of that near him once he woke up again. It felt like walking on eggshells when you removed those plates, questioning why a human would wear something so uncomfortable. They didn’t bend and move along the body like your scales, you couldn’t imagine he had a lot of freedom moving around in that.

Only after you removed them came the whole severity of his wounds to light, making you swallow harshly. You didn’t want to know how much blood he already lost before you even found him. The possibility this human died in your care became threateningly high. You also didn’t want to imagine what kind of reaction other humans would have if they ever found out. For a moment you wondered whether he would be missed, meaning more humans would come to find him.

You shook your head, trying to get rid of your thoughts. There was only one solution: You had to nurse him back to health and then bring him far away from your home but near other humans so he could show everyone that he was in fact still alive and well.

~

The scent of a warm broth pulled Yugyeom from his slumber. He groaned as he stretched his limbs with closed eyes, wincing slightly from the lingering stinging sensation. 

His eyes opened together with his memories of dying in the rain. Yugyeom pushed himself up and looked around, unfamiliar with his surroundings. He blinked several times while he tried processing his own thoughts and what he saw.

His attention shifted from the cave like room to the bright colours that appeared in the corner of his vision. Blue, green, red, yellow - somehow you had matched every colour he knew in your outfit.

“You’re awake.” You carefully moved closer to him, offering him a wooden bowl with a clear, steaming liquid. “You must be hungry. I can bring you some other things to eat as well.”

Yugyeom hesitantly accepted the bowl with a nod, watching how you turned around and left through a narrow hall. He glanced down at the broth, tentatively sniffing it. It was then that he noticed the linen bandages wrapped around several parts of his body. 

“Don’t move too much”, you interrupted him as you brought steamed vegetables and meat in more bowls. “Your wounds just started closing a few days ago.”

“How long was I out?”

You pursed your lips in thought, placing the bowls next to him, and sat down on the ground. “A week? More or less, I think.” You shrugged with your shoulders. “I wasn’t outside that much.” You looked up at him, tilting your head with curiosity. “Are you warm again?”

Yugyeom stared at you with a confused expression, waiting for you to elaborate. 

“You were very cold when I found you. I had to warm you up a lot!” You kept a safe distance from him and observed his every movement, noticing how he appeared to be in distress.

“Warm me?” Yugyeom sputtered, feeling the heat creeping up his neck and tinting his ears a darker shade of red. His eyes darted around the area, making sure his thoughts were justified - and indeed there were barely any blankets around. He glanced back at your form, desperately trying to pull his mind out of the gutter.

“You look like you’re too warm now.”

Yugyeom choked on air and started coughing violently. He never met a person so straightforward. Even though he was only the seventh prince of the kingdom and got teased relentlessly by his older brothers, he still got treated like royalty by anyone else. Though he had to admit, he liked it.

His eyes landed back on your form, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Who are you?” Seeing how you tensed, Yugyeom let his gaze roam around the room one more time. “Also, where am I and where are my belongings?”

“The metal plates and pointy thing?”

Yugyeom nodded, dumbfounded.

“They’re outside. These things are dangerous and can hurt you,” you explained quietly, avoiding eye contact.

“They’re supposed to help me, so I can defeat the ferocious dragon!”

“Ferocious?” You scoffed, barely able to suppress the smoke rolling out of your nostrils. You quickly got up and walked away from the human. “Maybe if the dragon would be left alone, there would be no need for the attacks.”

“Maybe if my people could peacefully do their work up in the mountains, there would be no need to bother the dragon!” Yugyeom sat up completely, feeling irritated by your behaviour.

You turned back around, chest rising in anger. “If their work wouldn’t include invading my home, I wouldn’t have to defend myself!”

Yugyeom’s jaw dropped to the floor. “Your home?” He pushed himself from the bed and hurried over to you, grabbing your upper arm. “You’re the dragon?” His eyes wandered over your form, searching for the tail or horns or even some scales. “How? Aren’t you human?”

You scoffed and raised an eyebrow, even stepping closer to him until your chests touched. “Am I not looking ferocious enough? Am I too tiny, not beastly enough?” You had to tilt your head back so you could properly look at him. It irked you how he looked at you - not in fear or horror, no, he stared at you in wonder. For a split second you even played with the thought of simply shifting right in front of him.

“You’re messing with me.” Yugyeom let go of your arm and stepped back, running his hands through his hair. “Did my brothers set you up for this? They did, didn’t they?” He turned away, scoffing in disbelief, before he turned back around quickly. “How did you even find me? Did you follow me up here?”

You crossed your arms in front of your chest, rolling your eyes and barely holding in the scoff. You closed your eyes and rolled your head from one side of your shoulders to the other, feeling the tingling underneath your skin as you let parts of your body transform.

Yugyeom could feel his mouth drop open again and his eyes widened as two horns grew on your head and a line of scales appeared on your skin along your hairline. He gasped audibly the second you opened your eyes and to vertical slits stared right back at him. 

“I found you because of the stench of blood in what can be considered my front yard,” you hissed out. 

“Why did you help me?” Yugyeom stared at you in awe, his initial quest completely forgotten. “I don’t understand. You knew why I came to the mountains and you still helped me.”

“Because I’m not a monster unlike what your people love to call me.”

Yugyeom absentmindedly rubbed over the bandages on his upper body. “I can see that,” he mumbled, blinking several times as his thoughts raced through his head.

“So”- you walked over to your bed and sat down - “what are you going to do now, little human?” You got caught by surprise when he sat down next to you, hiding his face in his hands.

“I don’t know.” Yugyeom came into the mountains to slay the dragon that drove away the nearby villagers, but instead he got rescued and nurtured by said dragon. How could he possibly slay you now?

You shifted back into your human form completely. You sighed deeply before you got up and walked towards your kitchen. “Maybe we’ll find a solution that doesn’t involve bloodshed over some cookies and tea.”

“And some answers to my questions, please.” Yugyeom immediately followed you like a lost puppy, thanking you the second he got a cookie. “I think I’ll have some more time before anyone actually searches for me.”

“Because a quest to slay a dragon is quite time consuming,” you joked but nodded nonetheless. “Well, then let us have a heart to heart.” 

© all rights reserved

Taglist: @xavi-in-kpopland

[alezangona]

The Shadow of Khansar (Salaar Fic)

Part 4 - Mouthing Off

Part 3 | Part 5

Deva bars his teeth as the sunlight filters into the room, forcing him out of a restful slumber. It takes all of his effort to move, arms floundering across the surface to find some leverage to pull himself up. His lips form a small pout as his fingers come into contact with a firm yet fluffy plane and he works to force one eye open. Squinting against the bright light, he can make out the strong chest of a man, sprinkled with dark hairs and adorned by silver chokers. He immediately shuts his eye when the memories flood back into his brain.

Oh.

Deva takes a deep breath, not quite wanting to leave the cocoon of warmth that was extruding from Varadha’s body. A part of him wonders if he should pull away, leave before he wakes up and handle the business of preparing for the upcoming conflict. He can’t bring himself to care though, not when he wasn’t sure when he’d be invited back into the arms of his current company. So he chooses to huddle closer into Varadha’s body, fingers grazing across the planes of his chest and twirling the soft, dark hairs peppered across the warm skin.

“Awake already?” Varadha’s throaty hum breezes by his ears. Before Deva can react, Varadha’s arms wrap around him, pulling him in much closer than before. Deva’s face is drawn up against the hollow of Varadha’s neck, as his chin settles on top of Deva’s head. He catches a hint of the clean, smoky smell that radiates off of Varadha and relaxes against him, a calm settling through his mind as he lets the early morning ambiance envelop him once more.

“Meekenti babu, doralu. Yepudiki appudu podukuntaru, lestharu. Maa laanti mamulu manishulaki atlanti soukaryalu leve.” Deva huffs breezily, a smirk tugging at his lips. Varadha chuckles from above him, pulling back slightly, enough to catch his gaze. Deva finds his heart fluttering at the sight of Varadha in the morning with his hair ruffled beyond repair, tilakam having lost its shape, eyeliner smudged across dozy eyes, and septum piercing (dulled by the years) providing a stark contrast against the bright sparkle of his sleepy smile.

“Mouthing off so early in the morning? You’re lucky I’m as kind as I am. The other Doralu wouldn’t let you run your mouth so easily.” Varadha warns, trapping Deva’s chin between his fingers as he leans in closer.

“Oh? Then why should you let me off the hook?” Deva’s gaze flickers hungrily towards Varadha’s lips. “Don’t you think I deserve to be put in my place?”

Varadha stills for a moment, blinking in shock as the words register in his brain. Slowly, a predatory gleam forms in his eyes and his smile sharpens instantly. Not a moment later, Deva feels Varadha’s powerful thighs wrap around his waist before he flips them over in one fluid motion, hands wrapping around Deva’s wrist as he pulls them above his head. Deva’s body arches up toward Varadha, a curse slipping from between his teeth when he realizes just how close their lips are to brushing against each other in this position. Arousal stirs at his core, every part of him emboldened by the raw fervor evident in Varadha’s actions.

“You’re right. Running your mouth like that anywhere else can get you into a whole lot of trouble. It’s my job as your Dora to teach you how to behave.” Deva holds his breath in anticipation as Varadha grinds into him, deliberately, eyebrow cocking and chin tilting up in a show of power.

“If it’s my mouth that you want to control, there’s a faster way to go about doing so.” Deva bites his swollen lip, squirming under Varadha’s hold, and gazing up at him through hooded eyes. Varadha huffs in amusement at the comment, a flash of curiosity passing over his features before rearranging to the ravenous visage from earlier. He plunges down in a swift motion, drawing Deva into a deep kiss that steals the breath from his body.

And he doesn’t stop there, choosing to establish his dominance by taking what he wants from Deva, refusing to give him the chance to take back. Every time Deva tries to nip at his lips, he pulls away, moving down to explore the span of his body through taste alone. Every time Deva tries to lift his hips, looking for friction, he tightens his grip around his hips, halting any movement as he blows delicately across the sensitive surface of Deva’s skin. Soon Deva is groaning in frustration, begging for more and receiving none of the relief he craves.

“Please, please Varadha. I can’t do this, I’m sorry. Just please give me more.” Deva gasps into the crook of Varadha’s neck, voice hoarse from the onslaught of teasing. Varadha’s smile softens as he presses a gentle kiss onto the side of his temple.

“Anything for you, bangaram.” He kisses his way down Deva’s face. Lips brushing against his brows, eyelids, the highest points of his cheekbones, and finally settling on his swollen lips, softened from the relentless teasing. He releases Deva’s wrists from his grip, fingers making their way to thumb at the clean shaven beard, and settling himself so that their hips align. The unrestricted force of it is enough to draw a collective moan from their lips and they find themselves moving rapidly, working to undress each other as soon as possible, chasing the much needed release.

A sudden pounding at the door interrupts them and Varadha freezes immediately at the sound of his brother calling for him. Deva’s grip on him tightens instantly and he glowers in the direction of the door.

“What?” Varadha snaps, grimacing as he burrows his face into Deva’s chest, holding back an agitated sound that was looking to claw its way out of him.

“Anna, get ready and come down will you. Baba spent all of yesterday brainstorming a plan for our next steps, and he needs you down to okay it.”

“It’s nine in the morning Baachi, can’t this wait?” Varadha grits out.

“Nope. Not when the next steps consist of you meeting with military personnel so we can gather strength in numbers as soon as possible.” Then comes a thoughtful pause. “Though, with the way your Salaar has been fighting, we might not even need backup. Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him all morning.”

Varadha tightens his grip around Deva, feeling a headache coming on. “Go Baachi. I’ll be down in ten minutes and I’ll bring Deva along too.” Finally, they hear footsteps retreat and Varadha separates himself reluctantly from Deva’s hold. “How about we get back to this later? Because I don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

Deva’s deep laugh fills every corner of the room, lightening the mood in seconds. He slips out of bed, pulling on his shirt as a flirtatious smile makes its way onto his face.

“Maybe not anytime soon. With the way I’m wound up, I think I could single handedly take on all the armies without breaking a sweat.”

“Pichoda. Padha Mundhu.” Varadha pushes him towards the door. “And maybe you’re capable of pulling those feats, but the most anyone is going to get out of me today is the attitude of a grumpy old man.”

~*~

“Your plan is to gather members from Khansar’s army?” Varadha can’t control his incredulous reaction as he stares at Baba in disbelief, wondering if his age was finally catching up to him.

“Yes.” Baba confirms, voice infuriatingly level at 9:30 in the morning.

“The army that is loyal to my father?” Varadha’s face falls into his hands and he rubs his temples when the headache worsens. There’s a clink of a glass of tea being placed in front of him and he is just able to catch a glimpse of Chintu’s form before he disappears around the corner.

“The army that fears your father. You know as well as I do that there’s a difference.” Baba nods toward the glass of tea and Varadha takes a sip. The pounding in his head begins to subside.

“If it makes a difference at all, he’s not pulling this idea out of his ass.” Bilal straightens in his chair. “Mahit suggested it to him a few days ago. Apparently he and his colleagues aren’t fans of how your father runs things. It was motive enough for them to seek you out to strike a deal. Well that and Devaratha since credit where credit’s due. It took Baba all of yesterday to organize the logistics though.”

“So what, Khansar’s army is willing to turn against their Karta over a small dispute?”

“Not the entire army. Just a small number of them.” Baba’s eyes slip meaningfully behind Varadha, settling on the hulking form of Deva. “With Devaratha on our side, it’ll be just enough to defend ourselves against any further attacks.”

“Baba, I don’t-”

“Betta,” Baba’s tone sours noticeably. “I understand that you’re hesitant, but with the resources we have available, this is the most we can do to ensure our protection. You don’t have as much money as the other leaders, nor do you have the network for us to even consider bringing in external troops. What you do have, is a loyal friend who is putting his faith in you and the vision that you have for this nation. A friend who is willing to risk his own position and safety to help you gain access to the throne when the odds are stacked against you.

“So, what you can do now is get ready and make your way over to his place to further discuss his proposal. If you end up disagreeing with my judgment, then we’ll figure out another solution. But for now, as someone who is like your father, I’m asking you to go talk to Mahit and hear him out.”

“Fine,” Varadha stands up, turning to leave the room.

“Oh, Bilal.” Baba utters as he settles back into his chair, picking up his newspaper and burying his nose in it. Bilal’s eyes flicker to him in confusion before realization strikes.

“Dora,” Bilal coughs, catching his attention.

“Hmm?”

“Make sure to cover your…” Bilal gestures vaguely to his neck area. “Might not be in your best interest to visit a potential partner covered in, well.”

Varadha stumbles, turning back to face the group, suddenly aware of just how close to Deva he was standing. His palm flashes up to touch his neck and he takes a step away, preparing to defend himself just as Baachi pushes past him.

“Don’t you think you’re overthinking Bilal,” Baachi smirks, tossing an orange in his hand as he swaggers into the room. “After all, the potential partner is my brother’s ex. I’m sure he’s seen him in more compromising positions than this.”

“Baachi!” Baba warns, not looking up from his paper. “Regardless Varadha, it’s important to maintain a sense of decorum in professional settings.”

“I wasn’t going to-“ Varadha flushes when the three pairs of eyes flash up to him. “Whatever. Come on Deva, we have a meeting to prepare for.”

~*~

Quick note! Not the way when I’m imaging all these scenes, they’re happening in Telugu and it’s so hard to take that playfulness and translate it into English because it just doesn’t work right. So that’s been a fun little experiment in this writing project.

Leaving the translation of that bigger Telugu phrase down here though for anyone who needs it! I promise it sounds more sarcastic in my head than the translation makes it out to be.

“Meekenti babu, doralu. Yepudiki appudu podukuntaru, lestharu. Maa laanti mamulu manishulaki atlanti soukaryalu leve.” [“What’s it to you, you’re a dora after all. You can sleep whenever you want, wake up whenever you want. Us normal people don’t have access to such luxury.” ]

[whumpwillow]

Demon's Haven 12

💥Flashback chapter💥

this is lowkey highkey inspired by @seasaltandcopper 's "House Rules" so go check that out its got vampire whumpee getting whipped

but ye Envy backstory time

—  

masterlist

warnings: blood, torture, whipping, partial nudity, weird thoughts on purity and sin that isn't specifically mentioned as religion but pretty close

—

Envy hung from the chains, unrelenting in his pursuit of escape. He’d yet to find a way to free himself, and with the silver dampening his powers and his influence, it was more of a struggle than he cared to admit. It lined the outside of the wrist cuffs, inscribed with some kind of sigils Envy couldn’t make out. He was just glad it wasn’t on the inside of the metal, for if it touched his skin, it’d burn. He didn’t shudder at the idea. He definitely didn’t.

He knew he could find a way out if he tried hard enough. Sure, he had never heard of a demon surviving an attack by an angel, but this was not an attack. The angel wasn’t actively coming for his life. She’d probably like to think she could hurt him, but he would best her sooner or later. Envy was the most intelligent, if not the most powerful of his demon brothers, so this wouldn’t be a challenge for him.

Or so he hoped.

The angel stepped into the room holding a long, wiry object that trailed the stone floor and glinted in faint torchlight. Silver, of course. Envy rolled his eyes. Everything had to be made of silver. The angel caught him staring.

“It has to be pure,” the angel told him referencing the metal she knew he was eyeing. “I am going to make you pure,” she said.

Envy spat at the feet of the approaching creature. She stared at him, locking his eyes with hers in an intense battle of wills, a wicked thrall. It hurt to look upon the angel, her form radiating soft light. The divinity of the angels was for demons how staring directly into the sun was for humans.

But Envy still had his pride, so he tightened his jaw and refused to look away.

The angel came closer and raised the object she had in her hands, which Envy could now identify as a whip. His stomach leapt into his throat and he swallowed, forcing down the riotous fear that thrashed inside him. He would not give the angel the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Surely, surely she didn’t mean to actually use that on him, right? The silver he’d spotted lined the entire length of it, something that would poison and burn as it bit into his flesh and blood.

The black leather of the thing contrasted to the stark brightness of the silver. It made a tinny sound as it dragged across uneven stone. Panic ricocheted through his body, a cold spike of fear racing up and down his spine. He didn’t let any of it show on his face. The silence echoed in the dim chasm, lit only the angel’s glow and the crackling torchlight. Envy tightened his hands into fists.

He’d been shirtless and barefoot when he first woke up in the cell, so he was left with nothing but slacks, leaving left his back wide open for the angel. With his hands chained above his head, there was nothing he could do to protect himself.

She wouldn’t—

Envy’s breath hitched. The angel’s eyes stared at him, cold and unrelenting.

She absolutely would.

He struggled harder in his chains, the rattling increasingly loud in his ears. A discordant symphony with the frantic beating of his heart. He needed to free himself. He needed to escape now. He pulled on the chains, disregarding how they dug into his wrists—tugging, pulling, nearly wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets, and still he was no further than where he started.

Get me out of here!

The angel just stood and watched.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she said. “You must be good. You must behave.”

Envy sneered at her. His eyes burned with the fires of Hell, and that was not a metaphor—he’d seen them.

The angel moved behind Envy, trailing the whip along with her at a leisurely pace. Envy gulped, hating himself for it. A crack. A whoosh of air. Then pain. Blinding, white-hot pain that blurred the world for a few seconds, sending Envy stumbling. He was and he was not for that single moment. An empty shell that saw nothing but light and fury. He arched his back and sucked in a breath, managing not to make any more sound than a quiet hiss but already feeling dizzy and light-headed.

The angel struck again, creating another line of fire across Envy’s back. A thin strip of blood, but he felt it throughout his whole body, the pain lancing up his spine and straight through his abdomen. He caught himself unable to take in air for a moment. His ears were ringing and his stomach roiled. He tried to brace himself but for what, for what?

Another strike.

Envy jerked in his chains as he arched his back, trying to draw away from the source of pain but it was everywhere everywhere everywhere he was not meant for this he couldn’t handle it please stop please—

He drew a shallow breath to try and steady himself. It came out shaky. The angel struck again.

The whip carved a line from his shoulders down to hips. On top of the wounds, the silver dug into his skin with each lash, tainting his blood and burning it, sending signals of pain flooding through his veins.

Another stroke of the whip. Another. Another.

His whole body quivered. The tremors that wracked his body had the chains make an ever-present rattling sound to accompany the startlingly loud crack of the whip. Sweat beaded up on his forehead. Envy gritted his teeth; he wouldn’t scream. He would never. But he wanted to.

He couldn’t do this.

The lashes came faster and faster now and Envy felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He threw his head back, arcing with the force of the strokes. Suppressed groans fought to be free of his throat. Hitching, gasping breaths overlaid his gentle quivering.

All the while, the angel murmured to him that this was going to make him pure. That if he was good, this would all be over. He didn’t know how to be good. He did know that nothing he did would ever fulfill the angel’s vision of good—he was already damned the moment she realized what he was.

Despite the many lashes that now marred his back, or the shaking of his body and the weakness of his legs, or the fact that he knew these chains were the only reason he was still upright and not on the floor, he would not submit.

“You will burn,” he snarled at the angel, who responded to this not with words but action.

Envy didn’t know how long it lasted. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He almost forgot his own name, everything had been blurred out with pain. There was nothing else. He had no beginning and no end and was merely an amorphous cloud of thoughts and nerve endings.

Shattered.

He was a vase that had been knocked from a shelf and broke into a million pieces as it hit the floor; he was a mirror punched in a fit of rage that sliced open bruised knuckles. He would know—he’d done both of those things.

He gulped down air greedily into his lungs but there was never enough. Never enough comprised his entire life, his whole meaningless existence, but only this moment was what truly defined him. Only this pain, and beyond that, he knew of nothing else.

He hardly registered the damage done to his wrists. He’d pulled them so fiercely and thrashed so violently that the thick manacles had scratched the skin raw. Blood seeped from patchy wounds to fall prey to gravity that led each drop in rivulets down his arms.

His back was tatters and scraps by now. The blood flowed freely and the silver poisoned him, burned him, purified him. He was broken and made new only to be broken again and he screamed. He tried not to. He held in the sound at first, gritting his teeth and setting his jaw. He thought it might break with the force of his stupid, prideful restraint. He clenched his hands into fists, the nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms, but that pain was miniscule compared to the lashes he received on his back that he’d since lost count of.

It had started with a low hissing sound, a whisper of air that escaped through clenched teeth. Then a gasp, drawn in before he stop it. Grunts of pain clipped short, getting harder to do with each stroke of the whip, each bite of the silver that reminded him of his impurity and sin.

He didn’t want to give the angel the satisfaction. But he was not meant for this. He’d never been hurt like this before. He simply wasn’t strong enough to stand it.

So, he screamed. He screamed until his throat was sore and raw and ragged, his voice petering out into a dry hacking cough that sent jolts of pain through his fresh injuries with the movement.

And still, the angel continued.

—

next

(taglist in reblogs)

[abirddogmoment]

some thoughts about the pressures of trialing in dog sports and the emotional environment of trials, partially inspired by this post by the beautiful @mongrelization

this post happened to come at a time when I was at a decision point in my trial career with mav. he had just started refusing jumps (i thought it was a training issue at the time, i now know he was in pain) and he wasn't having fun. we were disconnected in the ring, with him choosing to go visit friends or just blow past obstacles without attempting them. it was frustrating and it was such a stark contrast from our training runs (not flawless but immeasurably better than our performances in the ring) and i was making jokes (as everyone does!) about mav being the worst, etc, etc.

except they weren't jokes.

they sounded like jokes and they even felt like jokes in the moment, but looking back i can confidently see that i was frustrated and resentful and the "lighthearted jokes" from other competitors and from myself were just fueling the fire. i saw darcies post shortly after a particularly frustrating trial where we just couldn't connect, i was trying to decide whether to push through and fix our issues or give up completely on agility.

her post wasn't an epiphany, i probably would've gotten there eventually, but her post that said, essentially hey its fucked up to make those jokes about your dog and its fucked up for people to make those jokes about your dog and thats not how a trial should be - something clicked. its NOT how it should be.

i took a break from trialing in everything and cut training way back and just took all the pressure off of mav while i got my internal emotional environment back on track. im a really competitive person and its hard to consciously dial that back, but more than that, it's legitimately embarrassing when things go wrong with people watching you. if your default is humor about it (like mine), its a hard shift to not make jokes about your dog when things go wrong. but its an important and necessary shift.

i started trialing him again after about 3 months off, very lightly. i stopped entering full weekends and opted to do half-days or only saturdays and he fucking THRIVED. i made time to meet all his needs before trials, i prioritized his happiness over technically correct courses, and i got over the embarrassment of excusing myself from a run if it was going downhill. i fixed my internal emotional environment and that fixed our disconnect and made every win more meaningful.

the thing is, i am 100% sure i would not have fixed my emotional environment if i was actively competing and practicing the same patterns. i absolutely had to take that step back to fix myself. you can't make meaningful change if youre still in the middle of it acting it out.

i lost out on trials with mav and that sucked so much in the moment. i had awful FOMO watching my friends compete and finish titles while we did little low-pressure walks at home. but ultimately i gained something so much more important, and looking back i can't bring myself to regret that at all.

[kokorobosoi-kitsune]

i've fallen into the ALST pit :)))

this is just a start to my lil self-indulgent fic. its a WIP and idk how i feel abt it yet, but enjoy my pain :))) (low-key a "fix-it" but super angsty still fic)

...and yes i've had CURE on blast while writing this

--- Round 1: We lost Sua

Round 2 & 3: We lost {UNNAMED}

Round 4: {REDACTED}

Round 5: {RE-} We {DAC-} lost {TED} Mizi? 

Round 6: We… lost… Ivan?

The rain pattered endlessly on the ground, causing the blood to thin and spread. The lights clicked off and the two on stage were plunged into darkness. Till was frozen on the spot, staring at the white body lying motionlessly on the ground.

Before he knew it, he’d fallen to his knees, ripping at his hair with his hands. What was that noise? It almost sounded like… oh. He was screaming. The strangled scream he was hearing reverberate in the empty room was his own. Nothing felt real in this moment.

His hands moved to shake the body in front of him, but his trembling hands could still feel the warmth of his body. His bright white outfit was a stark contrast to the red blood slowly merging into rivulet streams.

His vision flickered as his hands found purchase on the ground next to him, barely holding himself up. Choked sobs were building up in his throat, and he knew no one cared. The last person who cared about him was on the ground in front of him, riddled with bullets.

He was so ready to die in that moment, that he didn’t even register the bullets ringing out. Didn’t even question who they were shooting. Lifting his now bloodstained hands, he dragged his fingers across his neck, realizing that the hands that were wrapped around it mere moments ago would never move again.

His thoughts mindlessly drifted to the show. His performance was emotional, but he wasn’t giving it his all. With Mizi.. missing.. he didn’t care anymore. There was no one left that meant anything to him. He didn’t even think about Ivan.

Ivan.

The one who was somehow always there, always tormenting him, always.. helping him. He couldn’t fathom what Ivan’s deal was, and even now he wasn’t sure what was real or not. He felt bile rising in his throat, but he refused to yield.

There was no way right? He tried to convince himself as more blood seeped out from the wounds on his rival’s body. Without any time to catch his breath, he suddenly heard the stomping of boots. It was security.

He didn’t move from his spot as they surrounded them, guns out and facing them. Seeing that Till wasn’t making any sudden moves, they all quickly dragged him away from Ivan, hoisting his lifeless body over their shoulder.

For the first time in a long time, Till felt rage. His entire body felt like it was on fire as he opened his eyes wide, screaming at the guards. “Don’t you… Don’t you touch him!” His words were scratchy, his voice hoarse. He wasn’t sure just how long he’d been sitting there when they intervened.

Till scrambled to his feet, ready to lunge at the officer who dared to manhandle Ivan like that. He wouldn’t let it happen, not again. He watched Mizi be dragged off without a second thought, unable to help her. He wouldn’t let them take Ivan from him.

But before he had a chance to lunge, he felt a blunt object hit the back of his head with force. His vision blacked, and he fell forward. Before he lost consciousness he couldn’t be sure, but did he see Ivan’s finger twitch?

[cfs-melkire]

Extra Credit 1: Kick

The night air was cool, a stark contrast to earlier in the day. His every step kicked up sand and dust, and why shouldn't it? Pursued by footpads, chased through an unfamiliar city, its winding streets and narrow alleys unlike anything he had ever known… Hakan ran with everything he had, lest they take from him everything he possessed, even his very life. Every lope of his gait kicked up more sand, more dirt.

They'd accosted him earlier that evening. He'd recognized their sounds and their scents: they'd been tailing him since his arrival. In hindsight, he understood that he should not have passed into the city with the sun still high in the sky. He was different. He was an oddity: not merely a stranger but one of a kindred rarely heard of, let alone seen. This had marked him, for this place was no different from Camoa in the most important way. There were predators and there were prey. These were the former, and they'd mistaken him for the latter. He had been outnumbered.

That was then. This was now. He reached up for his quiver, and found there the feathered shaft of his last remaining arrow. Not good. He'd bled them for every fifty or so yalms, and as his quiver had been spent, so too had been their manpower. His odds were better now… but they were still bad. One arrow left, and then his hunting knife. How many footpads still? He wasn't sure. There had been only four, at first… but that number had grown. Each shrill whistle from a thief drew in more thieves, and it had dawned upon him that this was something not unlike the perimeter back home: a band, protecting their territory. To them, he was an intruder, and his refusal to submit or comply had marked him for death.

He leaned to the right as he ran, one hand slapping against the bark of one of those strange trees which grew here as they did not in the desert which surrounded this place. An oasis, he thought, having learned the word just before sundown, but he thought no more of it. That hand arrested his fall and he took the turn into the alley at greater speed than he otherwise would have. His ears swiveled backwards to listen for his would-be killers. He righted his bow with the other hand, his left hand, and with the right he drew his last arrow. 

The alley ended at a wall of limestone, and he knew that he was done running.

Someone shouted a warning in an unfamiliar tongue, someone young and rough and savage with anticipation. He nocked the arrow, drew as he turned, aimed, and let loose, let fly. His skill had not abandoned him; he had hardly needed a second, and the shaft found its mark, buried itself deep in the diaphragm of one of the two cutthroats he'd heard enter the alley behind him. That man grunted, doubled over in pain, fell to his knees as he clutched at the wound, and then fell over onto his side. His companion cried out in anger and dismay; that man charged, curved sword drawn, and slashed at the Viera. That overhead blow was great and terrible, driven as it was by the man's fury; Hakan underestimated it, and his feeble attempt to deflect the blade off to the side saw his bow cloven in twain. That same cut drew a line of blood down the Rava's chest, parted the fabric and leather as though they were a bad jest.

There was little else to be done; given enough time, the footpad would run him through with the next slash of his sword. Hakan didn't give him the time. His only regret as he stepped forward and clotheslined his assailant with an outstretched arm across the neck was that he had neither the size nor the bulk of knotted muscle that the women of his village did. No, not the only regret. Djt-Setlas had been possessed of the same strength as the women. But he was not and had never been Djt-Setlas; he was not even Djt-Dvre, not any longer. Hakan Djt-Dvre had ceased to be, had gone into exile forever.

And would soon cease to be, completely and utterly, if he did not focus. They were on the ground, the both of them, wrestling; the sword had fallen from the Dalmascan's grip and was out of reach. Hakan rolled, the footpad's right arm clutched in both his own; he wrapped both legs around that arm too, arched his back to keep the man pinned while his right hand reached for the knife sheathed behind his back. But the other man was quick and strong; he drew his own knife first with his left hand and, bucking once to dislodge the Viera for a moment; swept his left arm over.

Hakan cried out; this time, the cut was deeper and across the back of his left arm. He felt himself lifted and then dashed to the earth against his back. His knife flew from his grasp, dropped onto the sand. He reached up and caught the downward thrust of the Dalmascan's knife by the man's wrist; the footpad added the strength and weight of his other arm behind the first, leaned into it, and Hakan watched as the blade slowly approached his face, angled for a moment towards his throat.

The Rava balled up into fetal position instinctually, resting on his back for a moment, and then he kicked.

His foot struck the Dalmascan in the stomach: the other man chuffed, the exhalation sudden and violent. Hakan kicked him again. He kicked again and again. He kicked him over and over, and he did not merely kick him after that first time; at the end of each kick, he pushed out his foot to full extension, curled his toes, and dragged the leg down and back, raking the man's lower torso with the clawed talons of the Viera's sollerets.

Things broke. Clothes were torn. Skin, flesh, and muscle, too. The reek of offal struck the Rava like a sledgehammer, but he did not relent, not even when the squelch of guts and intestines struck his ears. At last, he kicked and the Dalmascan was thrown off him, thrown off to fall down onto the sands where the man did not move again.

The last thing Hakan heard before he passed out was the sound of someone's weight landing far too lightly in the alley where the little lane ended. A child? Or perhaps one of their women, so small in stature–

Battle fever fled, pain took hold, and the darkness embraced him.