#but he has to deal with a new and entirely unexpected fear

[theetherealbloom]

BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM

Chapter One: I Know He's Crazy, But He's The One I Want

Summary: After harboring a crush on your dad's charming best friend, Joel Miller, you graduate college only to be confused by something he supposedly said to you, but then he and his daughter Sarah, reluctantly move away due to his work. Six months later, Joel returns to town, and you're desperate to confirm if his words were real. Both you and your dad eagerly await his arrival but for entirely different reasons. As feelings intensify, you realize that falling for him might not be temporary after all.

Paring: Dbf!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, AGE-GAP Romance, Reader is Early twenties and Joel is in his late 30s to early 40s, Secret Romance, Sneaking around, FLUFF, SMUT, SMUT, SMUT, Heavy Make Out Session, Kissing, Barely any plot, Relationship, Swearing, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Flattery, Awkward, Virgin reader, inexperienced reader, slightly Self Deprecating, Suggestive Content,

Word Count: 7.2k

A/N: Happy “The Tortured Poets Department” release! I couldn’t help but shriek with joy when I heard But Daddy I Love Him. Literally, dad best friend Joel Miller coded. I would like to thank @wheresarizona for dealing with my spam in her messages from me as I was yapping about the new album and gushing over her writing; she’s literally one of the best writers ever. That is a fact and I will die on that hill.

This fic is heavily inspired by all of the dad's best friend books and dbf!Joel Miller fics I have read over the years. It is with great honor (and a lot of fucking fear) to present to you this Frankenstein of all of my fav tropes!

Heads up, I’m actually dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: But Daddy I Love Him by Taylor Swift

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As you walk past the neighboring house, you observe the real estate agent meticulously placing the 'SOLD' banner onto the weathered for sale sign. A strange sense of satisfaction washes over you, knowing that someone has finally purchased the property.

Entering your home, you release a sigh of relief as the familiar comfort washes over you. With a casual toss, your keys and bag find their place on the hallway table. The urge to call out to your dad bubbles up, but it freezes in your throat when you're met with an unexpected sound drifting from his home office.

Your heart quickens as you peek inside, only to find your dad's best friend, Joel Miller, lounging on the plush brown lazy boy. His deep, resonant voice fills the room, sending shivers down your spine even before you lay eyes on him.

Clutching the doorframe for support, you fight to steady your nerves. With trembling fingers, you manage to force a smile onto your lips, though it feels strained. "Hey, Dad. Hey… Joel," you manage to squeak, the mere sound of his name stirring a flurry of emotions within you.

The room feels stiflingly quiet as you wait for a response, the weight of Joel's gaze almost tangible. You swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as his intense eyes meet yours. His attention feels almost palpable, his gaze lingering on you in a way that sends a rush of warmth through your body. With a low, almost imperceptible grunt of acknowledgment, Joel's gaze finally breaks away, leaving you breathless in his wake.

You try to avert your gaze out of sheer habit, but it's futile, like trying not to be drawn to the most captivating, exquisite sight in existence.

God, it's as if he's been carved from pure perfection, each time you lay eyes on him.

That same intense, brooding look he wore the day of your college graduation, late last year, still grips you. And it seems Joel's gaze has the same effect on your dad, eliciting a familiar reaction. With a quick double-take, your dad shoots a glance at his best friend before swiveling in his seat.

"Hey there, sweetheart, just catching up with Joel. He dropped by for a surprise visit," your dad starts, but he halts mid-sentence, noticing your undeniable reaction. Concern etches his features as he addresses you. "Honey?" he prompts, his voice laced with worry, as you struggle to find your voice for the umpteenth time in mere seconds.

Joel's gaze narrows, his jaw clenching as his intense scrutiny roams over you, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

As you cling to the doorframe, you can't help but notice the subtle movement of Joel's prominent Adam's apple, betraying his own unease.

Breaking the tension, your dad's nervous chuckle pierces the silence, attributing my apparent moodiness to your usual banter. He turns back to Joel, commenting on his friend's expression.

"What's going on with you two?" he quips, his tone shifting from light-hearted to serious in an instant. "Feels like there's some dirty secret between you," your dad adds, the jest evaporating from his voice. Yet, Joel remains unfazed by your dad's observation, his gaze still locked onto you as a faint smile curves his lips.

His lips curl into a smirk, accentuating the charming dimple that appears in his slightly scruffy beard whenever he smiles—a sight that never fails to tug at your heartstrings.

But as your dad's suspicion lingers in the air, Joel's demeanor shifts, yet you still struggle to connect the dots regarding why he's been giving you that look since graduation.

That day was meant to mark a pivotal moment in your life, celebrating the culmination of years of hard work in college. Yet, Joel's presence, the way he gazed at you, and the unexpected intensity of his hug during the congratulations... It's forever etched in your memory for reasons beyond the academic achievement.

And at the center of it all is one word: Joel.

He's a towering figure, a mix of solid muscle and the comforting softness of his belly. In the moment, you brushed off his tight embrace after receiving your diploma as merely the enthusiasm of the occasion.

But as you felt his whole body pressing right into yours during that hug, you knew it wasn’t your regular type of embrace.

“I’m so proud of you, darlin’,” he whispered in your ear. And though you didn’t catch his next words as clearly, you're certain he said something else that day. “…You feel so fuckin’ good….”

At least, that's what you've been convincing yourself he said. You recall gazing up into those big brown eyes, the same intense look he's giving you now, and wondering the same thing. How could an older, dangerously attractive man like Joel be even remotely interested in someone like you? Apart from being your dad’s best friend, he's more than twice your age and lives on the other side of the country with his daughter, Sarah.

You can almost picture the scandalized gasps of the single older women and ex-wives in your town, clutching their pearls and whispering, "What a mess," if you and Joel ever got together; if he was even remotely interested in you like that.

But you've replayed that scene in your mind every day since, and no matter how hard you try, there's just no denying your secret crush on him.

It all started long before college, your feelings for Joel simmering beneath the surface. Back then, you couldn't quite grasp what it was you felt for him. All you knew was that it felt right, and that feeling remains unchanged. Despite the nerves and shyness that being around him brings, there's another undeniable effect he has on you.

Like the overwhelming desire to sink back and beg him to indulge in things that his best friend's daughter probably shouldn't be fantasizing about. It's been a while since you last saw Joel, but he still exudes the same charm and looks even more handsome and fit than before, thanks to his job in construction as a contractor.

And when you receive that same look from him today, when your dad even jokes about his suspicions, you know Joel remembers that day too. The intensity in his eyes mirrors the moment he pulled you close, a memory etched as your most cherished moment so far.

"Well, I reckon’ my presence here might come as a bit of a surprise," Joel rasps, his gaze locked with yours as he emits a low chuckle for your dad's benefit. Unnoticed by your dad, Joel shoots you a sly wink, and you watch as your dad's tension melts away. He's relieved to know he wasn't imagining things, and undoubtedly thrilled once he hears Joel's news. "I'm moving here, right next door with Sarah. Tommy should be dropping her off here tomorrow," he announces with enthusiasm, but you feel the pit of your stomach drop.

Joel... here? For good? Oh, fuck.

Your dad erupts into loud whoops, raising both hands in the air. "It's about time, buddy! I knew you were keeping something from me," he adds, turning to you once again. "You were aware of this?" he asks, furrowing his brow with a hint of confusion. 

"You knew Joel and Sarah were coming to town, didn’t you?" Dad repeats, finally grinning like a child at the news. Smiling like a dad who's pushed aside any notion of his best friend showing interest in his only daughter. And you catch a sly grin on Joel’s face as he comes to your rescue. "Oh, I mentioned I might pay a visit. Buttercup here wasn't aware of the specifics or that Sarah and I would be relocatin’ back here," he explains to your dad.

But when Joel smoothly fibs to your dad, insinuating that you were aware of his impending move back to town, even though it caught you completely off guard, he seals an instant and secret pact between the two of you with a single glance. His deep brown eyes wink at you, sending a thrilling shiver down your spine. You realize you're in deeper trouble than you initially thought. And strangely enough, it's the kind of trouble you welcome with open arms.

In that fleeting moment, a silent understanding passes between you and Joel. With just a wink from him, your chest flutters with excitement, and a wave of anticipation rushes through you, leaving you feeling unexpectedly aroused at the prospect of having him nearby all the time. You're fully committed now, Joel's lie to his best friend serving as a shield for both of you, deflecting attention away from the undeniable tension between you.

"Sarah called last week," you fabricate, deciding to play along with Joel's deception. "As we were chatting, Joel mentioned something about visiting. It must've slipped my mind to mention it to you," you explain to your dad, hoping he'll buy into the white lie. Joel's low growl of contentment as he leans back, causing the leather chair to creak, reassures you that he approves of your little ruse.

Your dad's elation at the news of his best friend's return to their quaint little town is palpable, enough to overshadow any scolding he might have had for your omission about Sarah and Joel's supposed call.

But the truth remains: Sarah never called, and Joel's mysterious behavior is raising more questions than answers.

A surprise visit is one thing, but the intensity of Joel's gaze? The way he makes you feel? It's enough to give your long-standing crush on him a serious run for its money.

"But damn, Sarah will be here tomorrow?" your dad groans before chuckling. "A bit more notice would've been nice, but hell, it'll be good to see you, buddy."

"Listen, I've got something I can't postpone tomorrow. Maybe my daughter here could accompany you to pick up Sarah from the airport?" your dad suggests, turning his attention towards you.

Somewhere behind you, a strange sound escapes—it's you, emitting a sort of mewling noise that you know Joel catches, his smile widening in response.

"Sounds perfect," he agrees before you even have a chance to process it.

"Sweetie?" your dad asks, his tone sheepish now that he's volunteered you without asking if you were available.

You can only watch as the room seems to spin around you, nodding in agreement. "Yeah... sure, I don't have any tutoring sessions tomorrow."

"Perfect!" your dad sighs with relief, promising Joel they'll catch up later. "But I really need to get back to the shop. Are you alright here with her to help you settle into your new house with whatever you brought? The rest of your stuff hasn't arrived yet."

"Yeah, we'll be just fine," Joel assures in his trademark baritone, locking eyes with you.

You were so fixated on Joel's presence that you hadn't noticed the bags by the side of the home office.

"Sweetie? You sure you're okay to help? You look kind of..." your dad starts, but you take a deep breath, trying to compose yourself before replying, "Yeah, I'll be fine. We'll be fine. I can help."

"Alright then," your dad grabs his car keys, ready to leave the home office. He gives you both a final glance, kissing the top of your head. "I'll be back for dinner. Have fun, you two!"

You and Joel remain frozen in place, him on one side of the room and you by the doorway, both listening to your dad's fading footsteps and the rumble of his truck as he drives away.

You’re so fucked.

It's been six long months since you last saw each other, and for Joel, it's felt like an eternity. The day of your graduation marked the first time he laid eyes on you in over three years, and it was as if he was seeing you for the very first time.

You've grown into a remarkable adult, and Joel couldn't help but feel the overwhelming need to be there, not only for his buddy, your dad, but also for his sweet Buttercup. Witnessing his little girl all grown up and ready to embark on her journey into the world with her diploma was a moment he'll never forget. He'd never seen his best friend prouder, yet his gaze lingered on you for entirely different reasons.

Reasons and desires that had never crossed Joel's mind until that day. He couldn't resist pulling you close, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against his.

What was he thinking? Surely, everyone could see the effect you had on him.

But Joel wasn't thinking, he was acting on instinct. He was claiming what he knew belonged to him. Telling you he was proud of you was one thing, but he's still unsure if you heard what else he said about how good you felt in his arms.

Yet, he doesn't regret it. Because it was true then, and it remains true now. He just wishes he knew if you felt the same way. If you felt it in the same way he did. But how could you possibly feel the same way about him as he has about you these past six months?

Joel couldn't deny that there were many reasons why the relationship between you was complicated. For one, there was the age difference - you were more than half his age. Apart from having the kind of body he could grip, suck and fuck for a lifetime, additionally, you were his best friend's daughter, a bond that ran deep and could not be ignored.

That day, Joel took a risk, blurring the lines and potentially jeopardizing not just his friendship with your dad, but also the bond he shared with you by being so affectionate.

Surprisingly, you didn't seem to mind his gestures, and Joel was convinced that your dad hadn't even noticed. Despite the undeniable attraction he felt towards you, a feeling that lingered and intensified with every thought of you, Joel couldn't shake the worry that his actions might have caused a rift.

As days turned into weeks without any word from your dad, Joel's mind raced with doubts. He couldn't help but question if you had confided in your father about his behavior. Perhaps your dad had sensed Joel's infatuation with you, leading to a silence that spoke volumes.

Intrusive thoughts plagued Joel, wondering if you had been uncomfortable with his displays of affection. The fear that you might have someone else in your life to hold onto gnawed at him, leaving him restless and anxious about the potential consequences of his actions.

Joel and your dad used to share conversations daily, a bond that time and life's demands have gradually weakened, particularly with Sarah still navigating middle school. They both acknowledge the need to reconnect more often, yet something always seems to intervene.

But Joel's decision to visit your father in person wasn't impulsive; it was a deliberate choice, driven by a desire to stay for good this time.

No more fleeting visits. This time, it's permanent.

And it's all because of you.

Since your graduation day, you've occupied Joel's thoughts relentlessly. It's more than just an obsession; you're the sole focus of his mind, consuming his every waking moment.

You are the only thing he can fucking think about.

Joel would never dare voice his thoughts to your dad, not just because of his feelings, but also because your father had a history of using his fists to settle matters. If he even suspected a fraction of what Joel's mind was consumed with regarding his daughter... Well, Joel would never be allowed in your home, with your dad likely ensuring Joel carried a permanent reminder of his displeasure.

Despite his reluctance to keep secrets from his lifelong friend, Joel's motivation to act stems from a burning need that is beyond his mere desire to reunite with you.

He doesn't just want to see you again; he craves it with a fervor that borders on desperation. And the only way to satisfy this yearning is to summon the courage to ask for more.

Reconnecting with your dad was pleasant, but the sight of you, standing in the doorway of the home office, unleashes a torrent of emotions within Joel. It's as though he's been trapped in a deep freeze for the past six months, and your mere presence ignites a firestorm within him.

Every curve of your silhouette, every strand of hair framing your face, fuels Joel's desire until it simmers beyond control, all for you.

As you watched him, his gaze never wavered from your presence, taking in the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. He was grateful for the chair that supported him, as he felt the insanely hard erection you gave him.

Your natural grace and beauty had left him breathless, and he struggled to maintain his composure.

All from just being yourself. All without you even trying to do anything. 

You really are just fucking perfect in every way.

You're now an adult, poised to embrace all the challenges and pleasures that adulthood entails. The mere thought sends a shiver of anticipation coursing through you once more, evoking memories of his touch on that unforgettable graduation day.

The intoxicating blend of his woodsy cologne, the creak of his well-worn leather jacket, and the soft fabric of his grey tee shirt against your skin linger in your mind, igniting a longing for more.

The sensation that floods Joel as he lays eyes on you in person after so long defies description.

It takes all his willpower to resist the impulse to stride over and scoop you up, succumbing to the overwhelming desire to claim you as his own and to drag you into your bedroom. But he restrains himself, clinging to the last shreds of his resolve, waiting for any sign from you that you're ready for his embrace.

When your gaze meets his, he witnesses the hitch in your breath, and he can't help but murmur, "Come here, sweetheart." Your response is like a magnetic pull, drawing you into his strong, steadfast arms. As you melt into his embrace, he's struck by the sense of finally being home. You are his home now.

Joel inhales the sweet fragrance of your hair, longing to whisper countless sentiments into your perfect little ear nestled so close to his mouth.

But all he can muster, without risking scaring you away, is a simple declaration in his southern drawl, "I missed you, my little buttercup."

You bury your face into his checkered flannel, your words muffled against his shirt as you confess, "I missed you too, Joel."

Your body instinctively gravitates towards his, fueled by both necessity and reflex. The memory of his last embrace has haunted your thoughts for the past six months, and as his massive, comforting arms envelop you once more, it feels as though you're picking up right where you left off. He feels even better than you remembered, and the mingling scents of his cologne and freshly laundered clothes stir a desire within you to cling to him forever.

Reluctantly, he releases you from the hug, clearing his throat as you take a small step back, managing to squeak out, “Do you want a cup of coffee before you get settled in your new house? You look kinda tired.”

“Sure,” Joel nods, and you sense him hovering behind you as you descend the staircase and enter the kitchen. You can feel his eyes tracing your movements from behind.

You busy yourself preparing the coffee as Joel sets his things down, knowing it'll provide the perfect opportunity to sit down and have a proper conversation.

As Joel takes a seat at the table, his gaze remains fixed on your curves as you move around the kitchen. In that moment, he realizes there's no way he can stay in this house for more than an hour, without confessing his feelings to you.

“You got a boyfriend?”

The sudden question nearly causes you to spill hot water all over your hand, and you freeze, feeling a slight tremble coursing through you.

“Well?” Joel's deep voice sends shivers down your spine, as if you're caught in the midst of the most exhilarating earthquake imaginable. Your mouth hangs open, unsure of how to respond.

“Boyfriend or not?” he repeats, his tone commanding. “Not,” you answer instantly, not minding the question one bit, especially when you see its effect on Joel.

“Good. Perfect,” he rumbles in a low tone.

Turning back to the kitchen counter, the clinking of ceramic cups fills the room, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as the heat spreads throughout your body and to the tips of your ears.

“Cream and sugar?” you ask, turning your head just long enough to inquire.

The sight of your body shifting under your clothes already ignites fantasies in Joel's mind, imagining all the ways he could pleasure you, even right there on your dad's kitchen floor if you desired.

“Joel?” you prompt, breaking him out of his daydream.

“Uh… Sure. Cream and sugar,” he echoes, noticing your continued blush and slight trembling as you prepare the cups. As you approach him with the coffee, the sudden sound of your dad's voice startles you, causing you to drop one cup, which shatters on the floor.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" he asks, concern etched on his face as he rushes to the sink to run cold water over the affected area.

"I'm fine, Dad. Really," you reply, trying to hide your embarrassment.

"I thought you were gone," you add, unable to keep the annoyance out of your voice.

"I just forgot something. I came back to get it," your father explains, his eyes darting nervously between you and Joel.

Your father's gaze is fixed on Joel, his eyes narrowing as he takes in Joel's obvious concern for you. Anyone could see the way Joel feels about you, and your father's disapproval is palpable.

But you're not a child anymore, and you're tired of your father's disapproval. "Dad, I'm fine. You just startled me, that's all. Why do you always have to sneak up on me like that?" you ask, trying to keep the anger out of your voice.

Joel opens his mouth to speak, but the words don't come. He sighs and shakes his head, gathering the pieces of the broken cup and tossing them in the trash on his way out. The sound of his car speeding away speaks volumes.

"Maybe I should go," Joel suggests, but you wave off his concern.

"Don't worry about my dad. He's been weird ever since I graduated from college," you say, dismissing his concerns.

But Joel knows that your father's suspicions go back further than just this morning. He moves to help you clean up the mess on the floor, ignoring the broken glass and coffee spill. Gently, he takes your hand in his, wincing at the stinging and burn.

"Let's get this under some cold water," he says, leading you to the sink. You lean back against him as he guides your hand under the icy flow, your body yielding to his touch.

"Feel better?" he asks, his voice low and soothing. You nod, leaning into him as the cold water soothes your burn.

Joel's heart races as he holds you, feeling your warmth against him. He knows that your father doesn't approve of him, but he can't help how he feels. He's fallen for you, hard, and he's not going to let your father's disapproval get in the way.

"It feels better now," you whisper, your breath sending shivers down Joel's spine. He moves closer to you, feeling the pressure of your back against his aching cock.

"I can't help but notice how your body is responding to mine," Joel says, his voice low and husky.

"Should we start over?" he asks, leaning down so his mouth is close to your ear.

"You mean with the coffee?" you ask, playing coy. But your body is telling a different story.

"I mean starting over without your dad around," Joel clarifies, moving his hand to stroke the back of your neck.

You turn to face him, looking up into his deep brown eyes. "Just stay," you say, biting your lip.

Joel nods, his hands resting on your hips. "I'm not going anywhere, darlin'," he promises. "I'll be right next door, whenever you need me."

You stand there, close enough to kiss, but Joel holds back. He wants to savor this moment, to make it last.

"I meant what I said that day you graduated," Joel whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "You feel so fucking good."

His words send a jolt of electricity through your body. You feel his arousal pressing against your back, and he grips your hips, pulling you closer.

You plead with Joel to stay, not just because of how the morning has unfolded but because deep down, you need him by your side.

The words you long to say to Joel linger on the tip of your tongue, but the rush of emotions leaves you speechless. Your heart races as you grapple with the intensity of your feelings, unsure of how to express them.

As you run your hand under the cold water, trying to steady your nerves, you suggest preparing the spare room as a distraction. Anything to divert your thoughts and feelings that are swirling inside you.

The tension between you and Joel crackles in the air, the unspoken desire palpable. His longing mirrors your own, creating a charged atmosphere that leaves you both on edge.

"Is your hand goin' to be okay?" Joel's voice is laced with concern as he looks at you, and you nod in response.

"It's just a minor burn from the coffee," you murmur, trying to focus on the task.

"Shall I make us more coffee?" Joel offers, already cleaning up the mess on the floor. But your attention is drawn to the undeniable presence pressing against your back, sending a rush of sensations through you.

Your heart races as you realize the extent of Joel's desire, his arousal evident in every inch of his being.

"I'm not tired," Joel says, his voice low and intimate as he picks up the broken pieces of the mug.

"And I meant what I said earlier," he adds, his tone dropping to a husky whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

The intensity of the moment overwhelms you, making it hard to focus on anything else. You should feel embarrassed, and remind him of boundaries, but the magnetic pull between you is undeniable.

"What did you mean?" you ask, a hint of defiance in your voice, craving his words like a drug.

His lips curl into a knowing smile as he repeats his earlier statement, his gaze lingering on you suggestively.

"You feel so good," Joel says, his words sending a surge of heat through you, your cheeks flushing with desire.

"Is that why you came back?" you inquire, emboldened by the charged atmosphere between you.

"What do you think?" Joel replies, closing the distance between you, the space crackling with unspoken promises and desires.

You feel trapped, torn between your desires and the weight of your past.

Your hands tremble as you press them against Joel's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. You slide your fingers down, curling around a button on his flannel shirt.

"My dad, for Sarah," you croak, your voice barely above a whisper. Joel takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath your touch.

"I didn't come back to town just to see your dad," he says, his voice low and steady. "But I don't want to make you uncomfortable either."

He pauses, taking another deep breath before he continues. "What I mean is, what I'm tryin’ to ask you, is could you have feelings for an older man? A man like me, maybe?"

His eyes bore into yours, a half-smile playing at the corners of his lips. You know what he's asking, and your heart races at the thought of giving in to your desires.

"I want to hear it from your lips," he says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine.

You take a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "I like you a lot, Joel," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel pauses, his eyes never leaving yours. "But?" he prompts, giving you an out if you need it.

You look up at Joel, your eyes pleading with him to make the decision for you. But there's no hesitation in his gaze. He leans in, pressing his warm lips against your hand, and you feel a jolt of electricity shoot through your body.

"Does it feel like this?" he asks, his voice low and husky. You nod, unable to find the words to describe the heat that's building inside you.

"Do you really want me, darlin'?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. You moan, unable to contain your desire any longer.

"Yes," you gasp, your voice barely audible. "Yes, I want you."

Joel growls, a low, primal sound that sends shivers down your spine. He presses your hand against his stiff erection, and you can feel the heat and hardness of him through his jeans.

You trace the outline of his cock with your fingers, forgetting all about the burn on your hand, the hot coffee, and even your dad and his house. All that matters is the feel of Joel's body against yours, the heat and hardness of him that you've longed for since graduation day.

"Then come here," he growls, leaning down further and taking your face in his palm. You shudder one last breath of uncertainty before the warmth of his mouth over yours means neither of you will ever have to ask that question again.

Joel's lips are soft and tender, but his kiss is urgent and demanding. You feel yourself melting into him, your body responding to his touch with a hunger you've never felt before.

His hands roam your body, exploring every curve and contour, as if he's been waiting for this moment for years. You respond in kind, your hands tugging at his flannel shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

The heat between you builds, until you're both panting and gasping for breath. Joel's hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that make you dizzy with desire.

Joel can't help himself as he lifts you up and sets you down on the kitchen counter, your legs wrapped around him as he devours your mouth with his own. His hands roam your body, feeling the curves and contours of your figure as if for the first time.

You respond eagerly, your hands tangled in his hair as you deepen the kiss. Joel's touch sends waves of pleasure through your body, and you can feel yourself growing wet with desire.

Joel's hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that make you gasp with pleasure. You arch your back, pressing yourself against him as you feel his hardness against your thigh.

He makes you purr and moan, fulfilling every fantasy you've ever had. Your hands move down to his throbbing cock, gripping and squeezing him through his denim, but you both know this is just the beginning.

Joel has already crossed the line he set for himself, unable to resist the pull between you. He wants more than just a physical connection; he wants all of you, your heart, your soul, your everything.

He envisions a future with you, a life where you're by his side, where you're free to be yourself, to indulge in every desire and dream. He wants to give you a home, a place where you can be truly happy, where the two of you can explore each other endlessly.

As you catch your breath, Joel eases his hold on you, sensing the need for a moment of clarity. Your smile and the flush in your cheeks speak volumes, reassuring him that you're on the same page.

"Holy shit," you exclaim, breathless and exhilarated. Your hands rest on his chest, feeling the strength and warmth of him beneath your touch.

Joel exhales slowly, realizing he may have moved too quickly for you. "Too much, darlin'?" he asks with a chuckle, relieved when you giggle and nod in agreement.

But he sees the worry in your eyes, the need for understanding and space. You grip his flannel, pulling him close for a quick kiss, your words a mix of desire and uncertainty.

"I want this... I want you, Joel. I do," you confess, your voice filled with longing and hesitation.

"Just... not right now, not like this," you trail off, and Joel finishes your sentence, understanding the need for time and space to process everything.

He lifts you off the counter, noting how light you feel in his arms. He watches you pace the kitchen, a mix of emotions playing across your face. He settles on a stool, giving you the space you need to sort through your thoughts.

"I didn't think you were leading me on, and I didn't mean to be so forward," Joel says, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Take your time, process everythin’ darlin’.”

Joel's phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he knows it's your father. He takes a deep breath and answers the call, trying to sound casual. You've stopped pacing but still look dazed, as if you're trying to process what just happened between us.

"Hey, man," Joel greets, hearing your father's voice from his car, still on his way to the office.

"Joel, I'm sorry for how I acted earlier. I guess I'm the one who needs a nap, but I can't afford the time right now," he says, sounding sincere.

Your father has always been honest and upfront, and Joel feels a mix of pride and guilt as he listens to his apology. He knows that your dad will be upset once he finds out about the two of you, but until then, Joel thinks it's best to keep your secret a little longer.

"You don't have to apologize, buddy," Joel says, trying to reassure him. "When do you finish work today?" he asks, already thinking about the time they have left alone together.

More time to take things slow? Joel isn't sure. He wants to savor every moment with you, but he also can't wait to explore every inch of your body.

As your father continues to talk, Joel watches you, his mind filled with thoughts of the two of you together. He knows that things will get complicated soon, but for now, he's happy to be in your presence, to feel your warmth and energy.

"Yeah, I'll see you then," Joel says, ending the call and turning to you. "Are you okay?" he asks, taking a step closer to you.

You nod, still looking dazed, and Joel wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. He knows that the two of you have a lot to talk about, but for now, he's content to hold you, to feel your heart beating against his chest.

The future may be uncertain, but Joel knows one thing for sure - he's never felt this way about anyone before, and he's not about to let you go.

As Joel holds you close, your head resting on his chest, you finally voice the question that's been lingering between you.

"I guess we can't do this sort of thing around my Dad, huh?" you ask, your voice soft against his skin.

Joel strokes your hair gently, his heart full of emotions he never thought he'd feel again. He marvels at how easily and perfectly this moment has unfolded, how right it feels to have you in his arms.

"We probably shouldn't, not yet," Joel replies, his voice tinged with longing. He feels you nod in agreement, and he knows that keeping this secret will be a challenge.

Joel had left town to escape the past, to build a new future for himself and his daughter Sarah. But now, as he returns to the place where it all began, he realizes that his future is intertwined with yours.

He sees a future with you, a life filled with love and possibility. He dreams of a family with you, of building something lasting and meaningful together.

As he holds you in his arms, feeling the warmth of your body against his, Joel knows that this is just the beginning. 

As you and Joel waste no time getting settled in the new house, the air crackles with anticipation. Joel turns the key in the door, and as you step inside, the world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of desire.

Without a word, you set down his bag, and Joel takes your hand, pulling you close. He lifts you effortlessly, spinning you around in a dizzying whirl of passion and need.

The lock clicks shut, sealing you both in a world of raw desire and longing. The house feels like a sanctuary, a place where only you and Joel exist, at least for the next hour or so.

"Aren't you gonna show me around first? I had no idea the inside was so nice," you giggle, your head spinning from the intensity of his touch and the day's events.

"I thought you might like to show me around... your sweet fuckin’ body," Joel rasps in your ear before claiming your lips in a fierce, possessive kiss. Each touch, each kiss, ignites a fire within you, driving you to the edge of reason.

"You tell me if it gets too much, alright darlin'?" Joel murmurs between kisses, his strong arms wrapped around you. You nod eagerly, your body craving his touch, his presence.

With your legs wrapped around his waist, you gravitate towards the nearest soft surface, a luxurious leather sofa in the living room. Joel stops in front of it, but you're consumed by the need for him, the hunger for his touch.

You try to nod, talk, and kiss him all at once, but the overwhelming desire he stirs in you leaves you breathless and unable to form coherent words. "Yeah... fuck... yes, I will," you pant, your body arching into his touch as he explores every inch of you.

Joel lowers you onto the couch, his eyes fixed on you with a hunger that matches your own. He drops to his knees in front of you, parting your legs with a firm grip, his gaze locked on your body with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

“I’m gonna eat your little pussy, make you come until you beg me to stop,” he says in a firm tone.

His hands move with purpose, his touch igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you. You gasp and groan as he explores every inch of you, his fingers and tongue setting your body ablaze with pleasure.

As he delves deeper, his mouth and hands working in perfect harmony, you feel a wave of pleasure building within you, each touch pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

You writhe and moan under his touch, your body responding to his every move with a hunger that matches his own. The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure, the air thick with desire and need.

His elbows prop your knees wide, and half-reclined on the worn leather, you can't help but feel a thrill at the sensations coursing through your body.

The scent of old leather and his cologne mingles with the musk of your arousal, creating a heady mix that only heightens your desire. You're ready for Joel, and you know it won't take long for him to bring you to the edge.

With a rough yank, he tears your panties aside, the sound of fabric rending adding to your arousal. You never knew you could feel this horny, and every moment with Joel only intensifies your desire.

He takes a moment to admire your slick folds, his thick fingers gently parting your lips. You grip his silver-flecked curls tighter as he moves down to taste you, your body trembling with anticipation.

Your moans fill the room, mingling with Joel's deep groans of pleasure. His tongue finds its mark, and you can't help but cry out, your body writhing under his touch.

Joel's mouth covers you completely, his tongue replacing his fingers as he explores every inch of your sex. You're on the brink of climax, your body trembling with need.

"Be patient, darlin'," Joel whispers hoarsely, his voice filled with desire. He grips your thighs, pushing them wider apart until his massive head is pressed between them.

You shift your grip to his broad shoulders, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

"Joel... Joel," you moan, trying to tell him how close you are, how much you want him. But all that comes out are animalistic sounds of pleasure.

Joel's body quakes with silent laughter, his voice deep and reassuring as he promises you can come all night. You trace the outline of his jaw, your body trembling with need as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

If heaven exists, you're sure you've found it in Joel's arms.

AN: I'm such a fool to think that this would be a one-shot... ya'll this is now a mini-series. Don't worry... this will be a two to three-chapter kinda series. 🤍

[dustysalmon]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 1

Pairing: Silco x Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings/Tags: graphic depiction of violence; slow burn; enemies to lovers, enforcer!reader Word count: 4.5k

Summary: After a chain of unexpected events, Jinx is arrested, and you find yourself in possession of the gemstone. On top of it all, you are forced into a reluctant alliance with Silco. What else could possibly go wrong?

Takes up at the end of episode 7.

Read on ao3 ⎜ Next chapter

It is not the first time your unit has been called to assist at the borders, although it’s been years since topside ordered a complete blockade.

The panic had been evident on the councillors faces during the meeting that preceded your affectation. They fear the escalation of violence after the bombing in the city center as well as the murder of several enforcers earlier this week. There have even been rumours of an organised rebellion rising from the undercity, ready to strike multiple strategic places in Piltover. But those are just that, rumours. You have heard other rumours. Apparently, whoever killed those enforcers also decided to drop by the safe holds of the Council and steal something. The authorities have been suspiciously secretive about the ordeal, but you have a feeling it has to do with hextech. And the Council, usually quick to shy away from firm countermeasures, has made the decision to take a stand a little too rashly for your taste. This, plus the sudden removal of Heimerdinger’s seat at the table… No, there is something else at stake here, something bigger and perhaps more preoccupying than they are letting on.

And so here you are, on the south east bridge, among dozens of other enforcers. They don’t seem too aware or concerned about the actual reason for their presence, but they certainly appear to enjoy roughing up a couple Zaunites just for the thrill of it. Within the span of two days, you have already sent eight of your officers home. Young hot shots, mostly here to see some action and prove themselves in front of their comrades. People who shouldn’t be in the force to begin with, but the enforcers’ body always has and will continue to accept just about anybody within their ranks. It was a cesspool of violent and morally lacking folks long before you arrived and will remain exactly that for years to come. 

The majority of the officers mobilised for the Council’s big display of power aren’t trained to handle riots anyway, that much is obvious, and the entire situation is bound to turn to shit eventually. Regardless, you have traded your rifle for a good old baton, and encouraged your men to do the same. The firearm is tightly secured at your back— you’re lenient, not stupid—but the rioters have been fairly docile since the first barricades were installed, armed with nothing more than cardboard signs and harmless smoke bombs. Hardly a challenge at all, not to mention, you would like to avoid needless mayhem if you can help it. Your superior, Warren, strongly disagrees. Well, superior in name only; the man barely has any field experience, hardly ever steps out of the comfort of Piltover; a textbook office rat. If you had to guess, you would say this is the first time he’s actually come face to face with Zaunites. He has never hidden his utter repulsion for the latter— he usually refers to them as trenchers— and this new assignment is a godsend. He would drown them all in the gutter if he had his way. Halas, the Sheriff’s position was swept right from under his nose by Marcus, equally hateful and ambitious at the time. The years have tamed him for sure, although you still find it hard to explain his complete one-eighty when it comes to dealing with the undercity. Once, he was determined to give them hell, back when he was just a rookie, always babbling on about how he would handle the "Zaunite problem", and offering solutions (if you can call them that) that would have met quite the success among the most monstrous tyrants. 

When his impromptu promotion was announced, you had expected him to take full advantage of his new position and act on his threats. In fact, you had expected something very much like the events unfolding before you right now: blockades, raids, random inspections, an obnoxious display of strength—the whole circus. But instead, most of the troops had retreated completely from Zaun, leaving the undercity in a situation reminiscent of when Vander was in charge. The streets had been left completely unmonitored, allowing numerous gangs to rise and breed terror in the underground. Any sense of community ceased to exist in the blink of an eye, quickly replaced with defiance, greed and violence. Funny thing, that it took one man, one figure to hold a whole city together. Take him out of the equation, and an entire city is lost. And then came Shimmer, the final step that made all hell break loose. 

You had often wondered whether a complete occupation would have made a difference. In a way, you had your answer now. It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing. The economy down there was frozen, leaving the poorest Zaunites in even worse conditions than before, if that was possible. Controlled chaos, that’s all this is. And the Council is probably looking at the current state of things and congratulating themselves on their good work. It has become routine lately, but once more you wonder what it is you’re doing here exactly.

In the cacophony you hear your name being called from the crowd and recognise a familiar face. Without a second thought, you strut towards the noisy crowd.

"I wouldn’t get too close if I were you." Warren says from behind you, eyeing the mob suspiciously. You offer him a snarky grin.

"What’s the matter, Warren, afraid of a couple sticks and stones?" You relish in the laughter that emanates from the group of enforcers surrounding him before Warren silences them with a death glare, his face red with both anger and embarrassment. When he turns back, probably to reprimand you, you’re already on the other side of the bridge. 

You walk past the last line of enforcers, the big ones, hidden behind their goggles and masks. Not necessarily the best intermediary for parlay or negotiations. You come face to face with an elder man, a fisherman’s hat screwed low on his head, just above his tired blue eyes. He hunches over the barricade towards you.

"How long is this gonna last? They just suspended all exportation of goods. We’re suffocating down here." He shouts, hands gesticulating in the air, but you can barely hear him over the racket.

"I know that, but my hands are tied here, Lou." You say apologetically. 

The economies of the upper and undercity are very much interdependent, even if that is mostly true one way more than the other, of course. Numerous Zaunites work on the other side of the stream, some fortunate and gifted kids have the opportunity to study in the University district. And while it is true that Piltovians prefer to rely on their own supplies and food, they import daily from the undercity, whether it be fish, brews, or local foodstuffs. 

Contrary to popular belief, it is not rare for topsiders to stoop to undercity level, although it is usually for more illicit activities. Shimmer consumption, human trafficking, money laundering, you name it. Needless to say that the blockade doesn’t impact topside nearly as much as it does Zaun. It makes no difference to Piltovians if it lasts for weeks, months, or possibly even years. But the undercity’s days would soon become numbered if the situation doesn’t evolve. 

A huge detonation is heard on the far side of the bridge and leaves your ears whistling for a few seconds. When you come to, there is a thick cloud of smoke rising from the same spot, but you can still make out the enforcers’ silhouettes as they charge into the protesters. Idiots. You barely have the time to turn back to Lou when another loud boom erupts. Then another. It’s really on now. You grab at the old man’s shoulder, a grave look on your face. 

"Go home, Lou. Now!" He doesn’t need to be told twice, still, you follow him with your eyes until he disappears from view. You realise only too late the tear gas canisters that have been thrown all around you. You reach for your mask but the gas is already stinging your nose and  assaulting your senses, it feels like your entire face is burning. Tears start to fall down your cheeks as you struggle to pull out your goggles. The gas has settled in your eyes now, and the  eyewear obviously won’t change that, but you can’t think clearly at the moment and put them on regardless as you start to pull back to your squad. In the distance, you can hear Warren shouting hysterically, asking for more gas, more pressure on the line, always more. He calls to you once you are back in the safe perimeter.

"Sticks and stones, huh?" He taunts you, and you can clearly imagine his stupid face mocking you behind the mask. 

"All of this for a bit of smoke?!" You refrain from calling him a dumbass in front of everyone else, although just barely, but you don’t even try to hide the anger and exasperation in your voice. He can launch disciplinary actions if he likes, this whole operation is already a complete disaster, and he will suffer the consequences too. You throw a quick look at the mess happening all around you. Utter panic among the protesters, untrained enforcers, and an incompetent chief. And people will wonder what could possibly have gone wrong. You sigh. On second thought, let Warren drag you in front of the Council if he wishes, you will have a lot of things to say.

You blink the last of the gas from your eyes and gather your thoughts. So the protests have gone up a notch after all, that much is true. But you remain convinced that the blockade is bad news for everyone. You grab the megaphone and clear your irritated throat as best as you can while your colleagues prepare to launch another charge. This will not be a quiet night after all.

Two hours, that’s all the time you get before you are unexpectedly called back for duty. You gulp down a can of hot soup, hop into a fresh blue uniform, and you’re out the door. For the first time, you are stationed on the main bridge, where you’ve heard things tend to be more heated. It is a last minute change, and very little information is given to you about your purpose here tonight, but it must be important if the Sheriff’s presence is any indication. Typically, back-up is hardly ever needed at night fall, most of the protesters leave at around 7 p.m. and come back at midday. So it is without surprise that you find the bridge perfectly calm and silent, with a large group of enforcers standing by. They seem to be waiting for something, or someone. You rapidly go over some procedures with your squad and dispatch them at key locations around the area before finding Marcus. 

"So, what’s this all about, Sheriff?" You truly loathe to call him that, but the man likes having his ego stroked every now and then. Might as well play the good cop card in order to squeeze what you can out of him. You’re met with a suspicious and frankly condescending look. Whatever information it is you’re asking for, it would seem it is above your pay grade.

"We’re meeting someone. Your team is here to make sure it all goes smoothly."

Not much to go with, but the gears are already spinning in your head. Could it be that the person responsible for the attacks and the break-in in Piltover had requested a face to face in order to calm things down; seeing as the situation had escalated today. A request for parlay, perhaps, or a negotiation. You lower your tone as your address Marcus again.

"This whole thing," you gesture at the barricades on the bridge, "it’s about Hextech, isn’t it.?" His eyes grow wide, and the way he freezes all but confirms your suspicions. For all his ability to play the Council like a fiddle, the man had always had always been terrible at concealing his emotions. 

"How’d you figure that out?" He asks seriously. You snort.

"A raid in the Council’s stronghold? Let’s just say I seriously doubt that whoever broke in came for Heimerdinger’s book collection." You say sarcastically.

Suddenly, the spotlights come to life, and a masked enforcer joins the two of you.

"They’re here, sir." Marcus nods and turns to you.

"Get behind the second line, and stay there unless ordered otherwise." You are about to protest but he is already moving forward with a small squad. The audacity, to call you here during your off-hours only to have you hang back and away from the main event. Regardless, you start to back up slowly, keeping attentive eyes fixed before you. In the distance, two figures emerge from the evening mist, progressing towards the roadblock. The enforcers take aim and start walking too, meeting them in the middle with Marcus flanking them. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he seems awfully relaxed despite the nagging tension in the air. 

You end up much further away than you would like, but orders are orders. You squint painfully in order to catch whatever you can from the exchange. The two silhouettes are clearer now, thanks to the powerful lights; a young boy and a woman, unarmed and without backup, at least none that you can see from your position. Your eyes focus on the boy, on his outfit more specifically, and it takes you about a second to connect the dots. The mask dangling from his hip, the bandana tied around his neck, the big flying board strapped to his back. A Firelight. And not just any member of the controversial gang, this one is none other than the leader, Ekko. And next to him is— no, that makes no sense—Kiramman? You blink a few times. Surely your sleep-depraved mind is playing tricks on you. But it is her, Caitlyn Kiramman, daughter of senior councillor Cassandra Kiramman, and a very promising enforcer who suddenly went rogue not even a week ago, or so the Sheriff insisted. 

An enforcer and a Firelight, quite the odd pairing indeed, especially since the latter have recently been designated as the prime suspects of the recent attacks that shook Piltover at the core. Even though as far as you are concerned, the accusation makes no sense. You have yet to see the so-called irrefutable evidence that has been found against them, evidence which has never been officially presented, but led to the blockade of the entire city regardless. 

It had always been your belief that the Enforcement body put too much effort in fighting the Firelights. The only trouble they cause is against the Eye of Zaun’s production of Shimmer, which topside should be grateful for; if anything, the Firelights are doing most of the work for them. True, they had attacked a shipment over the city not that long ago, but it was clear that Piltover was not their target. It is something you have been thinking about for a while now, this obsession with the Firelights, when crime and Shimmer are the true plagues and spreading like never before.

From the distance you see Marcus ordering his men to stand back as he moves forward to meet with Kiramman and Ekko. No matter how many times you turn the problem over in your head, you can’t make head or tail out of this alliance. Although you have a feeling this little night encounter will clarify a few points. The young boy pulls some sort of protective cylinder from behind him, although he seems reluctant to show what hides inside. He opens it eventually, leading Marcus to inch closer in order to inspect the goods. There’s a pause, the party gauges each other out in apparent uncomfortable silence. Whatever the Firelight boy revealed has definitely caught the Sheriff’s interest, although not enough to conclude a bargain it would seem. Marcus just stands there motionless, as if weighing his options. Kiramman is talking to him now, you can only assume she is pushing for some sort of deal, an exchange perhaps, intel for intel. Money? Surely Marcus wouldn’t… You suddenly stop all speculation and watch in complete shock as he pulls out his pistol and fires a single shot, square in the boy’s stomach. The latter collapses, forcefully projected backwards with the power of the point blank shot. 

Silence reigns on the bridge, save for a few crows cawing and flying away, the rest suspended in time, waiting. What the hell. 

Marcus is now aiming at a discomfited Caitlyn, a rare sight, and his men have started to move forward, getting in formation around the woman. They exchange words, but Marcus does most of the talking as Caitlyn looks too petrified to speak. Orders be damned, you leave the line of enforcers who are currently staring incredulously at each other, as shocked as you are. There’s a figure running towards the meeting point, it appears to be a woman, but you can barely make her out through the fog. What you can clearly see, however, is the swarm of small green lights flying at a rapid pace alongside her. Firelights. Hundreds of them, merging to the same location as if they had been summoned there. Then, the cloud of insects lingers above Marcus, Caitlyn and the group of enforcers before descending upon them. A small number reach past the center of the bridge, to you, and you reflexively bat them away. You’ve never liked insects, not from this close anyway, and certainly not in great numbers. Some enforcers hold out their gloved hands to allow the firelights to land, seemingly amused by the situation. Admittedly, it’s quite a pleasant distraction from what usually happens up there— or doesn’t happen. 

A tiny clicking sound emanates from all the bugs at once, like a detonation, and next thing you know, you are violently projected against the bridge’s bannister.

For the next minute or two, the only sound you hear is a numbing and constant whistling in your eardrum. You feel a hot liquid running slowly down the side of your temple, and your head is pounding like a jackhammer. Around you, bodies of enforcers lie limp on the ground in puddles of thick blood. You have seen your share of gruesome and violence, but can’t help the nausea that overtakes you as you scrawl through a sea of freshly detached limbs, the smell of copper filling your lungs. You reach an enforcer, one of the few still conscious. He is moaning in pain, mumbling incoherently as he holds up his arms, both severed at the wrist and forearm. Moans turn to screams as the realisation sinks in, you wonder if he knows his right leg is missing too.

As your hearing gradually comes back, you realise there is something going on at the centre of the bridge, where the explosions did the most damage. Gathering your strength and balance, you rise to your feet and progress towards it. More fighting it would seem. A shot rings in the air and lodges itself in a stone pillar just a couple feet away from you. You march on, unphased, a trembling hand hovering above your holster. You recognise the Firelight leader, who seems to have been untouched by the explosions, and facing him… Those long blue braids, that slender figure. Jinx. And the bombs all make sense now. There’s only one person in this city who would be capable of manufacturing such a weapon, and nobody makes anything go boom like Jinx does, all Enforcers learn that the hard way.

The two teens throw themselves at each other with a speed that makes the fight difficult to follow. Ekko quickly takes the upper hand, pinning the girl down with all his might. One, two, three hard punches square in the face, most people would have been knocked out cold by now, but Jinx struggles as best she can, until her body has nothing left to give. Ekko hovers over her, fist in the air, ready to strike one final blow to her blood-smeared face. But his hand hangs in the air, suspended in time, petrified. 

Your heart sinks at the disturbing spectacle unfolding before you. What leads two children to fight to the death and show such a level of animosity? You don’t have time to answer that question as another large detonation erupts at the exact place where Ekko and Jinx were fighting. 

The boy is the first to emerge, and it appears that the weapon got him good this time. He limps towards you and collapses in your arms. But the second he acknowledges your uniform, he starts struggling weakly against you, moaning in pain against your shoulder. The cries, however, have nothing to do with the physical pain. The stir from utter distress and despair. You don’t insist, and let him go gently, supporting him all the way. 

"You should go." You say as you hear the cavalry starting to make progress from the other side of the bridge. Took them long enough. Ekko, although his head is still pounding, manages a frown.

"Why?" 

"Your work is far from done, kid. Now get going." Your tone is firm enough to get the message across, but warm enough to convey that you care at least a little bit, and Ekko simply nods, peers at you one last time in mild confusion, before limping away through the fog.

A couple feet away, Jinx lies unmoving on the ground, and you pray that she isn’t dead as you approach and crouch beside her. Who knows what King of the underground would do if his protégé was to be taken away from him. The question is what would be obliterated first, Zaun or Piltover. Either way, there would be only ashes left on both sides. You let a sigh of relief escape as you feel a light pulse against the girl’s wrist. However, she needs medical attention, sooner rather than later. Her injuries look severe even to your untrained eyes and she has lost a lot of blood. As you let her arm down, her fingers relax, and a glowing round object rolls from her grasp. You do a double-take as you gape at it. It can’t be. The gemstone. The source of so many turmoils this past month just inches away from you, so shiny and out of place among the debris, as if daring you to take it. 

"Are you alright? Where’s the Sheriff?" You were so taken by the object that you completely missed the hurried footsteps behind you. As quickly and discreetly as possible, you shove the gemstone inside a compartment of your utility belt and turn to face the small group of enforcers gathered at the scene, Warren among them. A sigh of relief escapes you as there’s no trace of the Firelight leader. He had slipped away just in time.

"He did not make it." You say, rising to your feet. The men in uniform exchange incredulous looks. "Help me with the body." They must have missed the urgency in your tone because they remain unmoving, their eyes still taking in the bloodbath. "Come on, Teebo, put those big arms of yours to use." 

"She’s right, boys," Warren jumps in, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We’ve been after her for weeks, and now we finally got somethin’ to show for. The Council will be pleased." He stands proudly, hands on his hips as two enforcers work to lift Jinx’s inert body of the ground. "Let’s see how the son of a bitch can manage without his prized pupil—" the sentence dies in his throat and he freezes, shoulders stiffening. He might as well have seen a ghost. "Speaking of the devil."

You've never actually met the Eye of Zaun. You've seen the murals of course, heard the stories, and encountered his goons more times than you can count. But most of all, you've witnessed the damage and destruction he’s caused in the undercity over the past few years— shimmer, gang violence, oppression of the chembarons, child labour. Now, he may not be directly responsible for that last one, but the man has hardly done anything to stop it. It's rampant. Spreading like a disease with no cure in sight. You are all too familiar with it.

As you stand a couple paces away from Silco himself, you finally understand the fear and dread he inspires in both zaunites and pilties alike. His entrance feels almost theatrical and dramatic in the mist. It is just him and two large henchmen…against dozens of armed enforcers. There's no chance, no world in which a fight would go his way. And yet, there isn’t a trace of doubt in his one good eye. He's ready to pounce, to fight to the death like a raging animal to retrieve the girl with blue hair. No one has ever looked at you this way before—with such pure, unfiltered hatred. And you’ve just met the guy.

You take one tentative step forward, but that’s as far as you. Silco’s gaze freezes you in place, and whatever you were about to say gets stuck in your throat.

"Let’s grab him too" Warren urges right from behind you, restless. 

"Those aren’t our orders," you say absently, your attention fixed on the one-eyed man.

"Are you kidding me? We could hit two big fucking birds with one stone. Right here! This could be huge for us."

"Don’t push your luck, Warren. We’ve got the girl. That’s the best bargaining chip we could hope for." That seems to get the point across, and Warren backs down.

"Get her back to the truck. This is a good day, gentlemen, a very good day!" He triumphs as he retreats with the rest of the squad. 

Silco takes a step forward, fists clenched at his side. One of his men grips Jinx’s makeshift mini-gun, finger on the trigger, odds be damned. You advance as well, hanging your rifle on your shoulder, hoping so erase any sign of hostility. If a gunfight was to break out now, Zaun would have to find itself a new leader, and the blue-haired girl would no doubt be caught in the crossfire. Silco, despite his anger and desire to kill everyone in sight to get to Jinx, seems to understand that. His shoulders relax, slowly lowering, and he motions for his men to step back. He remains firmly planted there, challenging you with a look—silent, but deadly. Your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can hear it in your head. As you watch Silco disappear into the fog, just as he had emerged, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve just signed your own death warrant.

Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

Chapter 1 ⎜ Chapter 2 ⎜ Chapter 3 ⎜ Chapter 4 ⎜ Chapter 5

[deppiet]

About the yassification of GO2.

Warning: the following text is highly critical of the second season of Good Omens. If you enjoyed it, I am happy for you, and a non-negligible amount of jealous as well. Please scroll past before I inevitably rain on your fandom parade.

So, I did the thing. I binged the entire second season of what was, up to now, my favorite show ever, in one sitting. And I have a great deal of things to say, but hardly any of them is positive.

Let me start by saying that I don't mind the cliffhanger or the melancholy ending, like at all. In our era of Marvel apologists and the instant gratification culture, it is necessary for media to persevere and add nuance to romantic relationships. That said, what transpired during the six hours leading up to this sort of unearned climax hardly contains anything remotely close to nuance.

Who are these people? I don't mean the new characters, all of them written as cardboard-cut anthropomorphic personifications of stereotypes, yassified to the point of representation losing its purpose and getting in the way of, you know, actual writing. I mean the protagonists themselves, Aziraphale and Crowley, up to now my favorite characters in the entire world and -up to now- tangled in a love story so beautiful I had, for better or for worse, devoted a large part of my creative output on it, making art, songs, and metas on why what those two entities had was as close to perfect as anyone can hope to find for themselves.

These are not the characters I knew. The characters I knew spent hundreds of human lifetimes revolving around each other in a treacherous yet familiar dance- they both knew the love was there, it was comfortable like an armchair that has taken the shape of the body using it for years. They argued the way old couples do, and of course, like all fictional beings that are counterparts of one another, had differences to settle, but what stood in their way wasn't misunderstanding or miscommunication, in was their fear of Heaven and Hell, and their fundamentally different approaches on how to keep each other safe.

What is all this teen angst? This will-they-won't-they silliness that lacks any nuance, thematic coherence, or literally even trace amounts of understanding of the source material? Where is the dark humor, the quotability, the chaotic overarching plot, the self conscious camp? The season is so cynically written to cater specifically to a certain part of fandom, that I am losing respect for the original work- because if Neil Gaiman doesn't care for these fictional beings, and he evidently doesn't, why should I?

The thematic core of what made Good Omens what it was, had always been the "Love in unexpected places" trope Sir Terry Pratchett knew how to write so well. It had never been about the fantasy, because Sir Terry wrote satire wrapped up in a supernatural package, it had never been about the romance, because when the ship becomes the end instead of the means, the love rings hollow, like artificial light trying to pass as sunshine. The beating heart of GO lies in its philosophy, in the beautiful notion that the agents of two oppressive systems at war have more in common with one another than with their respective oppressors. That being a nobody, a mere cog in a larger machine, says more about said machine than it does about you, and that you can try to break free and build a life for yourself, where a happy ending looks like a dinner at the Ritz with the one you love most.

Shoehorning an underdeveloped "romance" between Beelzebub and Gabriel not only feels like bad fanfic (disclaimer: I like the ship and feel like it could have worked if developed in any capacity, and presented in a more humorous and character-appropriate way. I hate with passion how much they watered down Beelzebub in order to make them stereotypically romanceable, adding the Ineffable Bureaucracy to the ever-expanding list of characters I don't care about anymore.) but also, it muddles and grossly undermines the thematic raison d'être of Ineffable Husbands. If the ramifications for defecting and fucking off with the enemy were a slap on the wrist for the respective leaders of both sides, well surely the system can't be that oppressive after all. And if fear of the oppressive system wasn't, after all, what kept these beings apart, surely these two entities don't like each other as much as we thought. Or rather, one is reduced to a lovesick puppy and the other to a brainless husk of a character, a plot device, a means to go from place A to place B without spending much brainpower on the logistics.

And if these two new people got to kiss I care not, for they are not the same people I rooted for (props, though, to the actors, who gave, somehow, an almost Shakespearean gravitas to their love affair, underwritten and dumbed down as it was. They both love the characters, and it shows in the minuscule yet brilliant ways in which they added nuance where the script had none.)

What was that thing with the lesbians about? Though straight passing, I have always known myself to be attracted to women as well as men, and I am always highly suspicious when an "ally" writer (see: straight, no shade to straight people among which I live because they are, like, the majority) decides to make all characters queer, in the face of real-world statistics and despite NOT being queer themselves. When a person like Nate Stevenson does it they get a pass because writers self-insert and because, when done well, it can carry a message of equality. But when the ally writer does it, unless it is pitch-perfect, I am forced to examine the possibility of them being calculating about it and trying to score representation points, often because they need the rep as a fig leaf to cry homophobia behind when people start complaining about the atrocious plot.

Nina and Maggie were boring. They had no personalities, no cohesive backstories, nothing to make us understand what they are to one another and to the overarching plot ("plot" is used loosely here, for there was no plot: the series ended where it should have started, with six hours of -progressively more offensive to my intelligence- fanfic tropes in a trenchcoat serving as the, well, "plot"). I didn't care whether or not they'd end up together, because I have no idea who they are. The blandness of the dialogue had the actresses, both very talented as evidenced in the first season, grasping at straws with what little characterization they were left to work with, and the "ball" was so unbelievably bad a plot device no amount of suspension of disbelief was ever going to make it right.

The minisodes, though at parts clever and philosophical, felt out of place. This was another narrative choice I had to raise my eyebrows at, because it felt like a bunch of executives sat around a table and watched Neil Gaiman's powerpoint presentation of what made Season 1 financially successful. They were shoehorned in, largely irrelevant to the, eh, "plot", and most of them lasted far more than I personally deemed welcome, or necessary.

What else is there to say? The wink-winks and nudge-nudges to the Tumblr nation? The in-your-face Doctor Who reference? The narratively myopic choice to make Crowley a former archangel? The cheese dialogue, not one bit of which was quotable?

I am distraught. I am grieving an old friend, and a part of my fandom life I cannot, in good faith, return back to after this gross betrayal. I am happy for those who don't see it, because I wish I could love this season past its flaws. However, the writing isn't simply mediocre, it is irrevocably, immeasurably, undescribably bad, so bad I am shocked to my very core, so bad I find it offensive to Sir Terry's memory and everything his own creative output was lovingly filled with.

I am passing all five stages of grief and very much doubt I will return to this fandom. I loved the original story and the characters with all my heart- now the aforementioned heart is broken, not by the breakup or anything as pedestrian as cheap romantic tropes. But because my old friends, my family of fictional beings, are no longer the ones I loved and could relate to.

Deppie out.

[projectjasper]

ME AND THEE: BASIC SUMMARY & CHARACTERS

[FULL SUMMARY & OTHER SPOILERS] - [NOVEL VS MOCK TRAILER]

(NON-SPOILERY) SUMMARY: One fateful evening, Peach runs into Theerakit, the owner of the company he occasionally works for and a member of the Arseni mafia family. Thee takes an interest in Peach’s colleague, a famous model Aran, but Peach steps between them, and Thee ends up asking him for help with impressing the model. While Peach gives Thee advice on courting and dating, he feels an unexpected connection with Thee, although it is mixed with fear of the notorious mafia. Meanwhile, Thee feels a strange comfort whenever he is around Peach and ends up slowly falling in love with him.

CHARACTERS

NOTE: The spelling of the names is not definitive, as there are many different, equally plausible ways of latinising Thai nicknames, names, and surnames.

"THEE" THEERAKIT KIAN ARSENI (early 30s) The owner of a perfume & jewelry brand under the Arseni name and a member of the Arseni mafia family. He is quite calm and rarely loses his temper, but exudes such menacing energy that a single move of a muscle makes most people around him tremble in fear. He deals with most problems by throwing money at them and isn’t very well-socialised, as he was particularly raised to not trust anyone outside his family. He is close to his parents, his brother Rome, and his bodyguard/secretary Mok, but is otherwise cold and distant to people. He has never been in a relationship, although he’s had many one-night stands.

"PEACH" PEECHAYARAT JENKIT (likely, mid-20s) A young freelance photographer who occasionally works for Theerakit’s perfume & jewelry brand. He has no family, aside from his younger sister Phlub, who he has taken care of his entire life. He is introverted, doesn’t like going out, and describes himself as “bad at socialising”. He often feels lonely and like he has only himself to rely on. He can also be occasionally petty, although not excessively so. He has tried dating many times before but has never managed to truly fall for any of his ex-girlfriends and was always quickly broken up with for being “too boring”.

ARAN A famous model who works for Theerakit’s perfume & jewelry brand and one of Peach’s friends. He is rather timid and cute. He is in love with the actor Tawan, although he is not in an official relationship with him.

TAWAN A famous actor who occasionally models for Theerakit’s perfume & jewelry brand. He is charming, but short-tempered, and often incredibly jealous of anyone who comes anywhere near Aran.

MOK Thee’s bodyguard and secretary, the only person outside of the Arseni family who truly knows him, and his only friend. He is loyal, smart, and fair. He is in an on-again, off-again relationship with Thee’s brother, Rome.

ROME Thee’s younger brother and the future head of the Arseni mafia family. He is intelligent and cunning. He loves to tease his brother and his (sometimes) boyfriend Mok and is generally very playful. He and Thee are close.

PHLUB Peach’s younger sister. A confident extrovert, she couldn’t be any more different from her brother, but they are nonetheless very close, and she is grateful for how much he has sacrificed for her. She would go to war for Peach if necessary and really wants him to find happiness after the hard life that they have lived.

NATH (THEE AND ROME’S MOTHER) A former actress and model, who is known for her villain roles, now the wife of an infamous mafia boss, she can be intimidating and deadly. However, when she is with her family, she is a warm and occasionally teasing mother, who wants nothing but for her children to be happy. *Thee and Rome's father does not appear in the novel directly, but he is described as being open-minded, deeply in love with his wife, and wishing for his work-obsessed older son Thee to find love the same way he did.

WIWIT A new creative team leader at Theerakit’s perfume & jewelry company, who has a vendetta against Peach.

MIUM Peach's ex-girlfriend. After their short and failed relationship, the two easily became friends. She works in the same industry as Peach and, at one point, offers him a job.

KIN (20) A young model, who starts working at Theerakit’s perfume & jewelry company. He becomes infatuated with Peach and flirts with him relentlessly.

[syndrossi]

Will the dynamics between Jon and Rhaegar change much in the Restoration AU when Rhaegar analyzes everything? He has to look at many events from a new angle (The way Jon reacts to the Trident/Baratheons, how Jon asked what Rhaegar would name him, how fiercely he protected him, etc.). Will he become more protective of Jon? Or will he feel Jon needs tenderness and comfort from him, especially after realizing the atmosphere Jon grew up in? And how will that change his relationship to W!Jon? Will W!Jon realize that one of his little brothers/uncles is trying to adopt him?

His determination grows to protect Jon as more of an equal (vs Jon's attempts to make it a one-sided thing), but at this point, they've known one another as brothers for two-plus years, so they're pretty settled in that dynamic. I expect Rhaegar is busily cataloging every trauma and little hurt, recontextualizing them and sort of triaging--which can he help with, how can he atone for what he suffered?

If you think about it, the situation is not entirely unlike Daemon's agony over not being there when the twins were little-little, except that it was nineteen years for Jon, rather than eight.

I could see Rhaegar struggling with wanting to blame his original counterpart a great deal for Jon's pain. How could he be so foolish in dealing with Aerys? How did he not know that their father would respond so poorly to anything unexpected? Did he not foresee the Vale fostering relationship forming the basis of a powerful alliance? What exactly were his plans for his existing family?

(The shock of what Tywin Lannister's forces did would really shake him, too. He remembers Joanna and his mother being close, and Tywin generally being supportive of him. That the man would orchestrate the violent murder of his future wife and their young child would be a harsh realization.)

And it's hard, because he doesn't have all the pieces to know why his future self acted as he did. (And canon!Rhaegar, or at least Jon's Rhaegar, wasn't Resonant!Rhaegar. Their experiences differed, with Resonant!Rhaegar explicitly a PTWP, which makes canon!Rhaegar similarly difficult to fully understand.)

In terms of what to do, at least with his Jon, Daemon's fathering is a pretty high-intensity beam of parental love, so that's not the issue, aka Jon doesn't need another father. His issue with mother figures is gonna be in much sharper relief, as well as the self-worth/self-sacrificial tendencies and what they're rooted in (believing himself to be a bastard, of lesser value than his trueborn siblings).

So again, he probably just tries to step up as a peer for his Jon, and offer to tell him anything he'd like to know about his childhood, to give him whatever glimpse he wants of og!Rhaegar to give him the closure he needs.

For Winterfell!Jon, he'll do more caretaker-ing, which W!Jon will find by turns adorable and bewildering, since they are both still very much in little-siblings territory for him, even if they're technically his uncles. I could see Rhaegar trying to figure out what he most needs and giving it to him.

(And Jon's fear of things happening to him will be even more clear. Before, there was the obvious "he lost siblings before, especially Robb, who was the same age." But the fact that he "lost" Rhaegar in some form before, and that that is a huge source of his fear, at least gives him something else to address.)

[androgynousblackbox]

Hellsing Appleradio AU

Lucifer Van Morningstar (24 years old)

The young Lord that is the face of the Morningstar family from a young age after the passing of his parents. He woke up Alastor after the house was attacked as a last resource at 18 and has been dealing with his annoying ass since then. Before the attack, Lucifer was already pretty efficient at fencing and some hand to hand combat, but after it, and the help of the new employees Alastor brought to the house, he learns to use guns and other ways of fighting.

Charlotte/Charlie Van Morningstar (3 years old)

The little sunshine of the castle that was the biggest joy of Lucifer after the sudden passing of his wife. She always gets into unexpected situations because Alastor has to obey her just the same as Lucifer. If the little lady wants to travel on his shoulders on his monster form and climb through the exterior of the castle, Alastor has to do it. If Charlie wants him to act out her favorite portions on her storybooks, Alastor will while dreading anyone else of the staff seeing him on a princess costume. Charlie always plays as the knight or the dragon.

Alastor/Radio Demon (At least 400 years old but who knows really)

Made a deal with the Morningstar family to serve them as long he could get a drop or more of their blood as payment from time to time. He was sealed in a chamber in the Morningstar castle by Lucifer's father shortly after Lucifer was born because they feared that he being awake could attract danger to their house. He loves violence and chaos, which is why it's so hard to him when Lucifer or Charlie have him doing mundane shit like going to get groceries or cooking cookies because Charlie wanted them to. Since he is the most powerful being there, he has the assumption that the Morningstar family belong to him and is the owner of the whole place. A impression that Lucifer very much does not care for. He fucking hated Lilith the moment Lucifer showed interest on her and told Lucifer that he wasn't "allowed" to marry her, which of course meant that Lucifer marry her faster. When she dies suddenly, he didn't separate from Lucifer's side and was the main motivator to get Lucifer to came out of his room at all. He tells everyone he only cares about the food and nothing else, but begrudgingly starts caring for the two tyrants that "ruined" his existence. Charlie calls him "Allie". After Lucifer woke him up, he quickly fires the entire staff on the castle, because obviously they suck at their fucking job, and hires a bunch of people especially selected by him.

Anthony/Angel (26 years old)

The butler/bodyguard of the Morningstar, packed with at least a dozen of hidden weapons at all times, and gun expert. Previously the son of a assasins's family that trained him since birth to be the perfect killing machine, recluted by Alastor after he managed to escape. Originally nicknamed "angel" because his killings were always quick and as painless as possible. He has no fucking clue about anything supernatural and does not care. Went to work and accepted the butler training because, frankly, he had nothing else better to do.

Husker (35 years old)

Chef of the Morningstar family, expert on the creation of almost any poison you can think of and also their cure. Used to work hidden in the black market selling his products for the highest bitter and then was found by Alastor just when he was about to be caught by the police. Accepted to work there for as long it keeps him jail free. Creates his own alcohol on his free time.

Niffty (31 years old)

The maid of the house. Nobody really knows a lot about her. The only thing Alastor bothered to tell people is that one day she snapped and killed her husband, but don't worry, besides that she is completely harmless. As long you weren't a rat or a intruder that came without invitation, that is. Don't trust her with scissors, though, because she will get them dull in no time.

Cherri Bomb (26 years old)

The driver of the Morningstar. She was a racer that was faster thatn everyone else, but when an rival sabotaged her car and almost had her killed in a explosion Alastor took her out and told her he knew a place where she could drive as fast as she wanted to. Lucifer doesn't really like when she goes full speed, but she never had a single accident and one could always count on her being there when the situation require her.

Sir Pentious (30 years old)

The expert on machinery and general repair man of the house. He made all the weapons that Anthony uses, the security system for the whole castle and even modified all the cars so they would be as safe as possible. Originally was brought after he failed to get investor for one of his inventions with the promise that he could work comfortably there and receive his pay, but soon really starts liking that Lucifer is a good boss that praises what he does. He also made a few toys for Charlie to play through out the years.

Alll the staff made a pact of blood with Alastor to swear to protect the Morningstar family.

Vox Populi (???)

A cyborg priest that was awaken up by the Church to deal with the presence of demons, exorcism and other supernatural causes as the leader of the Iscariote organization. Nobody has any clue why he was a cyborg at all or how it happened. He was send to sleep when he created a cult with himself as the leader where he was carrying out human sacrifices, but he "learned his lesson now" so he is a totally reformed priest again who toooootally is not stealing the charity money destined to orphanages and he is absolutely devoted to his work only, he totally swears it, for real. Part of the reason he was woken up was a preventive measure when they find out that Alastor have been awaken again, in case the Morninstars wanted an uprising. The Church fully believes he is the only non demonic being that could probably go up against Alastor. Probably.

Valentino (34 years)

Part of the Iscariote organization. He uses a nun outfit even thought he really shouldn't have to. Raised in multiple orphanages from where he managed to escape from and expelled of at least a dozen of religious schools for many reasons. The cause of more than one priest or nun abandoning their faith and lead to sin, which people especulate is the reason why he is allowed to keep working for the Church, but has calmed down significantly since working with Vox. Any excuse to kill with the blessing of the Church is a good one, doesn't matter if they are supernatural or not.

[huntressao3]

Dr. Vyle

Age: 54

Profession: Head of R&D at Vykker’s Labs 16, surgeon

Species: Vykker

Dr. Vyle is the head of Research and Development at Vykker’s Labs 16, one of the most notorious laboratories on Oddworld and one of the only airships in the Conglomerate’s possession . Dr. Vyle is immediately recognizable by his four sleek metal arms, which replace his natural ones. These arms, each equipped with different surgical tools and gadgets, were self-engineered after a catastrophic lab accident left him permanently disfigured. His decision to create and graft these arms onto himself was driven by both necessity and his relentless obsession with scientific advancement. The arms provide him with enhanced precision during surgeries and experiments, allowing him to carry out intricate tasks faster than any other vykker.

Dr. Vyle’s perpetually furrowed brow and deep-set, glowing yellow eyes and sharp, angular features give him a look of constant, simmering anger—even when he’s simply focused on his experiments. As the head of Research and Development, Dr. Vyle oversees the most disturbing and groundbreaking experiments at Vykker’s Labs 16.

His expertise in surgery is unparalleled, and he often performs grotesque modifications on creatures for the Magog Cartel. From gene splicing to organ harvesting, Vyle is at the forefront of Oddworld’s most heinous scientific practices. His office is a chaotic mess of surgical tables, glass tubes filled with mysterious fluids, and rows of grotesque specimens—many still alive—suspended in jars. His mechanical arms allow him to conduct multiple procedures at once, making him a whirlwind of efficiency. However, this mechanical precision is also what makes him detached from any sense of empathy or morality

Dr. Vyle is intensely focused on his work, with little patience for distraction or incompetence. He’s known for being cold, calculating, and unfriendly, even among his fellow Vykkers, including his personal assistant, Lenny. His demeanor is clinical, but there’s a barely-contained frenzy in the way he operates. When presented with a new challenge or discovery, he becomes obsessively excited, though this excitement often takes a sinister form, especially when it involves invasive procedures or dissection. Like most other vykkers, Vyle has no moral compass—he views everything through the lens of monetary value and scientific curiosity. He is perpetually irked by anything that disrupts his carefully constructed world, and nothing vexes him more than unpredictability—especially when it comes in the form of one particular human girl.

Dr. Vyle’s life took an unexpected turn when he stumbled upon the human girl, Evie, floating unconscious in a river when the interns at the lab were retrieving captured test subjects in the forest. When she was first brought to him, he was immediately intrigued by her pale skin and unfamiliar anatomy with Vyle initially referring to the creature as “Specimen 117” with Vyle believing that she was some form of mutated mudokon or evolutionary offshoot until he heard her calls herself a “human”. Vyle’s excitement grew immensely when he realized that he could be dealing with an entirely new species that was likely worth astronomical amounts of moolah.

At the lab, the subject refused to cooperate despite her very obvious fear, and found ways to grate on Vyle’s nerves, with her yelling strange phrases and disrupting the invasive experiments Vyle attempted to perform on her. Evie one day freed herself from the lab by wiggling out of her restraints, knocking Lenny in the head, and stealing an elum meant to be used in an experiment and freeing several other test subjects before escaping the lab atop the elum.

The loss of Evie has enraged Vyle, and he has since issued a hefty reward for her return, spreading the lie that she is in fact a dangerous mutant and a threat to Oddworld. His reputation- and a significant amount of profits- rests on retrieving this elusive “human” and he will stop at nothing to have her back.

[generalpierrotdameron]

Star Wars: The Mask of Fear by Alexander Freed will be released by Random House Worlds on Feb. 25. The series follows three figures well known to franchise fans: Mon Mothma, Bail Organa, and Saw Gerrera. But when the story starts, these three Rebel Alliance legends are far from chummy, each working independently of the others in their own form of resistance. Entertainment Weekly has an exclusive excerpt from Star Wars: The Mask of Fear (Reign of The Empire) that shows Mon Mothma being warned by an ally about taking on the new Emperor through legislative means, before something far more frightening changes everything. But first, the official book description: Before the Rebellion, the Empire reigns, in book one of a trilogy told through the eyes of Mon Mothma, Bail Organa, and Saw Gerrera, “In order to ensure the security and continuing stability, the Republic will be reorganized into the first Galactic Empire! For a safe and secure society!” With one speech and thunderous applause, Chancellor Palpatine brought the era of the Republic crashing down. In its place rose the Galactic Empire. Across the galaxy, people rejoiced and celebrated the end of war—and the promises of tomorrow. But that tomorrow was a lie. Instead, the galaxy became twisted by the cruelty and fear of the Emperor’s rule. During that terrifying first year of tyranny, Mon Mothma, Saw Gerrera, and Bail Organa face the encroaching darkness. One day, they will be three architects of the Rebel Alliance. But first, each must find purpose and direction in a changing galaxy, while harboring their own secrets, fears, and hopes for a future that may never come unless they act.

Excerpt from Star Wars: The Mask of Fear (Reign of the Empire) by Alexander Freed

As suspicion, paranoia, and worry set in for Mon Mothma and others, unexpected alliances begin to form, and trust is in short supply.

I promise, it’s entirely adequate,” Lud Morrai said, pushing the gravy toward Mon. “Wipe the taste of Hesperidium right out of your mouth.” Mon laughed and shook her head, but Lud insisted, and she scooped up a helping with her flatbread and ate gracelessly. The rich, savory sauce dripped onto her chin. She barely glanced about to check whether any­one had seen.

Lud had been solicitous toward her since Zhuna’s murder, leaving daily messages of support and offering invitations to meals, without in­sisting and without regard for how complicated his own schedule was. Mon had said no until she’d said yes, and now, sitting with him, she remembered what it was like to have a friend.

She didn’t have many—not outside politics beyond a few classmates she saw once or twice a year and not many in politics, either.

Maybe that was why she’d stayed with Perrin all this time. She looked up from the plate, caught Lud’s gaze, and rebuked herself. Those are dangerous thoughts.

“You really can’t tell anyone about Hesperidium,” she said. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have mentioned—”

“I heard yesterday. There was speculation about you and the Com­merce Guild . . . ?”

She sighed. She trusted Lud, but she had no intention of telling him about Cornade and the others, and she didn’t intend to let him guess who she’d met through process of elimination. “Can we drop it?”

“Of course,” Lud said. “But can I say one thing? You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m not asking anything. I just want—”

“There’s a reason we don’t talk about our projects.”

He waved off her objection. “Two minutes. That’s all.”

She looked around the restaurant. It was packed with the lunch crowd, maybe a hundred dockworkers jostling over trays. “Two min­utes,” she said.

Lud steepled his hands and gathered his thoughts. “You’re whipping votes outside your usual coalition. Everyone knows that, and certainly I respect the effort. It’s hard enough keeping my allies in line—I can’t imagine winning over my opponents.

“However . . . the people you’re dealing with? If you’re—and again, I’m not asking you to give anything away. I won’t even watch your ex­pression.” He turned to the stained wall as his voice fell to a murmur. “If you’re building a coalition to oppose the administration, I wish you’d consider the optics.”

“What optics?” she asked.

“The optics of you assembling a group of the most privileged people in the galaxy. Corporate tycoons, senators from royal families and the wealthiest worlds in the Core—”

“As opposed to humble men like yourself, from working-class worlds like Troithe?”

He scowled. “You promised me two minutes.”

Mon held up her hands in surrender.

“Palpatine is a populist. The reason he appeals to worlds like Troithe is because people there see him making real changes in their lives. He cracked down on the corporations. He ended the war. He’s promising that the era of out-of-touch politicians and twelfth-generation nobility shaping the galaxy for their own benefit is over.”

“He’s—” she began. He’s not giving power back to ordinary people.

He’s only shifting who holds it. He and his cronies don’t care about your world any more than they care about mine.

She stayed silent.

“What you’re doing,” Lud said, “is only proving him right. The Del­egation of Two Thousand was . . . well, it was mad and foolish and an utter failure, but at least it was idealistic. It was built on principle, and people saw that even if they didn’t understand what the principle was. Now I know you’re acting in what you believe is the best interest of democracy. I know you, Mon. But—”

“But my coalition of the rich and ultra-powerful symbolizes what everyone hated about the Republic, is that right?” She pushed her chair back, and Lud turned toward her. “I think your two minutes are up.”

He called her name and apologized as she stood. She told him it was fine, that she just had business back at the Senate and she’d stayed too long already. She looked away when she saw the hurt in his eyes and hurried out of the restaurant, telling herself, He’s not the one who gets to be injured, and he’s not the one who gets to be angry.

She shouldn’t have cared what he thought.

The commercial spacedocks were packed at this hour, and she had to push through throngs of people and past hoversleds laden with crates and cages and boxes of produce. She should’ve had security with her. The threats on her life were coming in rapidly since Zhuna’s death and Mon’s “politicization” of the tragedy. But she hadn’t wanted anyone looking over her shoulder while she met Lud—at least, anyone other than the usual spies, whom she assumed were tracking her every move and who, if she was lucky, might bother to intervene if she was attacked.

As she maneuvered toward the tram, she nearly bowled over a squat man in a farmer’s cloak and cowl. She apologized instinctively as he caught her wrist to keep from falling. But he hurried on, and she man­aged to board her car moments before it sped off for the Federal Dis­trict.

She didn’t think of the encounter again until she was back in her of­fice, trying to comprehend the way Zhuna’s replacement had config­ured her calendar. Her wrist itched, and she rolled up the white of her sleeve to see if she’d somehow scratched herself.

There was a rash forming, blotchy and red, with each splotch cen­tered on a darker brown dot. She began to scratch, then abruptly stopped as she saw the red blotches spreading like a stain. The brown centers grew larger and darker. She thrust her arm away, as if she could distance herself from whatever was multiplying within her flesh; at the same time she cried sharply and stumbled away from her desk.

She needed a medic. She’d been infected, she thought, poisoned when she’d boarded the tram. But there was no pain, only the faint itch, and even that hadn’t increased in intensity. The spread of the blotches slowed, creeping to a stop. The dark spots were bleeding together, seem­ing to form patterns.

There were words appearing on her flesh, no larger than the labels on a control panel: TYCHON NULVOLIO WILL SPEAK TO YOU.

Someone was calling to her through the office door, asking whether she was all right. She suppressed her trembling and called back. “I’m fine! I just dropped something.”

The ink shifted and wriggled again, forming new words from the old: NO OBSERVERS. NO SPIES.

Was it a statement or a demand? The itch became a burn. She wanted to clasp her wrist and squeeze, but she didn’t dare touch the rash. The dark spots drew together and welled like a droplet of sweat, then ran down her wrist and fell to the carpet. A few moments later the tattoo had fully expelled itself and drained onto the floor. All that remained was the rash, already paler and less angry than it had been.

She dropped into a chair and caught her breath. Her panic—her fear that she’d been witnessing her own assassination—caught up with her. She began shaking and tried to recall whether she’d taken her anxiety medication.

She was fine. People were trying to kill her, but this hadn’t been that. She was fine. She permitted herself five minutes to pull herself to­gether. She drank a glass of water, though she wasn’t thirsty. She stuck her head outside the office to question her new aide’s calendar skills.

Then Mon Mothma began to plan.

[multi-fandoms-posts]

Unexpected Revelations part 2

Cherik x reader

Logan x sister!reader

part 1, part 3, last part

The last week have been tense for all of us. I can hardly believe how quickly everything has changed. Amidst the chaos, I discovered that I’m pregnant. The news is overwhelming, and I know I need to talk to Logan as soon as possible. But the fear of his reaction makes me hesitate.

Eventually, I decide to talk to him. It’s a quiet afternoon, and I ask Logan to meet with me. As we stand facing each other in a quiet room at school, I feel the nervousness in my hands. “Logan, I need to tell you something important,” I begin, my voice trembling.

Logan looks at me attentively, his expression serious. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

I pause and take a deep breath.

“I... I’m pregnant,” I finally say, my heart racing. “And... I wanted you to be the first to know.”

A moment of silence follows, during which Logan just looks at me. His eyes widen in shock, and I can see that he needs to process the information. “What?” he finally stammers, his voice sounding incredulous and overwhelmed.

“Yes, it’s true,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I know this is all sudden, and I understand if you need time to think about it.”

Logan seems to struggle with his thoughts, and the confusion on his face scares me. “This is... this is a lot. I... I need time to process this,” he finally says.

The emotional weight is clearly too much for him. Logan shakes his head, and his eyes fill with tears, which he hastily wipes away. “I... I can’t deal with this right now,” he says, his voice barely audible. “I need... I need to leave.” Logan turns abruptly and walks away without another word.

The room seems to spin around me as I am left alone. The realization that Logan is overwhelmed and left the situation so abruptly weighs heavily on me.

I sink into a chair and let the tears flow. The entire situation is overwhelming, and the fear of what’s to come seems to suffocate me. It’s clear that I have a lot of work ahead to give Logan time and offer him the support he needs as we navigate this new challenge together.

After Logan leaves, I feel paralyzed. I know I also need to tell Erik and Charles, but the fear that their reaction might be similar or even more intense weighs heavily on me. I gather all my courage and head to our usual meeting spot.

When I arrive at Erik and Charles, they are sitting together in our favorite room at school, deeply engaged in conversation. Their faces light up when they see me, but I can detect the concern in their eyes.

“Hey, is everything okay, love?” Erik asks as he notices me and momentarily turns away from Charles.

I sit down with them and try to collect my nervous thoughts. “I need to tell you something important,” I begin, my voice trembling. “It’s something that... well, it’s going to change a lot,” I say nervously.

Charles and Erik look at each other, their expressions becoming serious. “What’s going on, Darling?” Charles asks, concerned.

“I’m pregnant,” I finally say, the sentence coming heavily from my lips. “I wanted you to hear it from me before it becomes even more difficult.”

The words hang heavily in the air. Erik and Charles look at me, their eyes widening in shock and disbelief. “How... how long?” Erik finally asks, his voice rough.

“For a few weeks,” I answer quietly. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I was sure, but I just didn’t know how to do it.”

Charles stands up and starts pacing the room, his nervousness evident. “This is... this is big news,” Charles finally says, his voice rough with emotion.

Erik runs his hand through his hair, his face lined with worry. “How do you feel about it?” he asks gently.

“I’m overwhelmed and don’t know exactly how to handle all of this,” I say, my voice breaking. “I just wanted to make sure you know and that we can find a solution together.”

Charles comes over and sits next to me. “We’re here for you, no matter what happens. It will be challenging, but we’ll get through it together,” Charles says determinedly.

Erik nods in agreement and places his hand on mine. “It’s a big responsibility, and we’ll make sure you’re not going through this alone. We’re a team, and that won’t change,” Erik smiles.

Despite the initial shock, I feel a sense of relief as I see the support in their eyes. The situation is far from easy, but the fact that we have each other gives me hope and strength.

“Thank you,” I say softly as I lean into Erik and Charles and hug them both gently. “I know this isn’t easy, but I hope we can find a way to handle it together.”

Erik and Charles hug me back, and we sit together in quiet agreement. It’s clear that a challenging time lies ahead, but together, we will find a way to navigate this new phase in our lives.

[2goldendarkness]

I usually reblog, rather than make my own posts, but seeing everyone in the gaze community deal with their grief by writing things down has given me some courage to do the same. I hope it will help me in my grieving process and i hope to help everyone who does relate to what i write. So this will be my farewell letter.

Dear Reita,

I got the news seven days too late, like how it usually is for me coming into a fandom.

I became a fan about 8 years ago, i was doing a creative education as a designer, listening to random music on Youtube with autoplay. Suddenly i found Red, the first song that got me into the Gazette, i was glued to my screen and intrigued with the looks of all members. But why the hell was that one guy wearing a band around his nose? I needed to get into it. So i did.

The gazette then became my first and favorite Visual kei band, i’ve been trough a lot in my life and whenever hardship struck me, there was always an interview that would make me laugh. When i had boring days in school we even played a game, my friends would ask me “why is he covering his nose?” And i would make up the weirdest stories on the spot. That resulted in some charms with titles like ‘reita and the smelly drummer.’ And ‘reita the drugs dealer.’ It varied from poking fun and making up the stupidest thing, to making you some cool guy who fought bad guys. It would always make us laugh, even though, i was making up these stories to friends who weren’t even necessarily in the fandom, because everyone who saw you once, knew your name and so knew who you were.

I wrote fanfiction, many in where you play a big part of the story, not as a love interest, but as a brother of a character based off of me. All because you once said in a radio show that you feel like you’d be a great older brother, hell did i take you up on that one.

I never got to see The Gazette live, i used to curse you all for skipping my country and forcing me to travel for 5 hours to see you all. In 2018 i was almost at that point, but i couldn’t go because of my exams and because i had no friends who wanted to come with me. I always promised myself: one day, i will see them.

It hurts me to realize that day will never come, at least you won’t be there anymore. I accidentally open instagram, and find a grief post written by Hiroto of Alice nine, in the hashtags your name. Shock, that’s the first thing i felt. I must be going crazy. But next up was Miyavi’s post and as i read that it slowly starts downing upon me, my heart sinks to my stomach and a lump forms in my throat as i rush to jrocknews to confirm they aren’t just playing a sick joke.

I start crying like most of the sixth guns, but only after i start reading the members messages. Why am i crying? We’ve lost a talented bass player who inspired so many people to also start making music. The world lost ‘the world’s Reita’ who was always poking fun at the drummer. The bookstores lost their most unexpected romance buyer. Many lost their source of love and joy. I’ve lost my fictional brother.

But most importantly, your actual family lost a loving family member who bought his mother an entire house to repay her for raising him well. The Gazette lost a member. Kai lost his fear during interviews of whatever you are going to say next. Ruki lost being in your personal space no matter how big the dressing room. Aoi lost the person who’s jokes he could laugh the hardest about. Uruha lost his longtime best friend, and now can no longer feel your heart racing before the show, nor can he feel your hand searching for his heart.

I hope everyones feelings reach you, i hope that whichever way you passed, was peaceful and without pain. I hope that whenever it is our time, you come in your mustang to pick everyone up. Usually as a driving instructor i call shotgun, but i’ll leave that space to your close relatives. That way i can’t judge you for turning around while parking, rather than using your mirrors.

Thank you for everything Reita, you will never be forgotten. Once my grief is gone, i promise to remember you with a smile rather than cry. I also promise to be a fan of The Gazette no matter what they decide to do now you’re gone.

And to whomever read my entire message, thank you for reading this unhinged post.

[nordickies]

Iceland Headcanon Masterpost!

Halló! It's time to update my Nordic 5 headcanons! I'm offering you this (way too long) master post of big and small headcanons I have for each family member, and first up we have Iceland

Note: My headcanons are just my interpretations of the characters. As a warning, I am known to drift away from the canon quite a bit when necessary, focusing more on history and culture. I love hearing how other people view these characters, especially if they contradict my ideas, so feel free to share them! Also, all my headcanons are free to steal - feel free to add them to your own interpretations

Read the whole list under the cut!

Physical Features

Iceland is the second "shortest" Nordic at 180 cm / 5' 11″

Iceland has a lean and soft body type, which lacks definition or muscle

He may not be physically strong, but his active lifestyle keeps him in good shape and makes him relatively enduring - he could hike up mountains without problem, while his older brothers (Denmark) would keep complaining the whole time

He has a birthmark on his right leg, below the knee, supposedly presenting the Vestmannaeyjar

He has a red spot on his forehead, that is teasingly called Surtsey

Iceland has ashy blonde wavy hair, which he keeps in its natural state. Though for formal occasions he tries to comb it to the side, which usually causes frustration in a hurry

He tried to grow facial hair once but got teased for it, and now he's too self-conscious to try it again

He has faint freckles on his nose and acne scarring on his forehead and cheeks. He also has bacne

Iceland has a tendency to get reddish skin. Whether it's the cold weather pumping his cheeks red or just a physical reaction to emotions. He often experiences windburns

He gets voice cracks more often than others

Personality

Iceland has always been very independent and free-spirited. He hates when others tell him what to do, even when it comes from a place of just trying to help

He values self-efficiency and has taken care of himself from a very young age. He's calm and composed, at least on the surface

He's a young nation and a bit childish. It's something his family loves about him but something he might get judged for in work-related settings

Ice has this innocence and child-like naivety. He follows the world news quite intensively nowadays but he can have a rather simple outlook on life and its problems. He can also be a bit reckless and inexperienced, like with finances, which might backfire occasionally

He's known to be the daredevil of the group. Also lacking common fears, such as the fear of heights, which let him remain calm in unexpected situations

He's a proud person but not arrogant. He's proud of his country and people; he talks about it with a big smile. He thinks he lives in the best place in the entire world and has a close relationship with his tight-knit population

Iceland is the type of person to make everything out of anything, both positive and negative. A small victory is a huge celebration, but a minor inconvenience can ruin his day

He's a bit blunt. He might accidentally say something rude but immediately realize it and be embarrassed. Iceland is very respectful and fears offending anyone

Ice is emotionally the most open and vulnerable of the Nordics and isn't afraid to cry if he needs to

He's also a bit hotheaded and gets frustrated easily, especially if things don't immediately go as he wants. Learning new skills takes him a while due to his bad temper

Iceland can be a loud personality who proclaims his space, at least with close friends and family. A trait he learned from Denmark. He just gets irritated when the other Nordics pester him, and he will let them know about it

He's extremely caring and always ready to help others, lending a hand even to complete strangers

If anyone takes the time off to go and visit him, it's a huge deal but also something that makes Iceland feel a bit anxious. It feels bad that a person dropped everything just to see him. But if people do it, Iceland will make sure to be a lovely host and welcome them with open arms

He may overreact to people having arguments or petty disagreements and he wants them to get resolved immediately. He hates seeing people angry and can make him emotional. Iceland is remarkably pacifistic and having grudges seem like a total waste of time; fighting always leads to the other side feeling bitter or hurt

He has a weird, even dark, sense of humor. He finds Hugleikur Dagsson's illustrations extremely funny

Iceland has no organization or time management skills whatsoever. He's very flexible when it comes to planning, but you can never be 100% sure that things go as you initially planned with him

Iceland feels stress from his position and fears of burning out. He's still fairly young and not that experienced, but he has difficulty talking about it in case his abilities are questioned

Iceland appreciates when people have trust and confidence in him. He feels like his skills are downplayed a lot, but he's actually very reliable and intelligent

Hobbies

Whenever he feels down, he goes to one of the local farms to take care of horses and sheep; they're therapeutic to him

He plays fiðla (Icelandic fiddle) but he's not particularly skilled at it. He still tries though, even if he's not musically talented. Iceland wants to preserve as many of his unique traditions as he can

Iceland had to learn how to make traditional sweaters (mostly Lopapeysas) because all of his friends kept asking for one. He usually gives them away as a birthday or Christmas present

Ice is a decent cook but not a creative one. He can make you a traditional meal without a problem but learning any new recipe can be time-consuming for him. He has done things this way for centuries, so being constantly introduced to new trends and ideas can be overwhelming to him. But Sweden is trying his best to help him out

Iceland doesn't like baking. He does enjoy pastries and such, but he doesn't have the patience or energy to make them. To him it's annoying to follow complicated recipes, the ingredients are expensive, it takes too much time and the kitchen is a mess afterward. He just doesn't get the appeal of the hobby

Ice likes all things weird and unusual, and he collects strange items and trinkets he comes across, like ceramics or just weird stones in nature

Growing up, he was rather sheltered and lonely. One way for him to ease that loneliness was by sending letters to various places, in search of a pen pal - and there are a few friends he made that way! Ice might still send letters on special occasions, and he remembers that time fondly

He's into photography, and has been into it for a while! He still has all his old retro cameras stored somewhere. His land is particularly picturesque, so Iceland is snapping photos quite frequently. He just adores his land and nature, and photos are just a great way to store memories

When the weather allows, he'll head outdoors for a beach picnic or hiking in the mountains. Out of the Nordics, he's the most used to bad weather and never complains about it. In his words, "There is no bad weather, only bad clothes"

Ice loves relaxing at the local spas, saunas, and hot springs. Recently he has developed a skincare routine, and he is trying to teach the rest of his family to adopt something similar too

Iceland knows a thing or two about football and handball. But other than that, he's out of the loop regarding sports - He just likes hiking by himself or trying ice and rock climbing!

Iceland is familiar with his local wrestling sport, Glíma, but he quickly realized that contact sports aren't his thing. His brothers might still teasingly challenge him into a match though

He's quite gifted at chess, being the land of surprisingly many chess grandmasters. He and Norway might play for hours if they have time to do it

Iceland is a fast and active reader with an impressive bookcase wall at home. He has read all the classics. He mostly likes gloomy fiction, Icelanders can just relate to cynical topics - and he likes historical sagas and poetry, of course

Fantasy is one of Iceland's favorite book and tv genres. Though he tends to point out all the inaccuracies relating to his country and culture, especially about the Vikings

Iceland also likes fantasy RPGs! He enjoys coming up with storylines and playing campaigns online with his teen-nation friends; it's an activity where his literature geek side gets to shine through

Iceland is a bit of a linguistic nerd. He speaks multiple languages and likes studying them. He is active in preserving his own native language as well

Lifestyle

He goes by the human name Eiríkur Ingólfsson, but his nickname is Eirí or Erik. Iceland doesn't know who his dad is, so he named himself after the supposed first settler of Iceland

Iceland is, of course, the youngest of the group and is in his early twenties. He was born in the late 9th century but developed very slowly throughout history. At the time of his independence, he was around 18 years old

Due to his job, Iceland finds it the most convenient to live in Reykjavík. To him, Reykjavík feels massive and busy, so he wouldn't mind living somewhere a bit more peaceful, like the Westfjords

He fears he has a heavy accent when speaking in English, but actually, he speaks the best out of all the Nordics due to his long historic connections to English-speaking countries. He also speaks Danish, and can therefore understand most Norwegian and Swedish. Other languages he has been exposed to throughout history are Gaelic, Latin, German, French, and Basque

Iceland is known for his weird customs and rituals, and he's still very superstitious. He believes in supernatural things and events, even when others might mock him for it. He, for example, believes in a lake monster (Lagarfljótsormurinn) and elves (Huldufólk)

Ice has his own secret spots where he likes to go hiking, swimming, and picking berries. He generally finds the tourist spots annoying and too crowded

He always carries chapstick with him and can't leave the house without at least one in his pocket

Ice loves the smell and taste of fresh coffee but can't handle caffeine. It just makes him more anxious and trembly. Thankfully there are decaffeinated options available nowadays

He enjoys soft, mellow music. Just a man and a guitar is enough. He has a long list of his favorite indie bands and artists

Iceland feeds and looks after birds, through which he has made adorable Puffin friends. They're curious and sociable animals, always cheering up his day

His favorite foods include traditional lamb or fish stews. Plokkfiskur with traditional Icelandic rye bread is also a classic. Maybe a bit hesitantly, he'll also admit that he does enjoy fermented shark, Hákarl, as a guilty pleasure. But quickly add that Pylsur are a classic Icelandic hotdogs everyone should try

Though he pretends to be super mature, he can't help but look forward to Fastelavn and most importantly, Bolludagur, every single year. And he drinks kókómjólk occasionally, to become stronger and not because chocolate milk tastes great

His house is hot because he is a bit sensitive to cold. When the other Nordics visit, they complain that his heater is turned all the way up

He likes celebrating national holidays, birthdays, and even little accomplishments. His favorite is the tradition of Sólarkaffi when the residents of a small village will come together for a coffee in the house where the first sun ray of the year lands

Iceland takes part in réttir every year on horseback! It's the annual roundup where people retrieve their sheep stock from the mountains and valleys. It’s a nationwide event, where people come together to play music, picnic outdoors, and help each other gather their sheep

Iceland, as a small remote country with no railway system, is used to traveling everywhere by car nowadays. At least if he needs to get out of Reykjavík

Iceland is a diva when it comes to sleeping. He needs block-out curtains, a warm room, no sounds, comfortable pajamas, and a soft cold pillow. Thus he dislikes sleepovers. He can get adjusted to anything once long enough time has passed, though he's definitely taking in all the luxuries of the modern age

Ice dresses up for practicality. It's better to bring too much clothing than too little, and you might catch him with a winter jacket well into the summer season. Back home, he's not too concerned with his style, but if he's visiting some other place or having guests over, he suddenly gets very conscious of what he'll wear. He fears that he dresses up too "old" at times, but instead, he gets a lot of praise for his clothes. He's probably so late on trends, that his clothes end up becoming fashionably vintage. Sweaters are his favorite, with a high-quality pair of outdoor pants and hiking boots

Relationships

Due to the far distances to the continent, Iceland often experiences loneliness. Iceland has spent most of his life alone or with his family, so he doesn't really have long-time friendships outside the Nordics. But he has a strong urge to make friends, preferably with other younger nations, as he's tired of being always treated like a child in his family. He tries his best to reach out to others, but his shyness occasionally hinders that. Due to his distance, Iceland doesn't travel as often as other Nations, and nowadays does most of his meetings online. Iceland takes his job very seriously and wants to prove his abilities. He's an active listener at meetings and follows the world news constantly. He hates fighting and isn't afraid to stand up against bullies. When he has a lot to say, he'll take the initiative (after trying to get others' attention for half an hour)

Denmark Iceland has a huge need to get away from Denmark and appear as independent as possible. Denmark has always acted like Iceland's guardian and still has difficulty trusting him with adult responsibilities. Ice thinks Denmark can take his role as a former guardian too seriously and fall back into the overprotectiveness he used to have. To Iceland, Den can appear very pigheaded and forgets Iceland has been independent for a while now and has his own culture and life. Den calls Iceland all the time and makes sure he's okay, which Iceland finds condescending. But, when Iceland needs "dad's help" with something, he's immediately calling Denmark in panic. Denmark can be pretty playful and teases Ice a lot (and bores him with dad jokes), but he's just proud of the kid and sees Ice as a brilliant young man. Den knows Iceland can be shy when trying things out of his comfort zone, so he pushes him to new situations for better and worse. The Copenhagen nightlife was more traumatizing than fun for reserved Ice, so now Denmark opts for simple board game nights at local Icelandic pubs with him. Ice gets self-conscious when visiting Denmark, fearing he will somehow embarrass himself with how he speaks or dresses up. In return, Denmark gets very defensive if someone is making Iceland feel uncomfortable (which Iceland sees as another form of overprotectiveness). But as long as Denmark doesn't come to tell him what to do, Iceland doesn't mind him. Growing up, Denmark was always the father figure young Iceland so desperately wanted. So he has to take Den's fatherliness, in both good and bad

Norway Norway has never been good at parenting or taking responsibility for others, so he has a lot of regrets concerning Iceland. He has always known Iceland is his brother but has never been able to connect with him. That doesn't mean he doesn't care about the kid; he absolutely does, but Nor just never found a way to claim that big brother status. Iceland can feel insecure with Norway - like he needs to prove himself and his capabilities to get his validation. He's afraid to ask for Norway's help in case he appears weak or Norway would somehow judge him (which he of course wouldn't). Norway's attempt to reclaim their lost bond is sometimes irritating to Iceland, even though he knows it shouldn't. He has lots of disappointing memories when it comes to his brother, which is the reason for his underlying insecurities. He fears Nor will abandon him once again On the other hand, Norway has always given Iceland the freedom Denmark never knew how to give. He took Iceland on long trips and taught him necessary life skills. Iceland adored Norway growing up, always choosing him over anyone else. He even got jealous if someone else took his brother's attention. When Iceland was nervous or unsure as a child, Norway would tell him fantastical stories and restore hope in him. Norway sees a lot of young himself in Iceland. He wants to make sure Ice has everything he needs and the tools to do better than he did in the past. Norway has difficulty putting his love in words, so he keeps buying Iceland stuff and asking if Ice has always got what he needs, which Iceland insists he has. Norway feels terrible that he wasn't there for Ice when he was still a small child. But Norway wouldn't have been much of a parental figure even if he had been with him. He still feels a sense of failure in this and tries to make it up for it nowadays. In order to build their relationship, they go camping and fishing together whenever possible. They tell stories and talk about the past. Iceland is fascinated by his roots, and Norway tries to help to the best of his abilities (but the fading memory isn't helping). They both have regrets and disappointments regarding their shared past, but they will always have that unique family bond no one can take away from them

Sweden While historically they have been pretty distant, Sweden has always worried about the kid and ensured that whatever dispute and fighting happens, it doesn't directly affect little innocent Ice. During Union times, Iceland was a bit scared of Sweden, but Sweden managed to get on Ice's good side with various toys he carved for him. Little Iceland occasionally guided practically blind Sweden around and told Denmark to stop bullying him. Iceland and Sweden have gotten closer during modern times, and Sweden usually takes the mentor role. Whenever Ice has a problem that he will definitely not bring up with Nor or Den, he'll go straight to Sweden. Iceland is always welcome at Swe's place, and Ice can always call for any troubles or issues he might have. Ice never says it out loud, but he does appreciate this. Sweden isn't pushy or obsessive about it but rather a trustworthy adult he can rely on. Sweden actually listens to him and offers some genuine advice as he trusts Iceland's ability to make decisions himself. Swe is always happy to see Ice, makes him his favorite foods, and offers him a room to stay. Ice can become a bit uneasy about this because he feels Sweden does so much for him and never expects anything back. He'll start working and cleaning around the place to show gratitude, and Sweden tries to stop him. Lately, Sweden has taken time to teach Iceland skills, like cooking, and they're slowly getting somewhere

Finland Finland and Iceland have the most distant relationship out of all the Nordics since they are on opposite sides of the region. Ice finds Fin cool, but even he can fall into parental-protection-mode like the rest of the Nordics. Finland is always lending a hand to Ice when needed. Iceland likes Moomins and asks Fin to bring him a new mug when he visits. On the other hand, Finland admires Icelandic nature and wants to try all the craziest activities (like having a barbeque on lava). Finland can relate to Iceland and bond over the fact that they're both considered strange within the family. They both have a morbid sense of humor, which the others sometimes find a bit concerning. During the union times, Finland was left out of discussions and decision-making, and he had to spend time working or taking care of the youngest members, like Iceland, probably bringing him along to work and taking care of chores. Care for animals is something that unites them both. Nowadays, they go camping occasionally, which is a lot of fun, and they always say they should hang out more often (but they never seem to have time to do so)

England Iceland doesn't have enemies, but he feels like he has always been England's target. In his eyes, England is a bully, and he doesn't respect Iceland (or many others, for that matter). England finds Iceland petty and immature, but he won't say it out loud; he has frightening big brothers after all. They have had many little disagreements throughout the ages. Little Iceland was known to be mischievous, and he would often prank England when he was visiting their house. The other Nordics found this hilarious but tried to stop Iceland before he could do any significant damage; they didn't want to embarrass their important ally, after all. The Cod Wars against the Brit were important for Iceland, even if others saw them as unnecessary. The victory offered a well-needed confidence boost and showed others Iceland was more than capable of taking care of himself

Ireland When it comes to other island nations, Iceland has nothing but nice words to say about them. They have all been very friendly and welcoming. Iceland is especially friendly with Ireland! Ireland and he share history, and Ice is fascinated by this. He might sometimes inquire Ireland and ask him questions about the past, which Ireland would gladly answer if he had much to offer. They both have harsh environments and rocky relationships with England, so they get along great on that front too

United States America is one of the few countries Iceland has historically interacted with. He was the first to recognize Iceland's independence and considers Iceland an ally he is always ready to support. Iceland isn't sure how it happened. Their relationship just started with young America claiming, "You're my friend now," and Iceland was too confused to say anything to that. America finds Iceland cool and shares a similar upbringing to him, though Iceland would disagree. Iceland is happy to know he has a strong ally like America, but he's not exactly sure what to think of him. America is an important business partner and someone who supports Iceland no matter what. But America has a very different status and lifestyle, and he can be oblivious to Iceland's life or problems, so their friendship is rather one-sided at times. Yet, they get along surprisingly well

Miscellaneous Iceland is a small nation that supports other small nations. He was among the first to recognize Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan from the USSR - also Croatia's and Montenegro's independence from Serbia. Significantly, Iceland was also the first Western state to recognize Palestine. His solidarity and recognition have given him a lot of praise among other small nations. They remember this by sending Iceland postcards and flowers occasionally, which Ice gets flustered by - He's just doing what he'd want others to do for him Iceland also feels a special connection to other younger nations, such as Seychelles, Latvia, and Hong Kong - and the South-East Asians, who have always welcomed him. Iceland has an easy time making friends and connections due to his friendly attitude. He's a well-connected Nordic, with strong diplomatic relationships that have over time turned into friendships. Ice might just stay a bit quiet and unnoticeable in a crowd. And he doesn't even seek any attention on himself. He's quite content with the way things are - he's just happy that he gets to finally do his own thing

And there it is, more or less copypasted from various sources haha. If you were wondering, no, I will never beat the insanity allegations because no sane person has this much to say about a fictional character. I adore Iceland, and it's always fun trying to find a balance between the awkward hotheaded teen and the well-read modest young man that he is. I was about to add my historic headcanons for him too, but maybe some other time, this is too much already

Next up is either Denmark or Sweden, let's see which one I finish first (and when)

[alteon77]

The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications: Chapter 9

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter One here, AO3 here, Masterlist here

When first he had discovered that May carried his child, after the initial shock had faded into something manageable, Morpheus had briefly (very briefly) entertained the idea that perhaps her pregnancy had been intentional. After all, such things were rare for both the Endless and makers, often requiring resolve from one or the other to spark a life into existence. 

The timing of the development had been entirely suspicious as well. All their many decades together and they had, until then, avoided the outcome of an unexpected pregnancy. He had suspected, as he grappled with the news, that May might have done something to allow this catastrophe, something to possibly even encourage the outlandishly low probability of his seed taking root. 

His consideration of these silent accusations had been far from his proudest moment in the course of their rather long relationship. He can admit that they had been far from his most generous either. The mere thought of what he had assumed of her now makes shame roil viciously in his stomach. 

If he had applied a little more sense to his reasoning at the time, he might have understood more clearly how ridiculous he was being then. To what end might she have orchestrated such a thing? What would she gain by having his child? As more and more of the dire circumstances surrounding her life outside the peace of the Dreaming are revealed to him, he's very quickly coming to the realization that by being pregnant, she is instead losing a great deal. Not gaining. No. Not anything so kind as that. 

Prior to learning of her part in crafting spells for the grimoire, Morpheus would not have even imagined her capable of something so deceptive. Simply put, he had thought differently of her then. In his eyes, she had never been the type to engage in manipulation nor the type to approach him with anything other than her usual straightforward bluntness. But now the knowledge of her betrayal tends to color his perception of her, leaving him to regard her in suspicion as he wonders what other secrets she might be keeping from him. 

And in hearing her thoughts, he had learned many of them, though none of her hidden truths had been what he might have guessed them to be. May is stricken with fear, overwhelmed and near hopeless with the way that it is consuming her. She's terrified at the prospect of having a baby given the current chaos of her life, terrified of bringing a child into a world where it will know wariness and struggle and running from those that would harm it, terrified of…

Terrified of him. 

The understanding that she views him as dangerous, as a threat, as nothing more than yet another enemy she must make herself safe from, stuns him. But then he wonders how he can blame her for such a belief given that while she carries his child, while she struggles under the weight of it, he offers her nothing more in return for this sacrifice than to heap the burden of his animosity atop her. He has driven her further and further into the throes of her anxiety when he thinks that he should instead be… assisting her in some way. That he has not been doing so is a failure on his part, a sorry dereliction that he knows he must address.

As he stands in the kitchen of the siblings' shared house, however, he attempts to rein in his wayward musings, focusing instead on the task at hand. 

That task being Viego's possible rescue. 

Granted, his concern at this moment is not for the maker. He had wanted to return immediately to the physician's office and wreak vengeance upon that loathsome creature, Viktor, who had so arrogantly dared to attack May. Morpheus would have gladly ended him during their confrontation, would have relished tearing him apart atom by atom, but May's sudden disappearance had forced him to follow her. In all honesty, he had assuredly panicked, more so when that strange hum had started up along the edges of his awareness, the one that he has come to associate with May drowning in the waters of the dreamscapes. 

He remains unsure as to how she had survived the shift and doubly unsure as to how she had broken through the surface of his sea, an aspect of his own being that she should not have been able to emerge from.  

Still, he cannot think of this now. Viego could be in danger. Not that Morpheus would typically care overly much whether or not the maker was in peril, but he had promised May to see to this, had promised even to save Viego if the situation called for it. 

And so Morpheus is intent on doing just that. 

The residence is empty, and as he glances around, he takes note of the usual orderliness of the place. Every chair, curtain, picture, and mundane knick knack is where it should be. As such, it certainly does not appear as if a struggle occurred here. He stretches his senses out, feeling past Viego's many magical shields and wards until he at last detects the signature of his power. Once that is found, it is less than nothing for Morpheus to locate him. Without wasting a moment, he shifts to an abandoned building on the outskirts of this town, and what he sees when he arrives utterly shocks him. 

There are a group of makers here, their clothes little more than tattered rags, their eyes shining with a terror that speaks of being hunted and hurt. Several of them are injured in various ways, from burns to bruises to weeping wounds that are scattered along the visible parts of their bodies. Viego is crouched before a small girl, and as Morpheus watches, he stretches one hand out towards her face as he wipes at the tears streaming down along her cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

"You're safe now, kid," the maker murmurs, his tone soothing in a way that Morpheus has never heard from him. It's odd to hear, this gentle attentiveness from one he thinks of as a monster.

"Mithrate," the child sobs before she shoves a fist against her mouth, presumably in an effort to silence herself. Mithrate is the maker word for mother, Morpheus knows, as May had taught it to him many years ago when they'd come across a whole family of her kind in the Waking. Has this child lost her mother? Has her parents died or been left behind? He cannot say. Normally, he has no difficulty feeling out through an individual's mind and parsing out at least some details of their life, but makers are different. Their mindscapes are vast, oftentimes unruly spaces where even the freshest, most traumatic events of their existence can be nearly impossible to find.

"I know, sweetling. I know." Viego's voice is low and smooth, and as the girl trembles with her sadness, he gathers her up into his arms before shushing her softly. His hand cups the back of her head as she buries her face into his shoulder, the fabric of the shirt there muffling her pitiful cries. 

The sorrowful moment is broken when Viego glances up and seems to notice at last that Morpheus is standing mere feet from him. In an instant, his previously sympathetic expression hardens into the impassiveness that Morpheus has come to expect from him. It doesn't stop the maker from carefully pulling away from the girl, from offering her a comforting smile as he takes her hand and walks her to another woman in the small group. Leaning closer to her, he relays something in hushed tones, and Morpheus thinks he hears the phrase watch over her, but he cannot be certain. 

It occurs to Morpheus then that Viego has helped these individuals escape from somewhere horrid, and in any other situation he might find such a thing commendable. In this one, however, he finds himself seething with rage. Is this how they found May? Had Viego's well-intentioned but careless actions here been responsible for the attack? 

Viego's manner when he stalks to where Morpheus waits is decidedly less pleasant than it had just been with the mourning child. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking weary and worn even as he levels an irritated glare at Morpheus. 

"What are you doing here, Dream?"

Morpheus' hands clench at his side in an effort to avoid visiting violence on the maker. Even the possibility that he might have been responsible for the risk May was put in is rage inducing to him. "Your sister," he begins roughly, "is in the Dreaming."

Viego's eyes narrow, all of him visibly tensing as if he's preparing for a fight before he walks past Morpheus.

"Not here," he relays brusquely as he gestures with two of his fingers that Morpheus should follow him, and Morpheus does as he's requested. From the fidgety state of the makers assembled here, he imagines it is not too large a leap to assume that Viego does not wish to expose them to their soon-to-be argument.  

After they've both made their way to a secluded spot between a stack of crates and a single wall of this building, Viego turns to him, worry writ plainly on his features. "What do you mean by that? What's happened? Is she okay?"

Morpheus cannot help his derisive scoff. "That is singularly amusing coming from you, given that your actions could very well have been what put her in danger this day."

Viego's jaw tightens. "My actions? My actions? The only reason she's even in harm's way at all right now is because you knocked her up and threw her out of your realm. And what the hell do you mean about her being in danger today? What happened?"

Morpheus feels that shame from earlier grow considerably, becoming more vitriolic inside of himself. Viego is… not entirely wrong. Had he not cast May from him, she would still be content to stay in the safety of the Dreaming throughout her pregnancy. But she had betrayed him, and so in this matter he knows that she is as least as responsible for their separation as he is. "Who is Viktor?"

The maker goes rigid, his shoulders bunching up as if he is readying for a physical blow. "Where did you hear that name?" he asks, his voice deepening to nothing more an emotional rasp, and it occurs to Morpheus that he sounds… frightened almost. "You need to tell me what the fuck has happened right this goddamned minute."

"Viktor is the name given to me by her would-be abductor only an hour or so ago. She is physically unharmed, but I cannot help the feeling that this utterly shortsighted undertaking of yours is what led them to her."

"It's not shortsighted, Dream. For fuck's sake, they're innocent people."

The anger that overwhelms Morpheus at that statement is nearly staggering, rising up within him so quickly that he worries he might retch with the suddenness of it. In a flash, he grabs hold of Viego's shirt, shoving him back into the wall of the warehouse behind him with so much force that cracks appear there. 

"And your sister? Our child?" he snarls. "Are they not innocent in all of this? And yet you might have condemned them to discovery by-"

Viego grasps at Morpheus' hands on him, no doubt trying to free himself from the ironclad restraint he's in. "Yeah. Let fuckin' go of me. You can stow that shit right now. I've been doing this for thousands of years, and they've never tracked us this way. Never."

"Tell me of Viktor, Viego. Who is he? What does he want with your sister?" At Viego's infuriatingly stubborn silence, Morpheus tightens his grip. "Speak. Or I will be forced to put my questions to her."

It's an empty threat, one that he would never follow through with due to the other devastatingly horrible thing he had learned from May's thoughts earlier. 

Namely that someone had cursed her by way of a memory spell. 

He's known for some time that something was affecting her remembrance of certain events, the curious dungeon nightmare having been an all too alarming testament to that, though he had not understood then why she should dream of her past and not remember anything of it in her waking hours. Today when that light had flared in her thoughts as she tried to recall who Viktor was, when her own mind had gone blank afterwards, he had understood the cause of her very specific forgetfulness in a revelatory second. And as he had, he had felt sickened to his core. 

Memory spells are intricate, malevolent things. They get inside of a victim and twine about their mind like some poisonous, invasive weed. And like a deadly weed, they have the ability to choke out anything near them, to render their host's thoughts into naught but a mess of nothingness. Sometimes even permanently, leading to an eternity of their sufferers being left as little more than a hollowed out shell.

Which is why that while Morpheus indeed requires answers as to what has happened to her, he would not press her for them. He will not risk her. He cannot risk her. And he is painfully aware that however he might wish to deny it, that sentiment is not due to the child she now carries. 

"She… doesn't know about… about him."

"By which you mean she does not remember him," Morpheus corrects in a growl. He'll have no half-answers from the maker concerning something as important as this.

Viego stops struggling, glancing away with so much heartbroken sorrow on his face that Morpheus finds his own hold of him slackening slightly. Viego does not discount his accusation, does not deny that her memories are compromised, and the implications of this render Morpheus nearly stricken. It's true. It's.... true. "Viego… What has happened to her memory?"

Mulishly, Viego's jaw clenches anew, and as he turns his attention back to Morpheus, his eyes are burning with fury. "It's none of your business. You gave up any right to that when you fucking banished her."

Morpheus' anger swells to match the maker's. "Need I remind you that she carries my child?" he hisses. "And you dare to say that I have no right to know who might bring harm to her? I will ask you only one last time, Viego. Who. Is. Viktor?"

"He's… He's the being who… assumed kingship of the Bloodless Lands," Viego supplies at last, "after… after our father was killed."

Morpheus huffs out a bitter, caustic laugh at this dissembling. Everyone in the supernatural community knows that it was Viego himself who ended Hadrius King, his own sire. "Am I to gather that you were unable to take the throne due to your part in murdering him?"

The guilt in Viego's expression is rather expected, but Morpheus still can't help the feeling that something seems... off about it.

"I was kicked out of the realm, okay? May… was left behind with… with him."

Morpheus feels as if the core of him, as if his very power itself, is twisting fearfully in response to this information. "For what purpose does he seek her now? Does he wish for her to fight in his-"

"No," Viego cuts in quickly. "It's… It's not that."

"Then explain all of this that I might better understand," he orders, the material clenched in his fist nearly disintegrating from both his power and his strength. "Elaborate, Viego."

The maker looks away again as if he cannot bear to meet Morpheus' eyes, as if he is ashamed, and an insidious wave of alarm skitters over the edges of Morpheus' awareness. What could be so horrendous that Viego is obviously troubled to even speak it aloud?

"I only know what… what I've heard as rumors. He… The… I've been told that he was trying to force a bond with her, to marry her so that his rule would be seen as more… legitimate."

Morpheus recoils, finally releasing Viego as he takes a step back from him. That vile creature seeks to… wed her? To force her into such a union? And all to solidify a claim to a throne? "Forced bonds… are impossible," he murmurs, the words tumbling from his mouth before he even has a chance to think on them. 

Viego straightens. "That didn't stop the crazy fucker from trying anyway."

Morpheus thinks he might retch, his imagination supplying him a disgusting batch of possibilities for how one might go about trying to accomplish something so heinous as forcing the twining of power, awareness, and very essences of two entities when one is unwilling. He knows, as appalling of a realization as it is, that such a thing would amount to little better than enslavement. 

"And what did these attempts… entail?" he asks in a harsh voice that he scarcely recognizes for all the panic within it, unsure as to whether or not he truly wants to hear what Viego might soon tell him. 

"That is actually none of your business. You found out what you needed to know. I gave you the who, why, and when. I abso-fucking-lutely refuse to go into the how with you."

It does not take a great leap of logic to understand in that moment that Viego likely knows exactly what was done to her, exactly what abuse was visited on her for the simple crime of who she was, and that he will share none of these details with Morpheus. "Her memory? Did he… Did he take that from her?"

"All I can tell you is that she was… really messed up afterwards, Dream."

That is a wholly unsurprising admission to Morpheus. That she had been messed up afterwards is not a fact he has any difficulty believing. She had apparently been through something horrific, through an ordeal that altered the very workings of her mind, and so Morpheus can very easily imagine that she had indeed been overwrought then. How has he never heard of this, never caught so much as a whisper of this catastrophe. Could she have even told him of it? Did she have any remembrance of these events at all? Would she have breathed a word of it to him were she able? Not for the first time that day, he feels as if he's failed her in some vague way that he doesn't understand, as if he should have done more for her despite that he hasn't the first clue of how to approach this. 

"How do we keep her safe?" Morpheus demands. This must be his concern now. His own maudlin musings aside, May is in very real peril, the kind that could see her taken or killed, and Morpheus knows that no matter what has happened in their past, he can never allow such a thing to come about in their present. 

"The same way I've always kept her safe. We'll go to ground." Viego glances towards the direction where the survivors are. "I'll get these guys to the next checkpoint and start setting up new identities for us. Our old ones are obviously compromised."

"Perhaps while you manage this, it might be prudent for her to stay with me in the Dreaming."

Viego seems to study him then, his brow furrowing as he blatantly scrutinizes Morpheus. "She's… really not going to like that."

"Have you a better suggestion?"

A look of pure defeat crosses the maker's face before he sighs. "No. I don't."

"It would be safer for her to remain there permanently. If you could persuade her to make her home in my-"

Viego holds up a hand, palm out as if to urge him to stop. "You and I both know she's not going to do that, Dream. Not anymore."

"No.... I suppose she will not." Resignation churns inside Morpheus' mind at that bleak acceptance. He knows all too well that May distrusts him, that she might always distrust him, but he knows not how to change her views regarding this belief of hers. 

"Not unless the two of you patch things up," is Viego's hesitant response, and Morpheus fixes him with a wary stare despite how shocking the words are. 

"Viego-"

"Just listen. Things are bad between you guys, but they're not so far gone that they can't be fixed."

As much as Morpheus might dislike Viego (loathe if he's being less generous) the sound of hope in the maker's voice is still bittersweet. That he thinks there is anything remaining to fix in the aftermath of the blazing inferno that destroyed May and Morpheus' relationship is strangely and foolishly optimistic of him.  After all, it matters not that Morpheus loves her still. She has betrayed him, deceived him, and in doing so set fire to what they had. Everything between them has burned away to ashes so that there is nothing left of their relationship to save. Resolutely, Morpheus tells him, "Your sister and I are finished."

Viego snorts out a laugh as if what Morpheus has spoken is an absurdly humorous lie. "Says the entity that slips into her room every night to watch her sleep."

Which… Yes, he is not incorrect regarding that. Morpheus does regularly observe her as she rests, but he has a valid reasoning for doing such a thing. "She is suffering from nightmares, and I merely wish to-"

"Yeah. I don't buy that for a second. And I don't think you do either. You loved her. You loved her more fiercely than I think anyone ever has."

"An irrelevant conclusion given that I love her no longer." The second it is out of his mouth, Morpheus knows it to be false. In truth, he worries at times that he will never free himself of the love he has for her, that he is cursed to always feel this crushing wave of sentiment for a woman that had hurt him so gravely. 

"Really? That's… You know what? Just never mind. Tell yourself whatever you want."

He does not address that, feeling incapable of even putting to words the complicated knot of emotions he has concerning May and how fervently he still cares for her. "After your task here is complete, you might come to the Dreaming. She will likely take the news of her necessary stay there more readily were it to come from you."

"Of course."

Morpheus feels himself falter. The concession he is soon to give is a difficult thing to come to terms with, one that he is regardless driven to make. He tells himself that he does not do this out of love but more out of practicality. May is quite obviously ill, worn down both emotionally and physically from the toll of the recent upsets in her life. All of which, he's painfully aware, stem from her pregnancy, a condition she neither sought out nor seems to want much to do with now. He owes her more help than the nothing he has currently supplied to her, and while this gesture will not mend things between them, it might reduce some of the strain of what she's grappling with. 

 "If you should like to visit while she resides with… in my realm, then I would not be opposed to you doing so. It would… likely lessen her fears to maintain contact with you, to know that you are hale and whole. I am aware that she worries when the two of you are separated."

"And you're… cool with that?" Viego questions in audible disbelief. It is  a fair reaction, Morpheus thinks, since he has never been exactly welcoming where Viego's occasional appearances in the realm were concerned.

"I would not have offered otherwise. I… do not wish for her to be anxious during her time in the Dreaming."

Though the truth is slightly more complex than that. In all honesty, he does not wish for her to be anxious in any place she might be, but given that Viego is staring at him as if to say see, you love her still, Morpheus is unwilling to confess this to him. Thankfully, the maker does not draw attention anew to the matter of Morpheus' feelings for May or how much this reluctant invitation smacks of the selflessness inherent in love. 

"Then… yeah. I'll, uh… I'll try and stop by every day if that's okay."

The sound of the little girl crying ratchets up again, drifting across the warehouse to reach them both where they're at, and Morpheus allows Viego a small nod as he prepares to leave. "Very well. I will return to your sister and see you shortly."

On the pier in the Dreaming Sea, May sits and stares out at the water. There's a faint blue-green glow coming from the sky here, the galaxies and stars above shining where they spin slowly, lazily amidst the darkness above her. Thick plumes of fog roll in from the sea all around, and May watches the way that the wisps of it rise and roll and undulate against the surface as she tries to muddle through her own wildly unsettled thoughts. 

She had known upon first discovering her pregnancy that she had completely and irrevocably fucked up, but the events of the day have only driven that point home to her with all the force of a goddamned sledgehammer being wielded by the Hulk. Comfortable as she tends to be with owning up to her mistakes (and she has had lots of practice with those in her very long life), the realization that the baby growing inside of her could actually be one is a bitter pill to swallow. What kind of mother can she even be given that she can glance down at where her child is growing and think: Oops, probably shouldn't have done that?

The truth is that she's always wanted kids, always wanted little ones of her own to raise with all the love she never got as a youth herself, but faced with the possibility of actually having a baby in the near future, she can't help but to wonder if maybe that was… selfish of her. It doesn't feel like a particularly good or even acceptable reason to bring a kid into this world, especially given how royally fucked everything in her life is at the moment. 

The air gets heavy behind her, the atoms there swelling with the telltale energy of a shift, and May turns back just as Morpheus materializes there. 

"Is Viego-"

"He is well," Morpheus cuts in as he walks to where she is and sits gracefully beside her, mere inches of space between them. To be completely fair, though, the pier is on the smallish side in terms of width, so she guesses she can understand the lack of distance now. He draws his knees up and rests his wrists on them, staring out at the sea just like she'd been doing only minutes before. "He will arrive soon to speak with you concerning your temporary living arrangements."

Temporary living arrangements. May's stomach twists so violently that she has to swallow down bile. Though she might occasionally do idiotic things, she is, in fact, not an idiot. And she knows all too well what Viego's probably going to tell her. "What are you talking about," she asks anyway. 

Morpheus hesitates, as if he doesn't want to say whatever he's about to, and that alarm she's feeling kicks up to eleven billion on a scale of one to ten. His voice softens fractionally as he answers, "You will need to remain in this realm for a time while your brother establishes a new residence for you both."

Tears gather in her eyes as she glances away, unwilling for him to see how truly terrified by that prospect she is. Staying here? In this place? It's not that May hates the Dreaming. Not at all. It's actually quite the opposite. Once, she had loved it here, had known peace and happiness and safety for the first time in her life within the walls surrounding this realm. But that's really the problem with being thrust back into it, isn't it? Her emotions already feel like they're being held together with the thinnest thread imaginable, and she's afraid that having this memory of what almost was, this stupid dream of hers, taken away again might just tear through that thread like the fragile, delicate thing it is.

"I… see," she murmurs just to fill the sudden awkward silence. She tries to keep her voice even, tries to force herself calm though the slight wobble she can hear in her voice is probably a dead giveaway to him of how she actually feels about this. 

"I am sorry if this is… disagreeable to you." He sounds so genuine, so soothing, that her tears start to well up faster and then fall down her face. Hastily, she wipes at them. 

"Yeah, well it's not your fault that there are makers after me," May offers with a sniff. She keeps her gaze focused on the distance in an effort to avoid him, embarrassed that he might catch sight of her crying. It's not so bad, right? It's just for a little while, and shacking up with her ex isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to her. Not that she can honestly remember what that worst thing is, but she's sure there was something. It's more like she just knows she's been through a very terrible ordeal at some point in her existence. 

"Yes… Viktor is assuredly a threat."

Confused, May looks over at him. "Who?"

Morpheus goes still, guilty like a kid that's been caught with a can of spray paint in their hands next to their parents' spray painted car. "I… No one. It is nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Viktor. Viktor, he had said. She turns the name over and over in her mind. It seems so… familiar for some reason, like she ought to know instantly who that is. 

A memory flashes in her head, something painful and violent that rips through her thoughts with all the lethal ferocity of a serrated blade coming down hard onto her. 

(Blood coating her thighs. The bite of too-tight shackles about her wrist. Her screams muffled in the suffocating fabric of the gag shoved into her mouth. A man's voice taunting her as she cries. The thought that she would gladly accept death over what was being done to her in that moment.)

"Vik… Viktor," she breathes out, a feeling of desolation taking root in her stomach and wrenching it savagely. 

A white light creeps into her thoughts, slow and steady until it flares brightly, washing away everything in its brilliant shine. She hears Morpheus inhale sharply, and when she glances at him, he seems… wrecked. There's a suspicious shine to his soft blue eyes, and he's regarding her like he wants nothing more than to reach out and embrace her. 

What the hell had they been discussing that's got him this worked up? They'd been talking about… about…. It's hard to concentrate for some reason, and it takes her several long minutes of intense focusing before she eventually remembers that they'd been on the subject of her stay here. 

May frowns, thinking that he's probably just as nervous about the idea of all this as she is, that for all his repeated invitations to come and live here, he might actually be just as put off by the idea of sharing a roof with an ex as she is. His hand twitches, and May has the strangest feeling that he wants to touch her, that he wants to take her into his arms and comfort her even. It must be instinct for him, something he's actively fighting against. It had been his habit to do that in the past, to gather her up and console her when she got too overwhelmed, and she is definitely overwhelmed right now. 

Despite that the thought of an embrace is all too tempting, May's glad that he doesn't try to offer her that kind of solace then. 

After all, she doesn't really know how she'd handle that. Hell, she doesn't even know if she could handle that in this moment. All of her feels brittle, like she's a vase made of the shoddiest, most breakable glass, sitting on the edge of a counter as the ground shakes from a fucking massive earthquake. One more tremor, and she's going to topple over, probably just to shatter into a million pieces when she hits the floor. 

"Right. I…" She scrambles for the words in her mind, for the correct thing to say that might somehow make this whole shitty situation less horrible. "Thank you for opening your home to me."

He tenses visibly. "It is not only… my home, May. We will share a child, and as such you will always have a place here."

It's only with a gargantuan effort that she doesn't scoff at him for this. He'd offered her this realm once before. When he'd proposed, he'd gotten down on one knee in front of her and promised he would love her for eternity, that he would make her his queen and that this… this splendid world would be her kingdom as well as his. That was before he'd changed his mind and thrown her out of it like trash, of course, before he'd judged her past actions and found her wanting. 

"Don't say that. Don't ever say anything like that again," she snaps, her heart beating faster and faster in a furious staccato as anger rises within her. How dare he. How dare him place that possibility in front of her like it's just the most plausible thing in any world. Doesn't he understand how pathetically hopeful it makes her? Does he really not get that it reminds her of things she's trying desperately to never ever think of? She had his love, and they were content. Her future had been beautiful, and now they're apart despite the fact that she can't even remember why that is most days. 

"It is merely the truth of the matter."

"No. The truth of the matter is that this isn't my home. I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere, Morpheus."

And that, she thinks, is much closer to honesty than whatever bullshit he'd just been trying to sell her. He'd cast her out, had flung her away from his life and this realm like she was just a speck of filthy mud on the bottom of his boots, and there's no coming back from that. For either of them.

"I understand that-"

"You don't understand anything," May interrupts, unwilling to listen to his serene calm while he lies to her about how things are now. Her body trembles with the blazing inferno of everything going on in her head. She's fucking heartbroken, heartbroken and afraid. There are literally people trying to kill her, and he's dangling the prospect of being able to leave that behind forever over her like it's the universe's juiciest steak and she's just a starved dog. 

"You are frightened," he goes on, studying her as if he's trying to figure her out, as if the idea that she's scared shitless is surprising to him or something. 

May feels the air rush out of her lungs when she recoils slightly.  "Of course I'm frightened, Morpheus. I'm powerless right now and… and I'm at your mercy. You. The same entity that cast me out like I was nothing and very clearly hates me. Add that into the fact that there are insane makers trying to fucking enslave me, and I'm…. It's not exactly an ideal spot to be in, okay?"

A normal man might leave it, might wander off and give her a minute to process the enormity of how terrifying a turn everything in her life has taken, but not Morpheus. Oh, no. The universe, in its infinite wisdom and all around assholishness, can't even allow her to have that. 

"I have told you before as I will reiterate anew: I do not hate you. It would perhaps be for the best if you disabuse yourself of that notion immediately." There's an edge of frustration to his tone, like she's being annoying by thinking his actions couldn't spell out hatred any more plainly than they do.

"Yeah, sure."

"As you well know, I do not often bother with lies."

May scoffs, and it's a bitter, hollow sound. "You're saying that to me? Me? When you've lied to me more times than I can count?"

"Of what do you speak?" His voice is low enough that it's practically little more than a growl.

"You don't do to someone that you love what you did to me. So, I know now every time you said that, every time you confessed your love for me, you were really just bullshitting."

He rears back as if she's smacked him. "You… cannot truly believe this."

"I don't just believe it, Morpheus. I know it."

Magic starts to filter in on the pier behind them, the molecules growing denser and denser as it does. Morpheus, however, does not turn his attention towards the disturbance, instead keeping his intent gaze on her, his eyes burning with some emotion that she can't name. It almost looks like regret or longing or sorrow or maybe just a mishmash of all those things together. 

And May just resolutely ignores it, getting to her feet as the blanket tumbles from her shoulders to land in a heap on the wood planks beneath her. Not far from her stands Viego, and she doesn't waste a second in going to him, in wrapping her arms around his neck so that she can cling. Viego is safe. Viego has always been safe, and the relief she has at knowing he's okay is the best thing ever amidst all the contradictory feelings currently threatening to overtake her. 

He gathers her up in one of his big bear hugs, dropping a kiss in the tangled mess of her hair. "I'm fine, sis. Dream told me what happened, though. Are you all right?"

No, she's not all right. Why does everyone seem to think she should be? Why the hell do they all keep asking her that? May disentangles from him. "Of course I am," she lies anyway. 

His answering grin is a wide one for all that she can see how fake it is, like he's putting on a mask of playfulness for her benefit. "Fibber," is his teasing accusation. 

It surprises a small laugh out of her, and she's so caught up in her happiness at the small win of Viego not being dead, in seeing that he's well, that she almost doesn't notice as Morpheus stalks past the two of them. 

"Viego," he starts, his voice rough, "I will see you on the morrow," he throws out over his shoulder, the energy of a shift amassing around him.

May frowns at Morpheus in complete confusion. "Wait… What?"

"I have invited your brother to visit you here. I thought this compromise might lessen your anxiety concerning this situation."

He had…. He had invited Viego? He hadn't even liked to do that when they were happy and in love. And now he's offering it just because... because she's stressed? It doesn't make any sense. "I… Do you mean that?"

Finally, he turns back, his eyes meeting hers, softening somehow in a gentleness that makes her breath catch. She's taken aback by how haunted his expression seems, by how much sorrow is coming off of him in great shuddering waves of sheer melancholy. 

"I would not have spoken it had I not meant it, May." 

And then he's gone, leaving her behind to stare at where he had just been, a sharp pain radiating out through her heart as if something between them has been sundered anew. She tells herself that it's not her fault, though, and that it really doesn't matter. After all, things are already broken between them beyond repair. What's one more crack in the demolished foundation that their relationship had been built on? Maybe he had loved her in the past, but right now… Right now they are very much in the present, and she has way bigger things to worry about than upsetting him. 

For some reason, however, none of her attempts to convince herself otherwise actually do much about that dull, throbbing ache in her chest, the one that reminds her curiously enough of heartbreak.

Tag list: @julesandro @cozystorynook

If anyone else wants to be added to this list, let me know. I hope you all enjoyed this!!! <3

[arrenkae]

Veil status: guarded

I'll write more about my overall impressions on the game later, but the ending? The ending was great.

(ignore the after-credits scene)

Unless you truly hated this game, it improves the experience by a mile. I still remember how underwhelmed I was by the final boss fight and ending in Inquisition (without Trespasser). Didn't expect such a strong final act from modern Bioware. Was pleasantly surprised. Yes, it's cinematic and flashy and very mass effect-ish, but in all the best ways.

More spoilery stuff:

SUICIDE MISSION! It's such a great way to structure the final mission and I'm glad that Bioware brought it back

But I also love how it makes you go "ah yes the suicide mission, I did all the companion quests so they will be fine" and some of them turn out to be not fine

I was spoiled about Davrin/Harding choice and was prepared to hate it but it kind of works? It's not an obvious "who will die" choice like Virmire, if you weren't spoiled it's kind of an unexpected gut punch

Yes I sent my waifu Harding to her death because Rook needs to suffer and Davrin's arc about finding meaning in life beyond sacrificing himself would be too depressing if he died (also Harding could still possibly survive with her titan powers)

But then I realized that if Harding dies you don't even get the final romance scene? They didn't even get to hold hands??? At first I was mad, but I ended up liking how it went. It was sad and deliciously tragic and possibly more interesting than watching an underwhelming PG sex scene bc otherwise romance in this game is kind of meh

Also if you avoid metagaming it's a nice callback to the beginning of the game: Harding got hurt when she went with Rook, and this time you send her away to keep her safe and she gets killed. BUT!! BACK THEN SHE REGRETTED NOT TAKING THE SHOT AND NOW SHE TOOK THE SHOT see it's like poetry it rhymes

Varric twist was great. Say what you will, I love it. It all makes sense in retrospect, and it makes you retroactively see a lot of things in a different light as well, including Rook. Also I don't think it could be ruined by someone mentioning him? I got an impression that everything related to his death was supressed, Rook straight up has false memories.

Fade prison gave me chills. I love how at this point in the game you start seeing more and more cracks in Rook's cheerful facade, how much insecurity and fear and grief they are hiding without even realizing it. With Harding's death, Rook has to deal with losing two of their closest people, and they still have to push through their grief and save the world. I think the entire final part made me appreciate Rook a lot more as a character, and if I get around to replaying it I'd probably see them in a whole new light.

Boss battles were kind of easy but still fun. Not even mad about not getting to fight the final archdemon, the fight between it and giant wolf Solas made for a nice backdrop and I loved seeing Solas trashed (also not too fond of dragon fights in this game anyway)

LOVE how much of an asshole Solas is, finally living up to his "trickster god" repuation. Love how much of a Solas hater you can be right until the end. Loved having different options on the table, all perfectly valid, without redemption being pushed on you as an obvious "good ending". Tricking him felt so good. GET REKD YOU EGG

Inquisitor was SO obviously there just for the solavellan ending. There's literally no other reason for them to appear. I don't know what was the point in pretending otherwise.

WHATEVER IT TAKES yeah yeah we got that

Morrigan deserved better

Seriously, ignore the after-credits scene

[beyondxmeasure]

Beaches, boardwalks and other summer vibes...

Near You Now

8K | Explicit | Larry | Strangers to Lovers | Online Dating | PWP | Grindr AU

When a leaky bathroom sink turns into a minor flood, Harry has to act fast. So, he thinks of the closest (and most unlikely) way to find home repair help… Grindr. The last thing he expects from this quick fix is to find anything long-term.

Climbing the Swells

6K | Explicit | Larry | Enemies to Lovers | Surfer AU | Smut

One surfer out of his depth makes a bold move and an unwelcome entrance amongst some territorial locals. After things go terribly wrong, another surfer reluctantly takes mercy on him, offering some first-aid and unexpected hospitality aboard his nearby Airstream. A couple dimples and a few wayward curls go a long way to soften one surly local, and what started out a rough morning becomes a very sunny spot to the day.

Or… The one where a clumsy Harry and a stubborn Louis reconcile their grievances on the beach, with a heartfelt apology from Louis on his knees without saying a word.

I Know You Rider (Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone)

9K | Teen+ | Larry | Strangers to Lovers | 1990s AU | Single-Rider Line AU

Waiting in line at the Big Dipper, one angsty skater punk gets paired with a chilled out hippy boy, by way of a single-rider line. Together they ride one of Cypress Gardens’ oldest wooden roller coasters. Will this easy-going stranger in tie-dye make Louis forget his fear of heights, or turn their rickety ramble into a nightmare on steel wheels? Either way, it will be a ride Louis won’t soon forget.

Or… The one where Louis hates hippies and roller coasters and Harry tries to fix that with lots of fun facts, terrible puns and perhaps one very life-changing moment in a dark tunnel.

🍋 Part 2 is coming soon...ish! [*insert Louis 'soon means soon' GIF here…* 🤷😅]

I Gave Up Hope and Found You Instead

14K | Teen+ | Larry | Strangers to Lovers | Pirates AU | Fisherman Louis | Fluff/Angst/Hurt/Comfort

The entire village warned him not to go. Still, the peculiar boy from Eroda set sail on an odd-numbered day and, without knowing it, headed straight into the OFMD universe. While being held captive aboard the pirate ship Revenge, the boy meets a fisherman named Louis.

Tasked by the captain to teach the reluctant boy to fish, Louis struggles to hide his frustration and hold his tongue. As difficult as it was to deal with this clumsy stranger, the skilled fisherman had worse assignments and more unpleasant partners, but none of them with a smile as bright as this peculiar boy had. A moment of unexpected distress catches them off guard, and both soon find out it’s much easier to catch feelings than fish.

Freedom Always Comes With a Price

101K | Explicit | Larry | Lovers to Friends to Lovers | Memory Loss | Non-Linear Narrative | Angst, Fluff & Smut

A shared dream brings them together onto the X-factor stage, but one decision changes Harry and Louis’ lives overnight. Thrust into a world of instant stardom, they’re forced to live a lie to sustain their dreams, but years of living in the shadows and under strict management take its toll.

With the band’s impending hiatus, there’s no better time for change, so they think.

Desperate for a solution, they turn to an unlikely source with a radical plan. An unfortunate accident sets everything in motion, but not how they intended. Leaving Louis’ memories altered, Harry broken-hearted and full of regret.

Can Harry figure out a way to fix everything? Will he even want to once he sees how Louis moved on after the hiatus? Will Louis ever find out the truth of their past, and can he forgive Harry after all this time?

In the end, two friends find out that memories are elusive, trust is everything, and love is the only antidote.

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[ruvviks]

i have been enabled by my dearly beloved @steelport to write a blorbo post about the latest addition to bones' extended cyberpunk blorboverse so without further ado, Dilf Time >:^)

Ambrose Hawthorne is an important asset at Arasaka Security. As of 2077, he has 22 years of experience under his belt, having worked for the corporation since age 23; though his career path has taken some unexpected turns further down the line.

Ambrose spent ten years working for Internal Affairs. He mostly provided security to existing Arasaka facilities in Night City and occasionally oversaw business affairs on location or did some bodyguard work on the side. After a heroic solo takedown of a group of ex-Arasaka hitmen holding an entire division hostage, he kickstarted his career at Special Ops.

A new division was created within Special Ops, focused entirely on managing and monitoring ex-Arasaka people and rogue employees. They worked together closely with Internal Affairs as well to keep an eye on current employees to step in at the earliest sign of insubordinate behavior (the same kind of methods which, many years later, got Vitali and his boss fired after the latter ordered him to kill Susan Abernathy).

Ambrose himself was sent out into the field to deal with rogue employees and dangerous ex-Arasaka individuals; this caused him to rapidly become known as “the Reaper” on Arasaka grounds and within other Megacorporation circles. Ambrose believed he was contributing to the safety of the public; yet later it turned out he was mostly keeping Arasaka’s business safe and secured, preventing scandals from leaking to the public, and tying up loose ends.

While once dedicated to the cause, Ambrose started losing his spark rather quickly the less “human” people began treating him; he was seen as nothing but a pawn in a large game of chess, tossed around to wherever he was needed to keep Arasaka at the top of the charts; his reputation preceded him and people feared him more than they wanted to get to know him to the point he became a very lonely man over the span of his eight years at Special Ops. On top of that, his body could no longer keep up with his constant injuries and several cybernetic enhancements later he found himself battling early stages of cyberpsychosis.

Ultimately, above described events led to his retirement from Special Ops at the age of 41; following a devastating ex-Arasaka cyberpsycho attack, Ambrose needed to have his spine replaced by cyberware after shielding a young girl from an incoming attack. After his slow recovery, he turned to Mission Oversight and adopted the girl, Rei, as his daughter.

Four years into Mission Oversight, Ambrose knows his time at his simple and boring desk job is running out. Arasaka wants him back in the field, more than anything now that their new program- which he would have been one of the test subjects of, had he not retired from Special Ops- is showing serious cracks with rogue assets running around freely. Ambrose does not want to go back into the field, knowing he’s at risk of falling back into cyberpsychosis; Rei is not independent yet and with nowhere else to go for her he doesn’t want to risk her ending up all alone a second time, and he doesn’t want her to fall into Arasaka’s hands either.

Following the escape of not one but two of Arasaka’s assets, Ambrose is put back at the top of Special Ops and is forced to lead the operation to get the assets back.

– SOME ADDITIONAL FACTS BECAUSE I CAN’T SHUT UP.

Ambrose has a pink cybernetic eye, with a heart shaped pupil! It’s outdated but very reliable Kiroshi tech and he refuses to get it replaced with something more modern, liking the almost retro-y look of the additional outer plating and visible bolts around his eye socket and temple.

That being said, he is a bit of a boomer sometimes when it comes to the latest technology. His own cyberware is all from older generations and despite working for Arasaka, he’s got a very modest little apartment with Rei with the single most ancient electronics you can find in the entire city. His dishwasher is essentially prehistoric.

Another interesting piece of cyberware would be the skeleton-like segments covering the fingers of his right hand, his knuckles and the back of his hand. On top of it just looking neat as fuck, he can punch people harder with it AND it doubles as some sort of stabilizer. His right hand is very unstable as a result of trauma from an incident in his past and the cyberware helps him keep this under control more.

Ambrose has a couple of tattoos: a scythe on his inner left wrist which he later added a bunch of flowers to, Rei’s name on his inner right wrist, a butterfly behind his ear, and an intricate tattoo of all sorts of nature elements covering his left side and his left thigh.

He and Rei live in the south of Santo Domingo, near the dam. Because of corporate drilling and other work done on and around the dam, they have to deal with regular power outages. Their apartment is decorated with a bunch of battery powered lights as a result.

Ambrose has been single for most of his life. He messed around in college a little bit but most of that died down rather quickly when he started working for Arasaka and he’s not really had the time for dating ever since. Adopting Rei was mostly an impulsive decision; but it is simultaneously the best decision he has made in his entire life and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[perecreate]

Never-stopping Screams: The Silence of the Lambs 

Although you might feel that it’s very out of place to write about this film around the time of new year, please excuse me. I must talk about this classical film as I was just completely blown away while watching it. The Silence of the Lambs (1991), directed by Jonathan Demme, is an American psychological horror film that not only performs a fascinating fright to its audience, also exposes numerous societal issues that today’s U.S. is still undergoing. Sexism, child neglect, abuse of power, lack of support on mental health, a list we can continue for days and nights. 

To call The Silence of the lambs a psychological horror film, it definitely earns its title. The film does not rely on visuals to receive feelings of fear from its audience, instead, the anxiety rises when the unsettling dialogues occur between these two characters. Almost all the conversations between Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster) and Hannibal Lecter (Anthony Hopkins) are really the sources that frightens people up. Every converse they make comes to be the most unexpected with almost endless intelligence competitions at all time. Maybe some did notice, but I never thought the word “covet” that supposedly used in a philosophical kind of conversation, is such an essential term leading to the finding of the killer Buffalo Bill (Ted Levine). I feel the need to say that, without the character of Hannibal Lecter, this film wouldn’t have achieved so well with its psychological horror. As a seemingly gentle person, it is hard to imagine Lecter as a criminal if he doesn’t make his first appearance inside of a high-security prison. He seems way too tender to be bloodthirsty, until he becomes invasive with his words, as if trying to bring out all the discomfort within one; the last second he acts polite to Starling, the next he begin saying: “You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube…you're not more than one generation from poor white trash.” Spitting out offensive language while with the same smile on his face–the fear Lecter can bring out indicates his quality as a professional psychiatrist and cannibalistic murderer, as he can always get to the bottom of people’s hearts both psychologically and physically. 

Aside from its great characters, The Silence of the Lambs constantly implies numerous societal problems, especially sexism through shots of the same motif–the direct camera gazing into Starling—suspectful of her worthiness to take on a professional job because of her identity as a woman. Starling has been, throughout the entire film, passively accepting people’s gazes as she is seen not qualified for jobs given to her, not because of her ability. She does not get to participate in an important exchange of information involving Buffalo Bill, as Crawford thinks “sex crime has certain aspects. I’d just as soon discuss in private. You know what I mean?” while looking back at Starling. Then when the doubtful gazes temporarily stops, Starling will have to deal with sexual messages coming from her intelligent male coworkers. 

Sexism is only one of the most discussed topics in The Silence of the Lambs. And the complexity of this film can hardly be expressed with my poor use of language; There are just way too many fruits hiding within it, therefore I won't say no more other than just one more sentence--please watch The Silence of the Lambs.

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