#etheric warfare

[redvexillum]

A/N: Kit, how dare you issue a challenge? I'mma come over and cough all over.... your keyboard! That's right! Biological warfare baby! Jks. I can't get out of my bed, lol.

SUMMARY: Every year on Christmas Eve, you meet Lucifer, your mentor. He regales you with tales from down below, and despite the passing years, you realize that your love for him has never faded.

TAGS/WARNINGS:  f!reader, soft sex, p in v, angel!reader, naive!reader, virgin!reader, first time reader, touchstarved!lucifer, cunnilingus, fingering

Laughter drifted like silken ribbons through the crisp evening air, weaving its way seamlessly into the chorus of crackling firewood and the quiet hum of the night. Above, the stars gleamed with a fractured beauty, like shattered jewels scattered across the inky sky. Each flicker was a ghost of light from stars long gone, their brilliance enduring even after their death—a poignant reminder of their fragility and their fleeting splendour of existence. 

The fire before you burned steady, casting warm golden halos against the encroaching chill. The scent of smoke mingled with the earthy aroma of wood, laced faintly with a sweetness that teased the edges of memory. Enveloped in the soft cocoon of your snowy white wings, you dared a glance at the figure across from you. 

Lucifer. 

He was once your mentor, your guide into the delicate art of creation—the delicate skill of weaving light, life, and beauty into existence. Even now, after his fall, he sat there with the same ethereal glow, though tarnished in the eyes of Heaven. His rosy cheeks, flushed as though kissed by frost, and his gentle smile felt like the warmth of a distant sun. 

Yet, the whispers of his past lingered like shadows. The Seraphs spoke in riddles, never fully divulging the sin that led to his fall. He had become the emblem of rebellion, the cautionary tale told to every fledgling angel. To humanity and the choir of angels, he was the harbinger of evil and sin. 

But to you? 

He was still him. 

“Want a s’more?” His voice broke the spell of your thoughts, warm and smooth, carrying a hint of playful curiosity. He held out the human treat, the graham crackers precariously balanced between fingers that had once wielded the glory of celestial creation. 

You nodded, reaching eagerly for the offering. At the first bite, a delightful medley of flavours melted onto your tongue—the silk of chocolate, the airy sweetness of marshmallow, and the crisp crunch of graham crackers. Your eyes lit up with unabashed delight. 

“Mmm!” you hummed, your grin radiant as you turned to him. 

Lucifer chuckled, his laughter low and rich, like a song from a time you thought you’d forgotten. He leaned back, busying himself with crafting another treat, his motions unhurried and precise. Around you, colourful lights danced on strings, their cheerful glow a stark contrast to the quiet of the winter night. 

You hadn’t planned to see him again after that fateful chance encounter in the human realm. Yet here you were, meeting him each year on Christmas Eve, reliving fragments of a bond that time had refused to sever. 

Your gaze drifted to his profile, illuminated by the soft amber light. There was something mesmerizing about the way his hair caught the glow, the way his sharp features softened in the firelight. 

The chill of the night was no match for the flush warming your cheeks. You didn’t mean to feel this way, to let your thoughts spiral into forbidden territory. 

He was your mentor. 

Your guide.

Your… 

But the space between respect and yearning had blurred, year after year, as comfort gave way to an ache you couldn’t ignore. You told yourself it was admiration. 

That it had to be. 

“So,” Lucifer’s voice stirred you from your reverie, casual yet tinged with something unreadable. “How are things up there?” His words held an edge of hesitance, his unnatural crimson eyes flitting to meet yours briefly before darting away. 

Your breath caught as your gaze fell to the faint glint of a golden band on his fourth finger. A thousand questions stirred in your chest, each one more painful than the last. 

And yet, you smiled. 

You always smiled for him. 

Blinking back the twisting discomfort in your stomach, you forced a bright smile to your lips, wide enough to mask the unease threatening to spill over. “Oh, you know, same old, same old,” you sighed theatrically, shrugging your shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. “It’s been ages since anyone’s come up with anything truly inspired. No creativity, no innovation… just endless routine.” 

Your gaze flickered nervously to Lucifer, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw his face light up—golden hues flushing his cheeks, a grin spreading wide and utterly unguarded across his face. 

“Well, isn’t that just typical!” he exclaimed, effortlessly crossing his legs and setting the fourth s’more neatly on the plate beside him. His movements were so quick and precise you barely caught them. “Those old coots upstairs wouldn’t recognize genius if it smacked them right in their self-righteous halos!” 

A giggle slipped from you, muffled only slightly by the hand you pressed to your mouth. It was still enough to escape, carrying the sound of bubbling joy across the air. His audacity—speaking so brazenly about the elders of Heaven—never failed to amuse you. But wasn’t that just one of the reasons why you… why you… 

Your chest tightened, a bittersweet ache swelling inside you. You didn’t want this moment to end. You longed for the days when you could see him whenever you pleased, like you had in those ancient, untarnished eons. 

Your wings puffed up instinctively, a reflexive motion that startled Lucifer enough to make him flinch. “Oh! S-sorry!” you stammered, cringing at the sudden disruption. “I just… remembered something!” 

With a renewed determination, you reached into your pocket, your fingers brushing against smooth rubber. When you pulled it free, your smile grew brighter, almost trembling with anticipation. You held it out to him with both hands. 

Lucifer’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. He blinked once, then again, his gaze drifting from the object in your hands to your face. His lips, usually quick to curve into a grin, remained frozen in place. 

A flicker of nervousness gnawed at your resolve, but you clung to your bright expression, even as it faltered just slightly. “I-I heard that tomorrow is a day when people exchange gifts and spend time together,” you began hesitantly, heat crawling up your neck to bloom across your cheeks. “And, well… you once mentioned you liked ducks, so… I made this for you.” 

The small object in your hands was a pink rubber duck, its shimmering ruby eyes catching the firelight. Tiny white wings adorned its back, delicately crafted and fluffy to the touch. It wasn’t much, but it was something you’d poured your heart into—something that reminded you of the first time Lucifer had taught you the joy of creating. You still remembered the wooden duck he had given you all those years ago, a keepsake of simpler times. 

“If you squeeze it here,” you demonstrated, giving the duck a gentle press. The tiny beak opened, letting out a soft, endearing quack, and the little wings began to flap, the duck hovering just slightly above your palm. 

Your heart pounded as you looked up at him, hope filling your eyes. Surely, he’d see how much this meant. 

For a moment, Lucifer’s expression was unreadable, his blank stare heavy and unnerving. But then, his lips curved into a wide, mischievous grin. “Oh, wow!” he drawled, plucking the duck from your hands and turning it over to examine it closely. “You’ve really improved! Your craftsmanship is getting impressive.” 

His words washed over you, sending a pleasant warmth trickling down your spine. “Y-you think so?” you asked, your voice tinged with shy pride as you leaned in slightly, desperate to bask in the glow of his approval. 

He glanced at you then, and for a moment, his eyes softened, their sharp edges melting into something infinitely more tender. His vibrant red eyes felt foreign, a reminder of all he had become, yet there was a piece of the mentor you once knew. No matter how he had changed, Lucifer still held an unshakable place in your heart. 

And in this quiet moment, you realized… perhaps he always would. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low, threaded with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. His eyes softened, a flicker of vulnerability shimmering within their depths like the faintest ember of a long-forgotten fire. His hand hovered, trembling slightly, mere inches from your cheek, as if he yearned to touch you but couldn’t bring himself to close the distance. “You don’t have to indulge this old fool every year, you know.” 

Your head tilted slightly, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment. 

Lucifer sighed deeply, the sound heavy with unspoken words. His hand dropped back into his lap, his fingers curling protectively around the small gift you had made for him. His gaze followed, falling to the duck in his hand as if it held all the answers he couldn’t find. 

“I…” He hesitated, his lips pressing together before he let out a quiet, frustrated breath. His eyes darted to the side, then back to the fire, searching for the courage to continue. “I’ve been reminiscing. About my past—about��our past. And it’s been wonderful to share it with you again, but—” 

Your chest tightened painfully, the weight of his unfinished words squeezing the air from your lungs. You didn’t want to hear it. Whatever he was about to say, it would break something inside you, something you weren’t ready to lose. 

Before you could think better of it, you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

His shoulders jerked, startled, and his head whipped toward you, wide-eyed and unguarded. Your lips quirked into a nervous smile, and with a forced, breathless giggle, you tried to brush it off. “I took my gift from you, Lucifer!” you declared, your tone falsely cheerful. Your hands wrung together in your lap, betraying the storm of nerves churning inside you, and your heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the crackle of the fire. 

“A k-kiss,” you stammered, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s… what I wanted.” 

It was innocent enough, wasn’t it? You had seen Seraphim offer kisses to their students in gestures of affection and encouragement. Surely, this wasn’t so different. 

Right? 

Lucifer blinked, slowly, as if processing your words. Then, a quiet “oh” escaped his lips, soft and unsure. He glanced at your face, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity. 

“I can do that,” he said at last, his voice a whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. 

He carefully placed the duck aside, tucking it safely into his pocket before leaning closer. When his lips met yours, it was gentle at first, barely a touch, but the softness of his mouth stole the air from your lungs. Your skin tingled where he brushed against you, sparking sensations that raced through your body like wildfire. 

The kiss deepened, and your hands instinctively rose, pressing against the lapels of his coat as you leaned into him. Your eyes fluttered shut, the world around you dissolving into the warmth of him, the faint scent of smoke and something earthy mingling with his own intoxicating presence. 

The quiet crackle of the fire mingled with the faint sounds of your lips meeting his. He pulled back slightly, just enough for your breaths to mingle, and his eyes caught yours. The red of his irises glowed softly, the colour unfamiliar yet achingly fitting for him. It was a shade you had never seen in Heaven, and yet it felt as though it had always belonged to him. 

“I miss these wings,” Lucifer murmured, his lips brushing against yours with every word. 

Before you could respond, his hand moved behind you, fingers grazing the base of your wings where they met your back. His touch was light, reverent, but the sensation that followed was anything but gentle. 

“Ah!” you gasped, a sharp cry escaping your lips as a surge of pleasure coursed through you, so intense it left you trembling. Your body gave out, collapsing against his chest as heat flooded your veins, setting every nerve alight. 

The sensations rippled through you in waves, overwhelming and indescribable. You buried your face against him, your breath ragged as you tried to steady yourself. It felt so good—too good, almost, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. 

“Lucifer,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but his name on your lips felt like a sinful plea.

The moment your gaze met his, Lucifer claimed your lips again, his kiss deeper, more fervent than before. His tongue brushed against your lips, coaxing them apart with a temptation as sweet as it was forbidden. Each movement of his mouth sent shivers down your spine, and the heat pooling low in your belly intensified, an ache that demanded more. His hands roamed over you, skilled and deliberate, igniting sparks that left you breathless. Shame prickled at the edge of your thoughts, but it was drowned out by the wet, warm sensation pooling between your thighs. 

Your breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with the rustle of fabric and the faint crackle of the fire. His movements were fluid yet insistent as he guided you down onto the soft blanket beneath you. Lucifer hovered above, his arms caging you in, as if shielding you from the judgmental eyes of the Heavens above. 

In the firelight, his golden hair glowed, its brilliance rivalling the stars you had spent so many nights admiring. It was brighter than the sun, and yet infinitely more inviting. 

“My sweet angel,” he murmured, his voice trembling as though the words pained him. The nickname, long forgotten in the years since his fall, struck something deep within you, a chord of bittersweet memory. “Tell me to stop,” he pleaded, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin. “We should… stop.” 

The word echoed in your mind—stop. But it felt so foreign, so wrong. You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to push him away, not now, not ever. His touch, his presence, the way he made you feel—it was all-consuming. You craved more. 

Your lips parted, and instead of telling him to stop, a soft plea escaped, barely audible yet filled with undeniable longing. A bashful smile curled at the corners of your lips, a silent answer to his hesitation. 

Lucifer shivered, his resolve faltering as his gaze searched yours. Then, he surrendered, dipping low to capture your lips once more. His hands moved over you, exploring with a reverence that made your heart ache. His touch ventured to places no one else had ever dared, yet there was no fear, no hesitation. With him, it felt right. 

Piece by piece, your clothes fell away, and his followed suit, each article shed like a layer of pretense until nothing remained but bare skin and shared warmth. The movements were slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic—a dance of devotion. The firelight caressed his form, and you found yourself mesmerized by the sight of him, by the way he looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered in the universe. 

His lips trailed along your cheekbone, leaving a path of warmth in their wake, before finding the delicate curve of your neck. He pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering, and you felt him shudder, his breath trembling against your skin. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hold on you tightening, as though he feared you might vanish. 

Your chest pressed against his, your bodies aligned, and a new sensation bloomed within you—a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement. The hard length of him throbbed against your core, every twitch synchronized with the rapid beat of his heart. The tip was warm, slick with your shared desire, a physical manifestation of the connection drawing you both closer. 

Your heart raced, not with fear, but with happiness—a profound joy that your first time sharing this sacred act would be with him. This was no mere moment of passion; it was something deeper, something eternal. An act of unity, of bonding, of love. Wasn’t it? You wondered, heart fluttering, if this meant he saw you as his equal, his soulmate. 

Did he love you? 

Lucifer’s voice broke the silence, hoarse and laden with conflict. “We should stop,” he murmured, his words catching as though they pained him to say. “I’m tainted… and you’re not. We should stop.” 

Yet even as he spoke, his arms clung to you with a desperation that belied his words. He held you as though you were his salvation, the one thing anchoring him in a world of chaos. His resolve was crumbling, his need laid bare before you. 

And you… you could not let him go. 

Not now.

Not ever.

Lucifer's voice was raw, tinged with a pain that gripped your heart. Though you couldn’t fully understand the depths of his torment, the need to soothe him overwhelmed you. Your fingers trailed tenderly through his golden hair, soft and warm under your touch. His muscles, taut with tension, gradually loosened, melting as he surrendered to your embrace. A sigh escaped his lips, quiet and vulnerable, followed by a low moan as his mouth pressed delicate, lingering kisses to your neck. Each touch sent shivers coursing through your body, his lips igniting sparks wherever they met your skin. 

It hit you then—why you returned to him, year after year, unable to stay away. This feeling, which had begun as a fragile seed, had blossomed into something wild and untamable. It was no longer just admiration or fondness—it was something much deeper. 

You loved him. 

The realization unfurled within you like a sunrise, pure and all-encompassing. Love, the most beautiful and sacred of emotions, a gift from the heavens themselves. It was love that had drawn you to Lucifer, time and again. Love that refused to let you abandon him, even in his fall. He had taught you about creation, about beauty, and now, he had taught you the most profound truth of all—the overwhelming power of love. 

Emboldened by the thought, you cupped his face, tilting his head upward. Your lips found his in small, feather-light kisses, each accompanied by a soft giggle of uncontainable joy. His torment, etched so deeply into his features, began to fade, replaced by a quiet resignation. His lips curled into a gentle smile, one that reached his eyes for the first time in eons. 

Then he kissed you again, deeply, a kiss that stole the air from your lungs and set your body alight. His tongue teased the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart, and you let him in, surrendering to the heat of his passion. His moan vibrated through you, a sound so primal and raw it sent a shiver down your spine. 

His body pressed against yours, his arousal hot and throbbing against your core. The tip of him pressed gently, insistently, against your entrance, the weight of his desire palpable. You widened your thighs instinctively, your breath hitching as anticipation gripped you. 

"I'll be gentle," he whispered, his voice a low promise that resonated through every fibre of your being. 

You nodded, your trust in him absolute, your heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and excitement. Slowly, he began to press into you, the sensation foreign yet electrifying. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he stretched you, your body adjusting to the slow, deliberate intrusion. 

“Ah,” you moaned, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as he rolled his hips, pulling back before pressing forward again. Each thrust brought him deeper, filling you inch by inch. The rhythm was deliberate, reverent, as though he sought to worship every part of you. The sounds of your bodies meeting—the wet, slick noise of his movements, the ragged breaths, the whispered gasps—filled the air, a melody of intimacy. 

"That's right," he murmured, his voice thick with praise and desire. "You're doing so well, my sweet angel." 

Lucifer groaned as he buried himself deeper, his brows knitting together in concentration. You felt the burn of his entry give way to a blossoming pleasure, waves of heat radiating from where your bodies were joined. 

“Ah, my angel,” he groaned, his voice trembling. “So tight... so perfect.” 

He thrust deeper still, his pace steady and unrelenting. The fullness was overwhelming, every nerve alight with sensation. His hand slid around your back, fingers finding the base of your wings. When he touched you there, a jolt of pleasure shot through you, your walls tightening around him involuntarily. 

The sensation built and built, pain dissolving into pure, unadulterated bliss as he moved within you. Each roll of his hips brought you closer to something transcendent, a feeling so overwhelming it consumed you completely. And at that moment, with Lucifer holding you, filling you, there was no fall, no sin—only love.

Lucifer’s moan was low and guttural as he sank fully into you, his hips pressing flush against yours. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of heat and fullness that left your body trembling as it tried to accommodate him. 

“Ah… ah… L-Luci,” you whimpered, your voice catching on every gasp as you clenched tightly around him. Your walls fluttered, struggling to adjust to his size, the stretch both foreign and intoxicating. Above you, Lucifer’s torso rose, his head tilted back as he groaned, savouring the tightness of your untouched core. 

“I’m going to move,” he murmured, his voice soft and trembling, laced with restraint. His hand cradled your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had slipped free. The tenderness in his gaze made your chest ache, grounding you amidst the swirling chaos of sensation. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?” 

You nodded, your smile wobbly but trusting. 

Slowly, he began to withdraw, and a sharp whimper escaped your lips as the loss of him left you achingly empty. But then, he pressed forward again, filling you completely, his heat and presence igniting something raw within you. His movements were careful, deliberate, as he set a rhythm, his cock throbbing against your walls as if revelling in your embrace. 

Each glide of him inside you was smoother, more certain, and his pace gradually quickened. Your breaths intertwined, the quiet space filled with the sounds of your union—ragged gasps, soft moans, and the rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting. 

“You’re so beautiful, my sweet angel,” he whispered, his voice a reverent murmur that made your heart flutter. His hips rolled in slow, indulgent circles, eliciting a cry of pleasure as he drove deeper into you. “You feel incredible,” he sighed, his words like a balm to your overwhelmed senses. 

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a fervent kiss. His tongue explored you with unrestrained hunger, mapping every corner of your mouth and drawing out muffled moans with every stroke. His lips left trails of fire on your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. 

“I’m close,” he rasped against your lips, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control fraying as he chased his release. 

You could barely form words, your body spiralling higher with every movement. “I want you to… feel good… Luci,” you managed, your voice breaking on a high-pitched keen as the coil in your core wound tighter and tighter, ready to snap. 

Your whispered plea undid him. With a final thrust, his body tensed, and a deep groan escaped him as he spilled into you. The warmth of his release filled you, each pulse of him deep within making you shudder. He moaned softly, his hips rocking gently as he pressed as far as he could, emptying every drop into you. 

As he stilled, his breaths uneven, he opened his eyes to meet yours. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew, and a shiver ran through you as his warmth began to escape. But before you could mourn the loss, his fingers slid inside, filling you once more. 

“Ah!” you cried out, your back arching as the sudden intrusion sent a jolt of pleasure through you. His fingers curled, seeking and finding a spot deep within that made your vision blur. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, your body surrendering completely to the unexpected waves of ecstasy crashing over you. 

“Good,” Lucifer murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as he watched you unravel beneath him, your pleasure becoming his own reward. 

"That's right, let go, my dear," Lucifer murmured, his voice a velvet caress against your senses. The wet, lewd sounds of his fingers delving into your heat filled the space between you, the mixture of his release and your arousal slicking every motion. His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars, and your body clenched around him, desperate for more. 

“Ah… ah, Luci!” you cried, your voice trembling with raw need as the coil in your core wound tighter, ready to snap. The tension in your body built with every stroke of his fingers, every graze of his touch, until a sudden, warm pressure pressed against your sensitive nub. The contact sent a jolt of pure, searing pleasure through you, pulling a broken cry from your lips. 

Lucifer’s lips found your clit, his tongue flicking against the swollen bundle of nerves before he drew it into his mouth, suckling gently. The sensation was electric, each stroke of his fingers inside you timed perfectly with the pull of his lips. The sound of him—wet, desperate, and unrelenting—filled your ears, and the world around you blurred into nothing but him. 

Your body arched off the blanket, a keening moan escaping you as your hips pushed forward, seeking more. You were helpless against the onslaught of sensations, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to drive you higher and higher until you shattered completely. 

White-hot pleasure surged through you, a blinding wave of ecstasy that left you breathless. Your walls clamped around his fingers, spasming with the force of your orgasm as your cries filled the air. Lucifer didn’t stop—his fingers moved slowly, deliberately, while his tongue lavished your oversensitive clit with gentle, teasing licks, drawing out every last tremor of bliss. 

When the pleasure finally ebbed, leaving you trembling and spent, you collapsed back onto the blanket, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Your cheeks flushed, your lips parted in a dazed smile as you looked down at him. 

Lucifer raised his head, his lips glistening, and a small smile graced his face. But something in his eyes gave you pause—a shadow of sadness that dulled the light you adored. His gaze lingered on you, tender yet heavy, as though he was holding back something you couldn’t see. 

You reached for him, brushing your fingers along his cheek, your smile faltering as you whispered, “Luci… what’s wrong?” 

Lucifer gathered you close, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that belied his strength. His fingers threaded through your hair, stroking it gently, while his lips pressed soft, reverent kisses to your temple, your forehead, the crown of your head. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, the weight of those words sinking deep into your chest. 

Your eyelids fluttered, the haze of exhaustion clouding your mind. “What for?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You nestled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, relishing in the warmth that seeped into your skin. 

“For not being enough,” he began, his lips brushing against your hair. “For falling,” another kiss, this time on your temple. “For leaving you,” his voice cracked, and he kissed you again, a lingering touch on your cheek. “For disappointing everyone.” His lips trembled as they grazed your forehead once more. “For…” 

The words faltered, and you tilted your head, looking up at him. The pain etched into his features pierced your heart, but you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Did you know?” you began softly, the words coming from a place of vulnerability. “I look forward to seeing you every year. I look forward to hearing the stories about your daughter, to just… being with you.” 

To you. 

He was enough. 

Always. 

His arms tightened around you, his body trembling slightly as though your words unravelled something deep within him. You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of what you wanted to say, the unspoken truth that had been blooming in your heart. “I… I—” 

But the words caught in your throat, your courage faltering. Did he feel the same? Angels didn’t share this kind of intimacy lightly; it was an act of deep love, wasn’t it? Surely, Lucifer felt it too. 

He leaned back slightly, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “We should rest tonight, my sweet angel,” he said gently, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. 

You hesitated but nodded, allowing him to conjure a tent with a wave of his hand. The interior was illuminated by strings of delicate fairy lights, their warm glow casting a soft, ethereal ambience. 

“It’s like our own personal stars!” you exclaimed, the childlike wonder in your voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere. 

But Lucifer said nothing, his silence wrapping around the space between you like a fragile thread. You told yourself he was tired, that the weight of the day had worn him down. Still, a small, nagging fear nestled in your chest. 

However, later in the dead of night, you stirred faintly when you felt a hand resting lightly on your head. You kept your eyes shut, your breathing steady as you waited, your heart pounding. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice cracking as though the words themselves were too heavy to bear. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, like a prayer seeking forgiveness. “You belong in Heaven, with the stars, not entangled with a devil like me.” 

Your breath hitched, but you remained still, every fibre of your being straining to hear more. You wanted to open your eyes, to reach out and tell him he was wrong, that you didn’t care, but something held you back. Deep down, you already knew, didn’t you? 

You were the one who clung to hope, who had dared to declare love where it was forbidden. You were the one who dreamed of a union that defied the heavens and the depths. And yet, now, all you could do was lie there, caught between the truth you feared and the love you couldn’t bear to lose. 

You closed your eyes, sealing them shut like you had sealed away every truth you didn’t want to face. The truth that Lucifer had fallen, that his place was no longer beside you, and that a future together was a dream as fleeting as stardust. You closed your eyes against the inevitable, against the knowledge that this fragile connection had always been temporary. 

You closed your eyes because as an angel, hope was all you had—and even that, you realized now, had been a fool's solace. 

Tears threatened but did not fall, held at bay by sheer will as you lay there, motionless. You heard the soft rustle of the tent flaps, the faint sound of him leaving, and then the crushing silence as his presence disappeared. The space he left behind felt cavernous, the absence of his warmth like an icy void. 

You didn’t know how long you remained there, curled beneath the blanket that still faintly carried his scent. The false stars above twinkled on, uncaring, mocking. Slowly, you sat up, the first tear slipping down your cheek like a crack in the dam. Then another, and another, until the flood of grief began to escape in earnest. 

You crawled out of the tent, the night’s chill biting at your skin as you wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself. The fire outside had dimmed to embers, its light no longer warm, its joy snuffed out. On the plate lay the discarded remains of s’mores, cold and abandoned, their sweetness wasted. 

You turned your gaze to the sky, to the real stars. Another tear slipped down as you stared at their brilliance. 

You weren’t going to see Lucifer next year. 

Or the year after. 

You weren’t going to see him ever again. He wouldn’t meet you, wouldn’t look at you with that half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. The realization cuts you deep like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. 

More tears welled, spilling freely now as your throat tightened and your chest heaved. The stars blurred in your vision, but you kept looking, unable to tear your gaze away. They shone so brightly, their light a lingering echo of something long gone. A memory of existence clinging to the present, deceiving the dreamers and the hopeful into believing they were still there. 

A breath escaped you, shaky and shallow, followed by a sob that tore free like a scream trapped too long. 

Lucifer had been your mentor. He had shown you the wonder of creation, the beauty of ingenuity, the power of unrestrained possibility. 

But love? 

Perhaps he hadn’t taught you that after all. 

How could it have been love when you never truly had it to begin with? 

Your hands clutched the blanket tighter, your tears falling silently into the earth beneath you. The stars above continued their eternal dance, indifferent to your pain, as you sat there mourning the light you had lost—and the darkness it left behind. 

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[hades--baby]

To Die Like This

Summary: Stuck in the Tundra with a bullet in your side, blood in your eye, and the agonizing feeling that your captain was going to throw an absolute fit when your bleeding body walked through the threshold of the safe house.

Note: There's just something about Price being so tender with the girl he loves that makes me go absolutely crazy. Anyway, it's been a long time since I've written anything and an even longer time since I've actually put something out. Hope y'all enjoy :)

(This work was also cross-posted on my ao3 account under hades_baby)

Word Count: 7109

You had always loved the serenity of a snowy forest. 

They were typically peaceful and quiet, a drastic contrast to your usual life of gunfire and warfare. 

The only things that ever really made a sound was the light crunch of snow beneath the thick soles of boots, the little animals scurrying from shrubs to burrows that led to their dens, and the winter birds chirping their little songs as they hopped from branch to branch. 

The air was always so crisp with a light scent of fresh pine and bark. It lacked the smell of gunpowder and the musk that filled the tight barracks. 

Honestly, if you could have it your way, you’d die in a forest like this. 

Have your trauma-ridden life end in a place so ethereal. 

The whole military life never really gave you what you wanted though. 

You typically had to take what you could get.  

The orders you were given weren’t to your liking? 

Too bad, you’d have to follow them anyway. 

The mission you were assigned to was in the middle of the fucking Tundra where you knew your fingers would freeze and you’d never be able to keep warm? 

You’re getting on the damn plane and going anyway because you were told to. 

A lead slugger was shot into your side and you were currently bleeding through your gear and you wanted to do nothing more than lay down in the snow and let the cold take you while the little blood you had left in your system melted the snow beneath your limp body? 

Well, too fucking bad. Get the fuck up because your Captain doesn’t take too kindly to any of his soldiers dying on the job. 

Yeah. 

You didn’t really get your way when it came to being a soldier, but today might have been your lucky day. 

That little snowy death wish that had been playing out in the back of your head for the past thirty minutes was starting to look like it might come true. 

There was a small burning bullet set in your side, a nice little slash on your arm from a bowie knife that had once been stuck in another man’s chest, and there was a cheeky little gash somewhere on your head that was pouring enough blood into your left eye to make you shut it and trek around half blind. 

It felt like you were getting too old for this kind of work. 

Then again, if Price could still keep up with this shit and be chipper doing it, then so could you. 

“What’s your ETA, Frost?”

His voice over your comms had startled you. 

“I don’t fucking know,” you snapped in a breathy tone as you slammed against the side of a pine tree to brace yourself before you could fall flat on your face. The fresh powder beneath you was starting to look really enticing. 

You closed your good eye—the one that hadn’t been flooded with blood—and let out a defeated sigh, dipping your head as you tried to catch your breath and not focus on the stinging sensation of all the wounds that riddled your body. 

“Sorry,” you muttered, apologizing to your Captain for your tone. You glanced at the watch on your wrist to check your current coordinates. “I’m a klick out from the safehouse. I should be there in a bit.”

“Copy.”

Price left it at that. 

He sounded tired. 

It was the same tone he spoke in when he was stuck in his office, getting dragged down into the depths with paperwork and mission reports he didn’t even want to think about. The tone that would come out when someone tried to talk to him too soon after a mission when all he wanted to do was relax and work the knots out of his shoulders. The tone that you heard oh so often when you’d pop into his office to keep him company while he dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s and when you’d work your fingers into the knots and sore spots on his back until he nearly fell asleep in his office chair. 

Fuck. 

You needed to get a move on.

After taking a deep breath, you trekked on, using every other tree to keep yourself upright as you staggered on your tired feet. 

Blood was seeping through all of your gear, some of it dripping into the pristine white powder beneath your feet. It was tragic how the deep crimson liquid stained the gorgeous snow. In your line of work, you had seen blood stain an array of surfaces, but snow seemed to be the worst of them. It was something that was meant to be clean and pure, yet here you were, ruining it. 

A grimace fell over your face at the sight. 

After a few minutes passed by, your legs met the threshold of movement and you slammed into another tree trunk. Your temple met the bark, wood scratching against the skin of your face. You closed your eyes as you tried to catch your breath and focus on not passing out while your limbs buzzed in pain. 

You could make it. 

Probably.

All you could really think about was the fact that you were definitely going to be telling Price that you didn’t want to do any more jobs in the Tundra. You enjoyed the cold climate when you weren’t working, which was almost never, but you still had a few days of leave a year where you got to fully relax (if your brain allowed). 

You liked the cold when you could cuddle up next to someone to stay warm, drink some hot cider, and watch stupid Christmas movies that had too many questionable moments that made you really sit and stare, trying to figure out whether or not you should laugh. 

You enjoyed the cold even more when you could hide away in the barracks, keeping warm with Price wrapped around you, hands tracing over your skin, heating you up quicker than a blanket ever could. 

“Frost.”

“Captain.”

He didn’t respond right away, making you wonder if he just wanted to say your callsign for the hell of it. 

“ETA?”

“Couple of minutes,” you answered. 

The eye with blood in it was starting to sting, the foreign liquid now slipping all the way to your jaw and dripping from your chin. 

“Cut it down to a minute.”

Price was starting to catch on that something was wrong. You were taking far too long to get to the safe house from where you had been coming from and your words were becoming too short and strained every time he asked you a question. Something was wrong and it was taking everything in him to not run out of the safehouse in search of you. You’d always been the type to be vocal when something went awry out in the field, so he silently prayed that your absence of issue meant that everything was fine and that you truly were just taking your sweet ass time to get to him. 

“You’re starting to sound like Gaz with all the worrying you’re doing, Pricey,” you teased, adding on the little nickname that you knew peeved him. 

“Shut it and get a damn move on.”

“Yessir.”

You started moving again just as he ordered you to do, finding some sense of motivation after hearing his gruff voice. It was the voice that had welcomed you to the 141 after Laswell had shipped you off to join the task force. The voice that had let you know that you were okay and safe when the boys had finally found you after you had been taken hostage on a mission in your earlier days. The voice that had talked you through every touch that made your body burn as he sunk his fingers into you. 

It was the kind of voice that you’d betray death for. 

A little while later, the safehouse finally came into view. 

You glanced at your watch, checking how much time had passed. 

A minute and twenty-seven seconds.

Price wasn’t going to let you hear the end of it. 

You winced in pain, feeling the skin of your arm pull apart. The soldier that had cut you had grabbed the knife he used from the middle of another man’s chest and you were starting to feel queasy from the thought of your blood mixing with his. You needed to get your gash disinfected soon or you were going to have a problem. Well, technically you already had multiple problems, but you were trying to take on one issue at a time. 

Alright, maybe it was about time you mentioned something to your captain. 

“Hey, Cap’?” you probed as you quietly trudged toward the short porch steps of the cute little cottage. “Is this a bad time to mention that I got hit earlier?”

You failed to mention how badly you were hit.

“What the hell—what do you mean you got hit?”

You stopped a good ten feet from the steps, furrowing your brows. 

There was no sign of Price having entered through the front door. The powder in front of the stairs had been untouched and there weren’t any wet footprints  on the old wood of the porch. The windows were dark and nothing could be seen from the outside. The only thing that gave any sign of someone being inside was the dark smoke slowly wisping from the brick chimney peeking out of the top of the cabin.

“I mean, I got a nice little slugger in my side and some blood pouring out of me in other places,” you said, keeping your voice low and quiet. You wondered if you were in the right place. You looked down at your watch, checking your coordinates. According to the device, you were. “Are you inside?” 

He ignored your question. 

“Where the hell’s your kit?”

“Somewhere in the forest four klicks back.”

You looked around again, hoping to find some sign of this being the right place. 

“Christ, Frost,” Price muttered. You didn’t need to see him to know that he was shaking his head at you. “How far out are you?”

“Right out front,” you answered. 

You gave in. 

The wood creaked under the thick soles of your boots as you trekked up the stairs. You shoved the door open, stumbled inside, and slammed the door shut as you slumped against the wall. You slowly slid down to the floor. The cold began to set into your bones as the distinctive heat from the fireplace on your left radiated around you. 

Price rushed into the room. 

“Well, aren’t you a right-all mess,” he said as he moved toward you.

“Shut up,” you muttered, shaking your head before tilting it back to rest against the wall. You opened your good eye as he knelt down in front of you.

“Where are you broken, love?” he asked as his eyes scanned over you, clocking every little rip and tear in your gear before you could even say anything. 

He hated seeing you like this. 

It had become one of the toughest parts of his job ever since Laswell had sent you his way to recruit to the taskforce. There was just something about you that made his heart ache whenever he saw you in pain in any way.  

He knew that it was all a part of the job. 

That there were always going to be times where he saw you like this; busted and broken.

And he always fucking hated it.

He knew he’d hate it ever since the first time he had seen you like this. It was way back when you had first joined the team. You’d only been with them for a good six months, but you had already gone on about four missions with them. It had been a busy year for the task force, but you didn’t seem to mind. If anything, you were eager to keep getting back out on the field every time you got back to base. 

On their fifth mission all together, when they believed that they had the upper hand, you and Soap had been ambushed. The Scot had been knocked unconscious while you were taken captive, too many soldiers for the two of you to take out on your own without any supporting fire. 

Learning that you had been taken was worrisome on its own, but Price’s heart ached when they finally found you. 

He had sunken to his knees in front of you, using his knife to work away the zip ties that had you bound to an uncomfortable looking metal chair. Your face was bruised and bloody. Gashes from knife wounds worked their way down your arms and legs. Burn marks from what looked like cigarettes were ingrained into your plush skin. 

You looked beyond rough. 

Price had felt furious that he had let any of this happen to you, but the fury was quickly overcome with worry when you had perched your eyes open and groaned in pain. He let out a sigh of relief, finally knowing that you were, at the very least, well enough to be conscious. He had tried to soothe you as best he could and when you were finally free of your bounds, you practically fell into his embrace, your entire body slumping against his.

It was that very moment—when he wrapped his arms around you and held the entirety of you—that was when he knew that seeing you like this would always pull deadly wear on his heart. His old heart wouldn’t be able to take seeing you like this and hoped that it would be a rarity for his tiring eyes. 

Much to his surprise, it had been a rare sight. 

But that didn’t mean it was a non-existent sight. 

“Got shot in my right side, bullet’s still somewhere in there from what I can tell. Slash on my right arm from a gross ass knife that was already stuck in someone else before it got to me. And I got hit in the head and I can’t see out of my fucking right eye because of all the goddamn blood,” you explained, lifting one of your hands to try and wipe the blood away from your eye, but to no avail, the metallic liquid kept flowing. There was no use in trying to see right now anyway.

“Let’s get you fixed up then,” he said, a sense of urgency finally filling his voice. 

He had been attempting to keep his cool this entire time; to not panic so you wouldn’t panic either. But he knew that you were much too tired to even start panicking, so perhaps he was just trying to stay calm for his own sake. He found it funny that out of everyone on the task force, he had been the one to deal with more field injuries, yet here he was with his damned nerves buzzing out of his skull. 

Something like this shouldn’t have worried him as much as it did. 

But it was you. 

He couldn’t help himself when it came to you. 

Whatever was going on between the two of you had always left him in the realm of something being completely unspoken. The relationship that had sprouted was in some sort of limbo, but neither of you seemed to mind since it was easier that way. 

It was easier than having to tell the boys that something was going on between you two. It was easier than telling Laswell that there may be some sort of infringement on the team—not that she’d care unless it really started to affect how the two of you went about your work lives. And it was easier than admitting to each other that there might be something more than a quick casual stress-relief fuck. 

The two of you had shared too many moments together for that to be true. 

There were too many night’s of your bodies being pressed together and entwined, skin to skin to keep each other warm. Too many words of comfort as you soothe the nightmares of war away, finding comfort in each other’s arms. Too many gentle kisses for it to not be real. 

Your eyes were closed. 

He didn’t care much for that. 

“Frost,” he said, bumping your arm without a slash in it to jostle you awake. You opened your good eye and looked up at him, sending him a quick look of aggravation. It would’ve been amusing if you weren’t bleeding out before his very eyes. “Need your good eye open so I know you aren’t dying on me, sweetheart.”

You grunted in response, looking away from him but still keeping your eye open. 

The feeling of disquietude was starting to set in. 

It wasn’t normal for you to get hit during missions—it was actually quite rare. Soap was usually the one to take the podium for taking quite a bit of damage out in the field. Regardless of all that, you still knew what to do in such situations. You wouldn’t have been at this level of infantry if you didn’t know what to do. 

The hard part was the fact that you were in the presence of your captain. 

Moments ago, when you were trekking to the safehouse, you knew that you wouldn’t have to do any of this alone because your captain was waiting less than a klick away from you. 

The thought alone made everything feel easier. 

It was always harder doing it all alone. 

You thought back to the first and only time you had applied a tourniquet on yourself. Damn near gave up and bled out from how painful it was to cinch the band as tight as you could to keep yourself from bleeding out. You had spent years in the service of infantry. Years of wear and tear on the body, but that kind of pain was something you never wanted to feel again in your lifetime or in any lifetime. So when you felt your arm begin to fall numb from the lack of blood circulating through your veins, you knew that you had to get to Price before you would be forced to deal with it on your own. 

When he was around, you knew that you’d never have to face anything alone. 

You had learned to find such comfort in that. 

Price felt sick to his stomach as he started to get some of your heavier gear off. Your weapons were first to go, then your holsters, and then your vest. He was almost afraid to remove your thermal to see the damage the thick white jacket was hiding poorly. 

He couldn’t keep his damn head straight. 

Simon had griped with him about it a while back, saying that he needed to do better about keeping a clear head around you, but Price still managed to get work done on missions, so the younger man could never really get on him about it all that much. Simon didn’t know exactly what was going on between you two behind closed doors, but he had enough of an idea seeing how much Price doted on you even when you told him to fuck off and focus on something else for a while. 

It was the playfulness of your jabs that usually gave it away. 

That and the lingering looks you two sent each other as if you were some love sick teenagers. 

Price knew that you were more than capable of handling yourself in the field, but there was always something whispering in the back of his head that had him wearing a deep sense of worry on his sleeve every time he had to send you out on a mission. He had read your file when Laswell had recruited you. You were beyond skilled in almost everything you did and you rarely ever came back to base having to see a medic, so hearing that you had actually been hit—

“I can’t feel my arm.”

“Shite,” Price cursed, snapping out of his thoughts as he snatched his medkit and opened it up to finally help you. 

The cold had finally set in and all the blood that had seeped from your arm was causing your skin to turn pale. The gash on your arm was still wide open, but blood had stopped spilling from it, which meant he could disinfect it and get it closed without anything (hopefully) going wrong. Your side wasn’t doing all that bad, still bleeding, but not bad. He’d probably have to cauterize the wound just to feel like he could leave it be, but that could wait for after he got the bullet out of you. 

“Arm first, then your side,” he decided, nodding his head before he turned back to his kit. He turned back with a bottle in hand and you grimaced at the sight. “Gonna have to feel more broken before you feel fixed.”

“No shit,” you muttered, eyeing the small bottle of alcohol in his hand. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be snappy.”

Price set the bottle down, reached for his belt, and took it off. Something deep in you fluttered, but it stopped when he presented it to your face in a folded mess. 

“Bite down,” he said. You eyed him a little more, making him huff. “Bite down on it, Frost.”

You huffed back at him and bit down on the folded belt. You held it between clenched teeth, watching as he picked the bottle of alcohol back up. He sighed and nodded, almost as if he was telling himself that he was ready to do this. He tipped the bottle and poured the liquid over the wound. You squirmed and held back a writhing scream. He quickly clamped your legs between his knees, keeping you from squirming away. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart,” he said, trying to sooth you as he set the bottle down and wiped around the edge of the wound. He grabbed a needle and thread from his kit.

You groaned through the thickness of the belt as he stabbed the needle into your skin, creating even sutures along the wound. Your eyes closed as you tried to not focus on anything specific, but the feeling of Price keeping you in place while he dug a needle kept you from thinking of anything else. 

Price hated this. 

He hated every fucking part of this. 

Digging a needle and thread into your arm while you bit onto a belt. 

He thought back to the last time he had touched you. 

It was the night before the mission that you two were currently on. Price hadn’t expected to see you until the two of you were meant to take off on the tarmac, but he found himself aimlessly wandering the halls of the barracks until he wound up at the door of your private quarters. 

He almost hadn’t knocked. 

It was late, you two had to be up early, and he still didn’t know where the two of you stood when it came to something like this. 

He knew that there was some sort of love there, but he wasn’t too sure about the type. He knew that if he was stressed about all the ridiculous mission reports and papers he had to sign off on late into the night when he should be sleeping instead, you’d be sitting there with him to keep him company. He knew that if he mentioned that something was hurting, you’d use your nimble and calloused fingers to work away the knots and sore spots that came with all the training and missions. He knew that in a moment of weakness, he could count on you to hold the broken pieces of his soul together. 

Everything in his mind told him to leave you alone and let you be for the night, but the Captain was feeling selfish and he rarely ever got to indulge in such things.

His entire life and career, he was meant to be selfless. 

To put everyone else’s needs before his own. 

And ultimately, he had been okay with that… until he met you. 

He found himself tempted to be selfish when it came to you. 

He had knocked and you had answered. 

It was all he needed for the night. 

Maybe for life. 

“Done,” he said, tying off the last stitch and cutting the thread. 

“Thank fuck,” you breathed out, letting the belt drop from your mouth. 

“Still have a few more things to do,” he said, jerking his chin in the direction of your side before glancing at your head. “I’m gonna have to lay you down flat to get the bullet out, alright?”

“M’kay,” you muttered, still feeling hazy. Your nerves were buzzing in all the wrong ways and you just wanted it to stop. 

Price carried you over to the fireplace and laid you out on the floor next to the fire in hopes of warming you up. The flame felt nice against your freezing skin. He worked quickly to strip you of your thermal undershirt. The wound on your side looked small, but the skin around it was stained red with thick blood. 

“Want the belt again?” he asked. You sighed and nodded. He grabbed his belt and folded it up again before placing it back in your mouth. Your teeth dug into the material as you anticipated whatever pain was about to come. “Ready?”

You grunted in response. 

He used a set of dull tweezers to dig into your side, fishing for the little bullet deep in your flesh. You reeled in pain, damn near shooting up on your own, but Price used his free hand to push your chest back down to keep you steady.

“I know, pretty girl, I know,” he tried to soothe, continuing to search for the hunk of lead. You writhed in pain, pressing yourself against the floor as hard as you could as if that would help you escape the pain that was stabbing into it. The ends of the tweezers grazed something hard and he knew that he almost had it. “Almost got it. Almost done.”

After a few moments, he pulled the metal fragment from your body and pulled the tweezers from your aching flesh. You gasped, shaking as you laid limp. Your shoulders slumped against the wood floor as your chest heaved. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you tried to catch your breath. 

“You’re alright,” he said, squeezing your good arm as if that would make everything better. He massaged your bicep for a moment, using it as an excuse to keep his hands on you. He was also trying to calm you down a bit more before he had to move onto the actual hard part. He grimaced and glanced over to the fireplace. “Do you trust me?” 

“Mhm,” you hummed, lazily nodding your head as you felt consciousness slipping through your fingers. 

“I need you to close your eyes, sweetheart.”

“Mm-mm,” you said, shaking your head this time around. 

“I need you to trust me on this one, Frost.”

You stared at him for a long while before finally giving in and closing your eyes. You slammed the back of your head against the wood flooring as hard as you could, wishing that the impact had knocked you out because you knew that whatever he was about to do was going to hurt like hell. 

Price had always been the type to make sure that his own were safe and taken care of, but he was also the type to tell his own to buck up and take it. Whenever the boys got injured out in the field, he would always make sure that they were okay, and if they were, he’d tell the lot of them to get back to work then. 

Even with you. 

Every time you had been bruised and battered, if you told him that you were okay, he’d believe you and expect you to be okay and not broken. 

So the fact that he was telling you to close your eyes and to trust him meant that it had to be bad and that scared you.

Price waited for a few moments, making sure that you kept your eyes closed before he proceeded with what he was about to do. He grabbed the hot poker from the fireplace, the one that he had been stoking the fire with before you had made it to the confines of the safehouse and trudged in with all of your broken parts. He took a deep breath, knowing that there was a good chance that he was going to hate this just as much as you. 

“Bite down hard and keep your eyes closed, you hear?” he ordered, heaving one last warning before he pressed the burning poker to your skin. 

You did exactly as he ordered even though you were itching to scream and open your eyes to see what the fuck he was doing, but the smell of your burning flesh was enough to urge you to just squeeze your eyes shut even tighter. 

You were going to pass out. 

Or vomit. 

Or maybe scream at Price for cauterizing your wound without a proper fucking warning. 

Maybe all three. 

You eventually fell limp, no longer having the energy to resist the fiery pain that flooded over your skin. The only part of you that could move was your heaving chest as your lungs begged for some semblance of air. 

Price pulled the poker away, tossing the burning end back into the fire.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” he said, disinfecting the area around the cauterized wound to ensure that everything was thoroughly taken care of. He placed a bandage over it and then gently grasped your shoulders, his thumb massaging circles into your skin. “Gonna get you up now, nice and easy.” 

He slowly pulled you into an upright position, but you haphazardly slumped forward into his arms, forehead hitting his chest. He let your full weight fall against him. You still hadn’t said anything, nor had you opened your eyes. All you could really manage were hard, labored breaths that made your entire body quake. 

His heart hurt. 

Probably not as much as you were hurting, but still, it hurt. 

He couldn’t stand to see you like this. 

Body shaking in his arms, lungs gasping for air, kind eyes hidden behind low lids. 

He wanted to take you from this world. 

To take you from the world of hurt.

The world where you were constantly shot at and put at risk every time a new mission was assigned to the taskforce. 

But he knew that he’d never be able to take you from this world of chaos and pain. You’d surely raise hell the day you truly had to leave the force. You had always said that you’d probably die in the military. He really prayed that you wouldn’t. 

He pulled you into his lap, settling you down comfortably as he grabbed a clean wrap. He propped you up a little more so your head was resting against his shoulder, face tucked you into the crook of his neck. He wrapped your midsection, making sure to keep the bandages snug and clean. 

“Almost done,” he promised in a sweet coo. 

You opened your mouth, finally letting the belt drop to the floor. You hadn’t realized that it was still in your mouth. 

“Fuck,” you breathed out as he tied the bandages off, running his fingers over the material to make sure it all laid flat and clean. 

“Gonna lay you back down,” he said. 

You shook your head, pressing your forehead against his shoulder in hopes that he’d understand that you wanted to stay like that in his arms, face tucked away so he couldn’t see you cry. You just needed a moment to collect yourself. Tears pooled in your eyes, the pain setting in even more as the adrenaline started to wear off. He placed one of his hands on your back, gently rubbing circles over your shoulder blades in an attempt to calm you down.

“I’ve got you, Frost,” he muttered, pulling you in closer. Hot tears rushed faster from your eyes, slipping down, and staining his shirt as they dropped from your face. The diluted mix of salt water and blood didn’t bother him much. “Gotta check that head of yours. Clearly you’ve got a screw loose since you thought hiding all of this from me was okay.” 

“Didn’t want to bother,” you muttered hazily in broken fits.

“Helping you ain’t a bother, love,” he said, shaking his head. He slowly pulled you away from him and cupped your face in his rough hands. “How’s the head feeling?” 

“Amazing. Thanks for asking,” you said, letting the weight of your head sink into the salvation of his hands. He kept you up, calloused fingers running over your cheekbones to wipe away the stray tears still slipping from your eyes. The salty water had started to clear the blood from one of your eyes, but it wasn’t enough to fully see. You squeezed your eyes shut even more, leaning into him, and slumping in his hold. 

“Need you awake, soldier,” he said, jostling you around a bit. You opened your good eye, staring into his focused ones. 

There was so much comfort in his gaze. 

Solace. 

Made you feel warm. 

Too warm. 

Your eyes closed as you fell fully limp in his embrace. 

He scrambled to keep you in an upright position. 

“None of that now. Come on, Frost—”

God, you could die listening to that voice. 

You woke with the scent of musk and cigar smoke lingering around you. 

It was a scent that you had grown accustomed to waking up to.

There was a sense of easement that fell over you whenever the scent lingered on your sheets whenever he found an excuse to stay the night in your private quarters back in the barracks. A scent that you found comfort in whenever you woke from a long flight after a rough mission. And a scent you had learned to completely love when you invited him to stay with you for Christmas when the entire task force inevitably left for their week long holiday leave. 

You attempted to take a deep breath to take the comforting scent in, but it was cut short when you felt your skin pull against the stitches in your side.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You jolted from the sudden presence of the familiar gruff voice, but Price’s arms cinched around you tighter to keep you from falling from his lap and onto the floor. You were comfortably curled up in his lap, his arms around your body. His brows were furrowed, eyes riddled with stress and worry as he stared at you. 

It was the same look that he always gave when he felt like he failed someone. 

Disappointed them. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered.

He stared at you for a little longer before pulling you in to hug you tight. You winced slightly, but were happy nonetheless to be close to the worried captain. You sighed and closed your eyes, letting your face rest in the nape of his neck. The smell of musk and thick cigars filled your system again. 

“You can’t scare me like that again, Frost. I don’t think my old heart could take another fright like that,” he said, shaking his head to nuzzle his face into yours. He took a deep breath, taking in the smell of your hair. Even with everything you’d been through, the light scent of your usual shampoo still lingered. “Plus the boys would kill me if I ever came back with you in pieces.”

“They’d live,” you muttered, even though you knew he was right. 

The boys of the 141 would probably wreak havoc if you ever came back from a mission on the brink of death. Though, they’d never blame Price. You knew that much for sure. They’d know that your captain would do anything and everything in his power to get you back in the best shape he could manage. 

You slowly pulled away from him, staying in his lap as you tried to reorientate yourself. You had been stripped down to your base layers, your other gear laid out near the fire to dry the blood and snow that had soaked into the material. He was also down to his base layers, his gear and his silly little hat in a pile on the other side of the room. 

The two of you were comfortably resting on the rundown couch closest to the fireplace, but the sight of the fire brought a memory back to you. 

“I can’t believe you fucking cauterized my wound you bastard—”

“Had to get it shut, sweetheart—”

“And a fire poker was your first and only thought?” 

He grimaced and sat back so he was pressed against the couch cushion. His hands stayed on you, one on your hip and the other on your thigh, fingers tracing gentle circles into your skin. 

“Stitches weren’t gonna cut it,” he said, shaking his head. 

You sighed, knowing he was right. 

“I want a cigarette,” you said, going to slide off his lap in hopes of finding a pack stashed somewhere in the pockets of your gear. He tightened his grip on you, pulling you back into him. 

“Wouldn’t do you any good to have one right now,” he said.

“I want one anyway.”

He sighed and shook his head before grabbing a cigar from the ashtray on the coffee table beside the couch. It wasn’t a cigarette, but it would do. You found it humorous that a safehouse had an ashtray, but knowing the people you worked with, it almost made sense. 

The end of the cigar was already burnt, meaning he had been smoking while you were out in his arms. He placed it in his mouth and grabbed the lighter, burning the end until he was able to take a decent drag. The breath of smoke was held deep in his chest before he slowly blew it out. He made sure to blow the smoke away from your face before holding the cigar out to you. You went to grab it, but he moved his hand just out of your reach. Furrowing your brows, your eyes flicked between him and the cigar. He slowly brought it back to you, but held it right up to your lips. It wasn’t until you wrapped your lips around it did he let it go and the weight of the cigar rested against your lip. 

You took a deep drag, holding it until you felt light headed. You leaned back, only stopping when his hand braced against your lower back to keep you from tipping over. You slowly blew out, letting the smoke wisp above your head. You passed the cigar back to him and he placed it back in his mouth, the tips of his teeth chewing the end a bit. 

It was a nervous habit of his. 

Typically had to swat his thigh to get him to quit. 

He took another drag. 

He tilted his head to the side to blow the smoke away from your face, but before he could, you gently grabbed his face and turned it back to face you. He furrowed his brows in a confused manner, but you slowly leaned forward and he got the idea.

God. 

He could die like this. 

You sitting in his lap, a cigar in hand, and you begging for something that he could only think to do with someone he loved. 

All he was missing was a glass of whiskey to top it all off. 

He cupped your face and urged you closer, but stopped before your lips could touch. You were tempted to lean forward and close the distance, but you stopped yourself. Your mouth was slightly ajar, wondering if he’d actually go through with it.

He did. 

He kissed you hard and blew the smoke right into your mouth. Heat filled your system as you slowly leaned back and exhaled, letting smoke wisp away between the two of you. 

“Fuckin’ minx,” he muttered before taking another drag with a smirk on his face. “Even on the brink of fucking death.”

“You love it,” you teased. He huffed out a gruff laugh. “I’m sorry for almost dying.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” he said. “Boys would kill me in a jealous rage if they found out you died in my lap like this.”

“As if,” you said, rolling your eyes. 

“You don’t see the way those boys look at you, love,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Yeah? And how about the way you look at me?” you wondered. 

His gaze met yours and you didn’t dare pull away. 

“Just like this,” he said, his lids low as his eyes flicked down to your lips and then back to your eyes. 

The fingers that had once been drawing circles into your skin had stopped, the pads of them pressing into your plush thighs instead. He had a good grip on you. You weren’t going anywhere. Not that you wanted to go anywhere. 

You could stay like this forever. 

“You gonna keep looking at me like that or are you gonna do something about it?” you asked, wondering how far he’d actually go while the two of you were on a mission. 

Then again, you two were technically done with the mission and you were just waiting for evac so… no harm, no foul. 

He let out a light laugh before bringing a hand up to your face and pulling you in until his lips pressed against yours. You leaned into him, your front pressed against his own. You moved your legs until you straddled him, wincing once from the pain in your side. He pulled back, pressing a hand down to where your wound was, looking over the bandaged area. 

“I’m alright,” you assured him. You cupped his face in your hands and slowly tilted it back up until he was looking at you again. “I’m alright, John.”

He kissed you again, resting his hands on your hips with a light squeeze.

“Evac won’t be here for another six hours,” you said, having caught a glance at the watch on his wrist. “Care to kill some time?” 

“Oh, I’d love to.”

[bringthekaos]

Alrighty, here we go. Act III.

Mostly Jayce and Viktor centric, but with some wider thoughts as a whole thrown in. As usual, this is all my opinion, you’re free to disagree with me. Just don’t be a dick.

I am torn. I’m appreciative of the visuals and the JayVik crumbs (even though Christian Linke’s comments post-show have soured it to queerbait for me). But mostly I am disappointed. And I so badly didn’t want to be. I had such high hopes (and that’s probably my fault. I expected too much). They completely massacred Viktor’s character. There was such beautiful setup in season one of his background as a Zaunite living in Piltover. So much of his lived experience came from that—the oppression, the inequality, the xenophobia, the inaccessibility. It formed his opinions and his values, and that’s why he was so adamantly anti-weapon making. That’s why his number one goal was always to help the people in need down in Zaun. They showed us that he was a tinkerer and a builder, that he valued the ingenuity in machinery. They gave us that cute little boat from his childhood and the fucking Hexclaw.

Viktor was supposed to be a Zaunite champion. He was supposed to embrace Techmaturgy as a direct opposition to magic/Hextech. He was supposed to undergo his transformation into the Machine Herald of his own volition, with his own agency and bodily autonomy (yes I know it also stemmed from severe depression and one could argue that it messed with his decision-making, but still… he did that shit on his own). And there were so many opportunities to go this route in Arcane, and it would have worked!! If Viktor augmented his hand and his leg, but it cost Sky her life, he could realize the cost of magic, and turn to Tech. He could have been exiled back to Zaun, where he was supposed to be, and then the shitshow really could have unfolded—having one of Hextech’s creators now working for the other side.

And I know they had to change it so that he could be a bigger part of the overall narrative, as his original lore was rather disconnected. But there were much cleaner ways to go about it than disrespecting his entire character arc by turning him into a grimdark edgelord ethereal magic Jesus who no longer notices or even seems to care about the oppression and class warfare going on in his birthplace. Like. I’m sorry, him “curing” Salo? OG Viktor would have taken one look at a representative of the very oppression he stood against and blown him to kingdom come. (And yes, I also realize that he did it in Arcane because he was “under the influence” of the Hexcore, which only wanted to “infect more people.” But that’s another problem I have. This was never really made all that clear. And watching him go from “we will not be building weapons, that’s not why we invented Hextech/there is always a choice/we were meant to improve lives, not to take them” to making him turn human beings into weapons?? I don’t care that they tried to salvage his character by suggesting he wasn’t in control, it still undermines everything about him. And GOD, original League Vik had so much DEPTH. He was a hypocrite, he was still partly human and so he retained pieces/parts of all the things he preached against, which made him a wonderful contradiction. And he had a sense of humor and whimsy too! He enjoyed sweet milk, he cracked dry jokes and was sarcastic as fuck. He had a personality! And now he’s just… empty space man blinded by forced apathy.

And I think all of this is part of a larger problem—they wanted to use Arcane as a stepping stone to future shows, and as such, the class warfare and systemic oppression plot from season one was completely abandoned. They tried to solve it with “well they have to band together to face a bigger enemy.” Which in my personal opinion is a cheap cop out. There are always bigger fish, that doesn’t change the fact that Zaun has been living in Piltover’s filth with Piltover’s boot on their neck for generations. They’ve suffered injustices most of us can’t even comprehend. And then suddenly we’re supposed to believe they all band together to face this threat, stand side by side with their oppressors because Jayce made one speech about it? With no proof? And then all they get from the deal is one Zaunite seat on the council? And they’re okay with that? I never expected the show to solve systemic oppression, but I also didn’t expect them to abandon it this spectacularly.

The Noxus/Black Rose plot was clearly thrown in to set up future shows, and to show Netflix/investors/whoever that this massive financial investment has a future. And it destroyed the Piltover/Zaun story. I think this could have been a totally isolated story just about Piltover and Zaun, and been completely successful. In fact, I would have definitely watched future projects despite them not taking place in the setting of Arcane. And I’m not at all saying I don’t like Ambessa and Mel. I was very intrigued by the story of a warmonger like Ambessa facing her comeuppance, not just for her warmongering but for her affair with a damn MAGE. And her daughter trying desperately to break the mold her mother has set for her, while also struggling with who she is and these new, incredible powers she has. That shit is juicy as hell, and honestly should have been its own show. But throwing it into Arcane in season 2 with absolutely no hint of the Black Rose or its impending approach (beyond “the people who killed your brother don’t think the score is settled”) in season one, it just felt like the aforementioned cop out to get Piltover and Zaun to get along. And in doing so, they steamrolled Viktor to make him a bigger player in the narrative.

Did I like the final astral plane scene with Jayce and Viktor? God, yes. Is it one of the most beautiful confessions of love and eternal devotion I think I’ve ever fucking seen? Also yes. But it kinda feels like a bandaid on a bullet wound. I got the love I always knew remained between Jayce and Viktor, but I paid for it with Viktor’s entire character. Not to mention Christian Linke keeps pouring salt in the fucking wound, denouncing JayVik and “bromancing” them, and then also suggesting in one interview that Jayce and Viktor are actually fucking dead, and in another that Viktor will be back in future projects (with no mention of Jayce, which suggests that they’re turning him into Sky 2.0 and that he’s dead but Viktor isn’t). And that completely undermines the entire ending of season 2’s “intrinsically entwined/always you/in every universe.” And I know, I shouldn’t listen to this dude’s opinion on the matter, he’s not the only one making this thing, and honestly it was the easiest unfollow/mute of my life. But how hard is it to just shut the fuck up and let people enjoy things? To not comment one way or the other, let people think what they want, and rake in your millions in the process? Haven’t you ever heard of rainbow capitalism, my guy?

Ugh. I’m very sorry for being so negative, I didn’t want to be. I still love the show, and I’d still like to keep writing JayVik, even though it’s just been made near-impossible (I’m actually really glad that I never finished Oasis now, cuz I can go back to that and expand it well beyond what I originally planned cuz… it’s all I have left). I’m just mourning my cyborg wife, and the fact that goddamn SMEECH had what Viktor was supposed to. Hopefully the more time goes on, I can reconcile these changes and embrace them, cuz I love this fandom, I love this ship, and I don’t wanna lose it.

Anyway, I will still be sharing art and memes and posting analyses, because you can like a piece of media and still be critical of it.

[tinseltrinkets]

I just want to talk about how absolutely wonderful and beautiful this scene is

“There is one thing I know in my bones: there is no force in this world that can control you. You will never be a passenger.”

I am primarily a JayVik shipper but I don’t undermine Jayce and Mel’s beautiful relationship. Even if they weren’t lovers or aren’t at this point, they’re companions, they’re friends.

We usually see male romantic interests say stuff like “you’re beautiful” or “I’ll always protect you” in lines that are meant to be the pinnacle of their love for a female romantic interest. A lot of the time it’s lines that take away autonomy from the female romantic interest or emphasize some sort of otherworldly ethereal quality that makes her out to be only a “girlfriend” or “wife.”

Jayce’s line to Mel is empowering her. Not even empowering, but rather expressing the power he knows she already possesses. It isn’t from a place of patronizing or possessive love, but a deep admiration and understanding of her autonomy and personhood. It’s not from a boyfriend to a girlfriend or from a man to woman, but from a human to a human.

And it is deeply personal. He’s not just flattering her, the emphasis isn’t on him being a smooth talker. The weight of this line comes from her strengths as well: her ability to break from the cycle warfare and power mongering expected of her, her intellect and wit, her warmth, the list goes on.

Jayce knows this about Mel and he wasn’t just attracted to it but respected it, admired it.

This is one moment that solidified Jayce as an ideal man for me and makes me so happy that Mel got to hear this.

[infaethible]

lycanthrope adaine's honest review of the Doggy Petting Ability of her friends. to me.

fabian: respectful. excessively so. not a satisfying scritch behind the ears in sight. just a pat. 4/10 riz: frankly uncomfortable with the idea of petting his close friend like she's a mere animal, but they're both Stigmatized(tm) now, so there is camaraderie in this. an unavoidable 0/10 on the petting front, but A+ for effort kristen: good petter, but keeps going for tummy rubs and adaine isn't ready for that level of commitment. heeyyy, girlieee... 6/10 fig: tief claws good for scritching. 7/10 gorgug: good pets AND has drumsticks to play fetch with? goated. 9/10 ayda: a little too nervous about it for adaine to be completely comfortable, but a good petter once she gets into it! 7/10 aelwyn: unnervingly good at behind the ear scritches, likely due to alliance with felis catus..... makes adaine do the stupid little dog leg kick much to her chagrin. 8/10 because of the mental warfare zayn: incapable of werepettery under most circumstances. ethereal plane metaphysical contact always feels weird. they just chill. 5/10 for vibes tracker: there is a sisterhood between them here! more than petting occurs. not in a licking-inside-the-mouth way like real world wolves do, but they're cuddly and tailwaggy around each other. mutual ear scritch at times. very cool. 9/10

[farsight-the-char]

Praise T'au'va.

This exciting new story of intrigue and clandestine warfare stars an Elemental Council, luminaries from each of the Empire's castes. Brought together by the enigmatic ethereal Yor'i to pacify the resistance, they'll need to work together to forge their unique skills into an unbeatable team.

Raptors Space Marine chapter initial antagonist (which the article diverges to shill 🙄, of course), though there is a "secret" third act antagonists (probably Genestealers).

Raptors have history with Tau though in the original Fire Warrior game and the original Taros campaign, at least.

...

Noah Van Nguyen wrote some of the better AOS books, The GodEater's Son and Yndrasta: The Celestial Spear, so this will probably be good.

...

[lilacartsmadsion]

Decided to show their full designs.

The Shadows of the gods or The Pillars of Darkness:

They guard the borders of Earthbread from the forces outside, Humans, Wizards all of them are a threat to the Light’s wonderful paradise of freshly baked cookies. Each one is a Shadow of the gods entirely and sometimes even worshipped as minor deities called ‘Legends’

They go by many names.

The Shadows of The Divine

The Pillars of Darkness

The Guardians of Earthbread.

Each Pillar follows the will of each god.

Grim Reaper/Deathly Licorice Cookie:

The Shadow and Angel of The Abysmal Gingerdozer…he who places those to eternal slumber. The final sleep of death. By the will of the Abysmal One does he follow, plague, destruction and malnutrition follow his path, for the lone path of death is not one many want to follow…

The Grim Reaper was created as a gift by The Nameless…given away to his brother to keep his titles afloat. Representing the dark black void of death, the quick release of silence the night offers in the dark…The Angel soars from on high guarding the borders from all directions. To the East he resides as that is birthplace. Go east if you wish to enter the realm of the dead, but beware for he is watches upon the endless sky…

The Cookies of this realm worship him as the deity of death, out of respect for keeping the order of this world…as thus he is called ‘The Pillar of Death’

Empyreal Pomegranate Cookie:

The Shadow and Priestess of the Ethereal Strawberry Cookie. She presides over the faithful and grants the blessings of luck upon those whose hearts are pure. The Priestess follows the will of the goddess of love, however blind her faith may be…

The Empyreal Vassal blesses those who put their whole faith in the gods and grants the chosen luck and grace throughout their lives. Protection is sought out once you seek her, as she protects those who are persecuted and scorned. To the North is where she resides for love and faith is the direction of the coldest hatred. She protects her side of the border with her unwavering curses of hatred. Go North if you wish for her aid, pass her trials of faith and she will protect you.

The Cookies of this realm worship her as a deity of protection, due to their unwavering faith in her abilities she is henceforth known as ‘The Pillar of Faith’

Jubilant Poison Mushroom Cookie:

The Shadow and Servant of the Glorious Gingerbright. They guide the young and nurtures the forgotten. Children are called to follow their path and adhere their example. They provide nutrition for the young, tend to the youthfulness of children, and most of all listen to the cries of the forgotten…

The Jubilant Deity brings forth the life within children. The freedom and development of their lives. Some say that this type of love is chaotic, but for the eyes of the deity, children deserve to experience even the slightest amount of joy. They are revered as their patron god and above all protector. They protect their side of the border with the poison of chaos. Go forth South for their protection, for they accept all children in their land.

The Cookies of this realm worship them as a deity of chaos, the reason why their name has switched to poison…though they call upon the freedom of the youth they are also known to be quite the trickster…thus they are named ‘The Pillar of Chaos’

Impervious Red Velvet Cookie:

The Shadow and Knight of The Apoditic Wizard Cookie. He resides over all matters of warfare and battle. The concept of war and strife is etched unto his mind. The Final Witness of the true nature of the Witches, The Impervious one protects his side of the borders with an Iron Fist.

The Impervious Knight reigns over a tower made of cakes, guarded by the legendary cake hounds of the ancient recipes of the Wizards. Using these he creates an army capable of protecting the cookies from all harm. He guards his side of the borders with pure might. Go West to seek out his domain, but beware for none make it back alive…

The Cookies of this realm worship him as a deity of war. Though they fear his might they respect him as a protector. Thus naming him ‘The Pillar of War’

The Dark Enchantress Cookie:

Much like the Nameless, His shadow bears no name, but a title. Created from the dough of the Wizards her might shines the night sky into pure oblivion. The shadows is where she lurks, the endless night is where she wakes. Born with the anger and sorrow of the Light she soars the sky with her army of cakes in tow.

The Dark Enchantress bears the weight of the darkness reminding the cookies of the balance between dark and light. The Shadows can aid and hide those who need protection. But blind those from the sights of their enemies. A reminder that the darkness is neither friend nor foe…She protects the borders of Earthbread with the might of the gods by her side. Go to the center of Earthbread, seek out the Millennial Tree…and pray tell she will be there.

The Cookies of this realm regard her as a deity of darkness, out of respect and pure awe in her the Cookies dub her ‘The Pillar of Darkness’

Each of these Pillars have a role to play in protecting the borders of Earthbread…may they reign eternal in their will of protection…

———————————————

I blame @cuppajj’s Beast Ancients AU for reviving my inspiration back from the dead. I’m trying to plan out the Legends’ backstory but let’s just say I’m also trying to figure out the main story.

Aka the actual plot of the AU. ‘That time I adopted a god’

Cause I haven’t really given Gingerbrave a direct motive for leaving and turning mortal. I’m THIS tempted to do an LMK Nuwa move. For him tbh.

But yeah here’s the Pillars of Darkness folks.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Aaron Bandler

One editor told me: “There isn’t a fishing net in the world this wide to compare to the reach happening here. Genocide by whom against whom? The Nakba (running with one of its many roaming definitions) was a mass displacement event, not a major casualty event. As for Sabra and Shatila, Israel was not the principal aggressor … are we saying Lebanese Christians were genociding Palestinians now?”

“It is made-up propaganda,” Middle East historian Asaf Romirowsky, who heads Scholars for Peace in the Middle East and the Association for the Study of the Middle East and North Africa, told me about the Palestine subsection in the Wikipedia article, noting “the use of these trigger words of genocide and massacres … they are part of the Palestinian propaganda and what happens with them is that each of one of these trigger words connote an entire swath of history with no context. However, it generates an emotional response and the emotional response that has been amplified by the media and the propaganda ether that goes out there.”

He added that the International Court of Justice (ICJ) has no jurisdiction over Israel. “Israel has never signed onto the Rome Statute, there’s no legal accusation … but it’s been generated solely as a goal to aggrandize the so-called genocide.” Romirowsky noted that “there were Iranian influencers in South Africa looking to generate this kind of emotional visceral reaction in other to create this distinct narrative. That’s the point of these words. They are detached from reality.” Romirowsky contended that “the conduct of the IDF, which has been conducting urban warfare in the most humane possible way against barbarism and against terrorism. That’s fact.”

The subsection also refers readers to the Wikipedia articles “Palestinian genocide accusation,” “Gaza genocide” and “Zionism as settler colonialism” for further information. I have previously written about the issues with the “Gaza genocide” article; the other two are both listed in the World Jewish Congress’s March 2024 report as examples of biased articles on Wikipedia.

[stirringwinds]

are there certain visual themes or imagery you yourself particularly associate with yao as an artist or writer? i'm trying to visualize the nations better...

hmmm, interesting question. i like incorporating nature imagery into the hetalias, especially old nations like yao. there's something mythical and compelling about the sense of age and vastness that evokes. these are some (non-exhaustive) thoughts i've had:

a. i always associate yao with rivers and water; the Yellow River in particular, which is often seen as the "cradle" of Chinese civilisation (but of course, there's also the Yangtze, and the Pearl River too). rivers are life-giving but also untameable, powerful and dangerous—the Yellow River's fertile silt birthed agriculture and civilisation, but its destructive floods have claimed uncounted lives over the millennia of Chinese history. and...that's kind of how yao is, as a nation and an empire, towards others of their kind. the source of cultural and artistic innovations, but also death. water can be fluid, life-giving and nurturing, but also as treacherous as a torrential flood sweeping everything away, no?

like the Yellow River's relationship with humanity, yao's impact on world history feels to me like this duality of life and death; peace and warfare; mentor, empire, conqueror... it's like, yao's been a teacher to many others but...i don't think their predominant image of him is as a warm and nurturing figure. maybe more so with his own people, but less so with other nations. being the old warlord he is, he'd say certain things very matter-of-factly (especially to yong-soo and kiku), about how power is the only language their kind universally understands, or about history being written by the victors (when we consider how the only surviving written sources about certain periods of asian history are only chinese ones...), inasmuch he'd talk about the importance of confucian virtue, integrity and humility on other occasions.

b. for obvious reasons; dragons—they and rivers both have that overlapping association of being serpentine, powerful and untameable. in contrast to how european dragons often took on villainous roles and were harbingers of disaster, it's important to note chinese dragons usually have far more positive cultural connotations. they symbolise prosperity, fortune and are guardians; often associated with power over water (so again; Yao and rivers and water.) many dragons are associated with a particular river or sea. they're also believed to have powers over the weather and were often prayed to. after all, the capriciousness of the rains ruled people's lives so much through natural disasters or made a difference between a bountiful harvest and a famine. so, i think at various points in history his people might also have understood him as a literal dragon (spirit/deity) walking around in a human guise. dragons are also a visual staple of chinese culture, from statues to jewellery. at the same time: while they're auspicious symbols—dragons can of course have aggressive and far less benign connotations if we consider how they became symbols of the emperor—and thus chinese imperial power and dominion over others. he evokes majesty, but also dread from that perspective.

c. plum blossoms: much like the sakura in japanese culture, plum blossoms are one beloved motif you'll see showing up in chinese art and literature throughout history. they're elegant and ethereal, also a symbol of both transience and renewal in a way, i'd say—their blossoms wither and die, but they come back each year. there's also that saying about how without a bitter cold, you won't have the sweet fragrance of plum blossoms, because they start blooming in winter. that's...very yao to me. china, as an idea, makes me think of a lot of elegant and refined traditional culture (like poetry or paintings) which plum blossoms recall—but i also think of humbler themes—the simpler idea of someone and something who is enduring, adaptable and resilient. who endures the harshest weather time and time again until spring arrives, the way my (peasant) ancestors probably did, carving their way through all the hardships of chinese history. yao might appear refined in an indulgent, wealthy way when he's dressed in his finest silk hanfu or a smart western suit in the modern day—but if you shake his hand, his palms are always callused and you can just see the weight (and hard-won experience) of centuries in his gaze.

[saint-ajax]

Phantom Of The Sea

THE ONLY DAUGHTER OF POSEIDON AND Aphrodite was Sierra. She inherited her mother’s ethereal beauty and as her father was the God of  Sea, she could live in the deepest ocean there is. She was a product of mistakes and everyone in Olympus knew that. It may be one of the reasons why the Olympians look at her differently. None of the children wanted to make friends with her, and almost all her life she was treated miserably. But the Goddess of Warfare was the only soul who had a soft heart and kindness to the poor child. So as Sierra grew, she was clandestinely taught how to fight. She grew to be a brave lady with an astonishing beauty you can not deny. She was so beautiful that her mother, the Goddess of beauty and love, discovered a covetous jealousy that possessed her to banish her own daughter from her palace and sent her to her father to live in the sea. Sierra left Olympus with her heart filled with anger, hatred, and rage built ever since she was a child.

  In her life under the deepest and darkest sea, she found light in her enchanting voice and grace. At one point, she discovered that the sound and sight of her can seduce mortals, men, women, and… Gods. Ever since she was a child, she was clueless about what she was given to rule, what she was destined to be a God of,  but now in her new home, her lustrous scales gave her an idea. She was the Goddess of Sirens.

  Her heart was painted in anger and it pushed her to use her assets to seduce mortals who dared to sail, bring them to her cave, and decide their time of death. This continued for almost an eternity, thousands of humans tried to find and catch the infamous killer of the sea but none of them succeeded in passing her deceitful seducing mirage.

One morning, in one of her favorite islands where no one lives but silence, her paradise, where she goes to pass the time, had a living breathing mortal out of nowhere. The stranger was a rugged man in a veil. His mask seemed to be a skull of a being. And this awakened Sierra’s interest. It paused her plans to make that man her meal. From the corner of the island where she wouldn’t be seen by the young man, she eyed him in serenity. She watched how he walked by the shore in the morning and witnessed his sailing whenever the sunset. Her former annoyance of him vanished, whereupon the peacefulness of the island remained even with his presence.

One afternoon, Sierra’s curiosity got the best of her, and entertained the idea of approaching the boy’s boat without him looking. Her sneaking exposed her to silver and brass apparatus. Her attention was focused on a piece of silverware with four pointed edges. In a quick move, she swam deep with the material in hand. Back in her cave, after staring for hours at it, she ended up using it to untangle her silk hair. Meanwhile, the young man’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why the calm water moved, but his focus was quickly diverted to his missing fork.

  The next day when he sailed, his fork came back out of nowhere with shiny pearls. Confusion built in his mind as he set them aside. Several exchanges of the moon and sun passed and their dance continued in its own rhythm. In every missing silver, comes back with newfound pearls. Whenever it was time to close the day, there was a mortal and a goddess watching without knowing the other knew about their presence.

      He could afford to build a castle with the amount of pearls he earned, he thought. At long last, he then decided to wait and catch the thief and returner of his belongings.

  He kept an eye on his ship and the body of water as the sun ended its reign, and by the time daylight covered the scene, the fairest woman he had ever laid his sight on made an appearance that surprised both companies. Their opposite-tinted orbs met. Once she realized that he saw her, she vanished out of thin air. She went back to her pitch-black nature. While he tried to chase her with his eyes, his confusion unfortunately froze him in his spot and he did nothing but let and watch her leave.

  The young man’s night became devoted to debating and thinking about whether it was a mermaid he saw. If he was in fact correct, he would be rewarded by the King if he ever brought them into their hands. The night went by and afterglow arrived once again, he found himself in his usual spot waiting for the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Meanwhile, Sierra purposely showed up, she was testing what would be the mortal’s reaction to her presence. If he dares to make the wrong move, then there would be a siren singing that night.

           But silence joined salt air when they finally saw each other. Their eyes lingered on one another until the young man decided to shatter the deafening silence between them.

       "When shall you be returning my silverware, fair lady?”

      The masculine man’s first words to her left her dazed. She could sense no fear as he stared directly at her radiant orbs and it only blossomed her curiosity of the man. When the fair lady did not respond, he tried once again.

 “Are you heedless that thy actions as stealing are pondered as a crime you shall be responsible for?”

  Her eyebrows lifted at his statement, and she enchanted him by simply speaking.

“I committed no crime when I intended to restore your taken treasure, and in truth, gave back more than I took.”

      “Capturing an object that is not thy possession without permission is known as stealing which is a crime.”

        The young man noticed that her eyes were focused on his neck, where his pendant of identification hangs from his service as a remarkable knight lieutenant for the King. When she pointed at it, he immediately disapproved by shaking his head.

 “I vow to return your fortune.” She swears.

“I’m afraid that's not happening.” He declines.

   “I advise you to trade it for gold.”

    “You heard me the first time, my lady.”

  “Sierra.” She received only a hum of acknowledgment from the young man. “And you are..?”

 “Ghost.” He made her smile. And all of a sudden he couldn’t look away from her blinding beauty.

   “You are a mortal named ‘Ghost’?” He confirmed with a nod as she released a contagious laugh.

      Ever since the mortal and the goddess met, they didn’t realize that they deliberately pledged time to spend together to capture the last gasp of beauty before the death of the day perpetually.

        Sierra even sang for Ghost once without any incantation and what he could only utter was,

      “You are a Goddess I would worship for eternity, Sierra.”

While she only responded with a mischievous sly grin.

      Like a usual afternoon, Sierra and Ghost were letting one another read chapters of their life.

       “Ghost.. Was the designated name for me when I performed my duties as a Lieutenant for the King.”

   “Lieutenant.. Ghost?” She fathomed in fascination. “If so.. Then ’Ghost’ is not your true name?”

     He hummed to confirm. That had put a frown on her face when she perceived the truth of the lack of trust he had for her by the simplicity of giving his birth name. Ghost took notice of her sudden silence, therefore, he tried to check up on her, but she was quicker to notice that he saw what was happening with her thus she proceeded to speak before him to cut him off.

    “Oh, I nearly forgot to caution you to be careful..there is a forthcoming storm.”

      His brows knitted at her change of topic. “It shall be as you say.” She nodded at his response. And when she prepared to swim away, he tried to stop her.

      “Am I bound to hope that we shall meet again?”

      “Fate shall know… Ghost.”

      She purposely weighed his name before vanishing to the depths of sea.

      When the moon wielded the night, Sierra’s oath came to life. Gigantic waves dominated the sea, heavy drops of rain demolished, and it was pure rage the wind and lighting proclaimed. Inside his sanctuary, there was no distress, no terror of the storm from Ghost but worry for the lady who was recently trapped in his labyrinth. He was worried for the mermaid who lived below the light and kept him on the edge of his seat the whole night. But the reign of moon finally ended yet all he could think about was her safety, her situation, if she was harmed or hopefully spent the night safely.

   Soon the king of light rose from the horizon, chirps of birds echoed along the calm wind and the sea was now at ease. A quiet knock came from the door. He was puzzled as he reached to open the entrance and see whoever was at the other side.

      The ground caught his jaw when the door gave sight of the Goddess on the other side. A captivating heavenly beauty stood familiar by heart, covered in peplos. 

    He was speechless, left in shock. He couldn’t believe a Goddess was standing right in front of his eyes. Luckily, a skull and clothing hid his face from the world.

     “Pleasant morning, Ghost. I only arrived as I wish to be aware of your condition after the storm.” 

     Her soothing tone comforted the harmonic morning and it brought him back to reality. He came back to his senses when he realized it was Sierra who was the stunning ethereal lady standing in front of him.

     “Sierra..”

“Ghost? Are you well?” She was starting to worry about his lack of response.

      “Sierra.. How are you with feet? I was secured the whole night. I am grateful that you care. You are the one who shall be questioned of their well-being. Do come in.” He widened the space for her to enter.

   “My pleasure. It is not necessary for you to worry about my health. I have experienced an even more terrible life in Olympus.”

      “I guess so.. –Olympus?”

   Sierra’s eyes widened when she realized what she had shared.

     “I only casted my feet to know if you are well. Are you confident that you are?”

     “You endangered yourself due to my being? Sierra, you are clueless of what you are doing. You shall come as I will take you back to your home.”

      “You are home.”

      “Stop being oblivious, Sierra. You would not desire to be with me, for I am not a nobleman.”

      “I am certain that it is not an appalling atrocity.”

       “I have taken hundreds of lives with my bare hands, Sierra.”

     “I am aware. You are the Lieutenant for your King, did you not say?”

     “Exactly.”

  “Therefore?”

    “You are the definition of pure and noble, Sierra. Your flawless skin.. your angelic eyes I could not find myself to look away from.. your luscious tail. In truth, you define perfection.”

    “I have not heard of your true name nor have I seen the magnificent mortal behind the mask, Ghost. Thus, same as me, you have not dived into my pool of sins for you to be definite of my genuine self.”

       “I am certain that it is not an appalling atrocity.”

         When Ghost threw her own words at her, she couldn't hold it anymore.

      “I behold such a fact that you are aware of my great love and care for you, Ghost. May whoever or whatever you have done.” Sierra held back tears before abandoning him speechless. And it was too late when he tried to run after her.

    Days elapsed and Ghost sailed consistently to try and catch Sierra by the nightfall, the time of day they usually meet, hoping to ask for her forgiveness. But days evolved into weeks and it was beginning to feel as if there was no existence of the mermaid at all.

       A mermaid who woke his long dead heart.

       He was filled with great sorrow and regret in the days when there were no signs of Sierra.

    Until one night, a miracle knocked on his door and made his heart beat crazy in hope of seeing Sierra once he opened the door. Heaven and earth entwined him when a different face of a goddess faced him.

      “Are you the mortal known as ‘Ghost’?” Authority and bravery would be sensed on her tone of speaking.

      “I am.” He responded.

     “If you without a doubt care about the Goddess of Sirens, you are to come with me right this moment.”

        “In what reasons would I care about the Goddess of Sirens?” Even if Ghost thought he had an idea who the lady was talking about, he didn't make it obvious.

       “For the Goddess of Sirens who ruled the Sea is named.. Sierra.”

        It was as if he was poured down with cold water with what he heard that he couldn't speak.

        “You are nothing but a fool if you weren't aware of this truth. Cease this nonsense right this instance and save the Goddess from the verdict of Zeus.”

          Athena made the former soldier do as told with her commanding tone. Ghost wasn't sure how they arrived at the sacred mountain of Olympus, but he was certain that it was Gods and Goddesses daggering him with looks full of judgment and studying his existence as if he wasn't meant to be there. And they were correct, he was just a mortal who had no right to be in the same place or even breathe the same air as God. But he did not have any time nor intended to self-pity, for this once caused him the sole reason of his being. Or in simpler words, the love of his life. The only soul who was ready to accept and love him for whoever or whatever he had done.

       Proud yet emotionless was the face carved behind the mask of Ghost. He followed right behind Athena who stood and bowed to show respect to the throne of Zeus. One gesture of Zeus and Athena vanished from her position and stepped aside, leaving the center of attention to the only mortal in the room. Zeus flashed a taunting smirk when the mortal in front of him did not dare to break the eye contact it held with a God.

       “A foolish and impudent mortal is the one you bring to save the Goddess of Sirens from death, Athena?!”  He yelled, howled, and tore the noises they caused that made the whole stadium sit in silence.

      Meanwhile, the Goddess of Warfare reacted as if she heard nothing, as if she wasn't yelled at by the God of all, she remained cold and unmoved while staring at nothing. Ghost had the exact same posture except his eyes widened when he took notice of the use of the word death in the same sentence with Sierra.

     “Death.. ?” He could not hold back anymore and started asking, he badly wanted to know her situation. Is she okay? Has she eaten yet? Where was she?  Is she in the middle of the sea waiting for him to sail? How he wished that their condition would always be as it was.

        “Precisely. The daughter of Poseidon and Aphrodite shall be punished for unjust killings of thousands of mortals! men.. women.. And demigods.”

        Ghost knew that taking one’s life is vile, wrong, evil. But he couldn’t force to stop the smile that was forming on his lips when he knew that the woman who owned his heart was the same as he was. Morally corrupt, rotten soul, sinful and ungodly, a killer. They were fit for each other.

      “Yet.. the judgment can still be revoked..” All of a sudden, Ghost found a shed of light for just a split second when Zeus continued.

      “If only she were to marry me.”

     His closed fist tightened its grip on nothing when he heard those words. His anger boiled when he heard the condition of Sierra’s freedom from death. She was his. He would never let death nor any God or mortal take her away.

      “Bring her out!” He demanded.

   “Fool! And who did you think you are for anyone here to follow!?”

  “Bring Sierra out!” The mortal wasn’t moved one bit and even had a higher tone in speaking to a god.

     “Mortal!” Athena called out to Ghost to scold him for disrespecting.

   The mocking laugh Zeus released thundered the entire domain as he gestured to one of the knights.

  “You’re brave, Lieutenant.” An insulting smirk appeared on his lips while he sneered at Ghost, “I'll give you that.” obviously wanting him to know that he knew who he was.

    “Summon the Goddess.” Zeus commanded calmly which the knights obeyed immediately. A few tense minutes went by and the sound of chains hitting the ground was starting to sound close by. Then the knights appeared surrounding the most beautiful goddess in the room. But there was something off with her. She looked lifeless. And as if a dog whose owner did not want her to bark, she had a dog muzzle. His heart of stone tore into a million pieces at the scene. He fought the urge to run and rip the rope securing her wrists and feet and pull her to his embrace.

   But he became a statue as he took in her condition. She was pale, hollow-cheeked, as if she was starving for weeks. They forcedly sat her beside Zeus’ throne, as if she was the reigning Queen.

  “Sierra..” He whispered weakly.

    She slowly brought her gaze up to find the source of that familiar voice and found his warm eyes staring back at her. The eyes that calm her system down. She couldn’t do anything but squirm and persist to be free from being restrained. Her radiant eyes moistened from tears that begged to fall when she saw him. Weak and faint cries were heard from Sierra.

    Ghost wasn’t able to hold it together anymore when her cries reached his ears. He tried to run to her, but the alert knights held and forced him down before he caught the throne.

   “You stop this instance you imbeciles! You! Mortal! If you, as you claim, care for the Goddess, I challenge you to prove it right this moment.” One flick of his hand and one of the chevaliers threw Ghost away and a sword at him. He wholeheartedly accepted the challenge.

  Sierra became undone at the scene in front of her. She was nervous, scared, and at the same time impressed at the mad skills Ghost was showing as he defended and slayed the knights of gods. There was fire in his eyes, igniting him to win. But the battle wasn’t fair and square, Zeus was tiring him out by sending more and more warriors with each knight he slayed. Sierra kept squirming in her seat as she witnessed the unfair battle before flinching when she felt a hand land on her shoulder.

    Ghost was well aware of Zeus’ intentions, he was purposely exhausting him so he would give up, but no matter how many stabs or bruises he received, giving up would never cross his mind knowing the price it pays.

      Each swish of sword and duck of his, he sensed where the other was if it was nowhere near his sight. As he jabbed the steel into the man’s chest breaking through its skin and sinking into its bones, it was too late to duck from the stab that was coming from behind, but before a blade passed through him, a dead body dropped behind him instead, at the same time when the one in front his face dropped dead. When he turned around, he saw Sierra with a sword slightly gasping for air, his saviour from the traitor enemy. She ran to help him as soon as Athena untied her.

      “Ghost..” She whispered breathlessly. Just a few more steps and they were finally able to feel another’s embrace. At the drop of the armor, Sierra locked his neck around her arms while Ghost secured her waist in his arms.           

      “I love you, Sierra. I am such a fool, please, I need you to forgive—”

     “Shh.. shh.. I know, my only. I know. And I love you too, I love you so much.”

     “Fools!” At the same time as Zeus let out a scream, the arrow came free and landed on the back of the mortal.

    Sierra froze on her spot as she slowly processed what just happened. Ghost’s blooded body fell on the ground but she immediately tried to catch his head.

        “No.. no.. this.. This is not possible. This can not be.. no.. ”

        She couldn’t control the tears that were falling from her eyes. All the anger that burned inside her for centuries was turning into pure pain and sorrow.

       “Ghost.. Don’t.. Please.. Don’t leave me.. I beg of you.. Don’t.”

      Ghost weakly tried to reach his balaclava to let the Goddess know his genuine self. While Sierra was as seen as if she saw an angel, a handsome hunk angel. Even if he was painted in blood, and deep scars, it didn’t manage to lessen his striking beauty. From his brilliant eyes, sharp nose, and jaw, she was falling for him all over again.

       “You are the most handsome mortal I sang for.”

      “You are the most beautiful goddess I fought for.”

       At the same time a smile appeared on Sierra’s lips was the escape of tears and a cough of blood from Ghost.

      “Oh, Ghost. No.. shh.. no.. my ghost.."

     “Simon.” Simon corrected. “Simon is my true name, my only.”

     “Simon..” Sierra repeated in fascination. “I love you, Simon. I do.”     

     She left a kiss on his forehead as Simon left his last words before his last breath.

    “For eternity, even at the last gasp of sun, I can only witness beauty when I’m with you.”

      Each corner of the stadium was filled with Sierra’s screeching scream when Ghost officially caught his last breath. Her pain and grief were painfully evident in her yells and her cries. Every god and goddess watched her scream in pain. Her agony maimed everyone who heard her howl on the whole mountain of sacredness.

      Yet no matter what the two of them went through that day, she was still served with death on the same day and neither of her parents defended or sought to comfort her. No one ever did except for the mortal who lay lifeless next to her.

       From that day on, the cry and screams of agony of the siren echoed eternally at the depths of the sea, and anyone who came across, anyone unfortunate enough to hear it, was never found.

      And that became the birth of the phantom of the sea.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I had the most dumb yet sensible thought when it comes to your Pretender AU. Megatron discovering ways to deal with Optimus accidentally through human media. Particularly horror media like The Thing, Among Us, Bloodborne, Alien, SCP and such.

A thing that Soundwave would stumble upon by accident before realizing this could come in handy and share with it the other Decepticons. It's kinda ironic in a way. Organics having what could be the key to handling this entire mess through their entertainment based media.

Plus they probably look to YouTube for channels like Roanoke Gaming who discusses the various intricacies like mythology, biology and such on media creatures such as Xenomorphs.

Oh goodness this is FUNNY.

Previous part here.

This is kinda crack so honestly its up in the ether plot relevance wise.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

The Pretenders tried to flee Cybertron as soon as they deemed the planet unsuitable. Megatron wanted to scoff when he caught wind of the Pretend Prime and his entourage fleeing the sector. He had every intention of ruling Cybertron and left more than enough soldiers behind to tend to the planet in his absence, but he simply could not allow the Pretenders to go. If they got any ground anywhere, they would spread and be back.

The Pretender Prime had long since proven to be capable of holding a grudge, and Megatron was in no mood to shove the issue under the rug until it came back to bite him. As such, he collected his inner circle, Jazz included, and boarded the Nemesis. He set course for the planet the Pretenders were headed toward with grim determination, and upon landing, he almost wanted to scream due to the sheer amount of organic everything. It reminded him of the Pretenders and he despised being on the ground.

Thus, while his subordinates did everything in their power to root out the Pretenders wherever they were rooted on the planet of Earth, Megatron delved into the human datanet with Soundwave at his side. Jazz joined them on occasion, and through this shared effort, they discovered possible methods to combat their foes that they never would have expected. The ideas were... a tad outlandish. But having tried just about everything else under the sun to kill their enemies, the Decepticons were willing to make an attempt to follow the potential solutions provided.

Having watched "Earnest Scared Stupid" one time, the Vehicons attempted to deal with the Pretenders through the use of milk. It was a one time effort, and the Pretenders were more dumbfounded than actually upset at the milk that was tossed all over them. Seeing as they didn't melt into goo, the Vehicons ran screaming.

Jazz made a valiant attempt to use voodoo magic a handful of times, which ended up resulting in a small storage closet being filled to the brim with collections of dolls stuffed with needles. He also tried a few banishing rituals just for the kick of it. And surprisingly, after one of his attempts which involved an offering the some demon Jazz never bothered to remember, Arcee ended up stepping into a hole and breaking her leg. Since then Jazz has occasionally repeated the ritual just to see if anything else happens.

Starscream saw several movies and decided that water might be a possible way to combat the Pretenders. Being the most reliable flier, he took to the air and decided that Arcee would be the best target. He picked her up, and making sure to wear gloves so as to not actually touch her, he threw her into the nearest body of water and waited above. Arcee for her part flailed and got out with a hiss of indignation, her plating flaring and her extra limbs extending so that she could shake off the liquid. The most Starscream got for his efforts was a dirty look, but his work was applauded when he returned to the Nemesis. Touching a Pretender was always a dangerous risk to take.

Megatron opted for a slightly more... violent solution. He had attempted chemical warfare, bombing, outright attacks, poison, and even manufactured diseases to fight back against his foes. None of his efforts so much as gave him a reasonable weakness to use against them. While young, Pretenders were easy to kill. But after that all he really had to target was their familial connections. There were no physical defects to attack or use against them. They adapted, and as much as he was loath to admit it, they were disgustingly superior when it came to most physical activities. They were resistant to just about everything too. So really there were only two options in his mind.

The Pretenders operated similarly to organics. And according to what he saw, two things that killed organics most often were freezing cold and fire. Thus, his vehicons were given flamethrowers for a time and when the opportunity arose, Optimus was thrown into the arctic for observation. The vehicons for their part managed to make the Pretenders scatter, but fire did nothing against them that it didn't do for a normal Cybertronian. The freezing on the other hand? Freezing could kill a bot, at least in a moist environment. But against the odds, as soon as Optimus found he couldn't escape on his own, the Prime dug a hole into the ground and curled up into a ball, his frame stilling. For a moment Megatron thought he might have won, but then as soon as the other Pretenders came to get him, they dragged the Prime out and back to their base. Within a week he was up and moving again.

The monsters could hibernate it seemed. And that terrified Megatron more than he cared to admit.

The Decepticons only true success came when Soundwave decided to attempt using sound to their advantage. The Pretenders were incredibly sensitive, their optics, audials, and olfactory systems all primed for hunting. Seeing "The Quiet Place", Soundwave noted the similarities between the Pretenders and the Angels and opted to make an attempt at using the same attack against their foes. To the surprise of everyone, he...

Succeeded.

When Soundwave played music on just the right frequency on the battlefield, the Pretenders began to scream. Their frames shifted, their disguises falling away and simultaneously being forced back into place. Unable to control their frames fully, they could only thrash and fight like wild animals as their senses were assaulted from all sides. It was not enough to kill them, but the weakness was swiftly acknowledged and abused.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

Another step closer to victory.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 1: Afternoon Light]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 3.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

A/N: Not me pulling a Tom Brady by announcing my retirement only to immediately un-announce it. 😂😂 I regret to inform you that I am apparently incapable of not writing fanfiction. I had no ideas for a grand total of 1 week before this story showed up and possessed me entirely against my will...and then I fell in love with it. I’m still working on my book, but I had to get this out of my system too. I hope you enjoy it. 💜 I’ll tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to! 🥰

@elsolario @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess

He’s thrusting into you, but you’re miles away: a speck of an island in the Mediterranean Sea, the glimmer of an unnamed star.

His rhythm is clumsy but never rough. He smells like wine and sandalwood, lavender and bleak perspiration. You moan when he expects you to. Your body moves with his, compliant, complicit. You roll your hips and tug at his white-blond hair, corollaries of ecstasy you wish you felt. You’ve learned to feign pleasure convincingly. Aegon will stop if he thinks you’re not enjoying yourself, and you need this to be over. What do you want me to do to you? he’ll ask, cerulean eyes drunk and muddy, words slurred, body repositioning. Do you like it this way? How about this? You can’t bear his curious consideration, his invasive hands. You don’t really like it any way. You’ve grown to accept that. You’ve had time to get used to the idea.

The air is sharp with the mineral ether of sex. Spots on the sheet beneath you are wet, clinging, cold. When Aegon kisses you—sloppily, carelessly—your lips and tongue follow his, willing him to finish, your eyes squeezed shut as he gropes your face with ungainly fingers. And at last, it’s done: he shudders, groans, flops down beside you on the mattress.

“Well done, wife,” Aegon pants. He gives your disheveled hair one absentminded stroke and then gazes up at the canopy, cloth embroidered with green roses and spiraling gold dragons. He yawns, his eyes dipping closed. The rise and fall of his bare, glistening chest is slowing.

“Aegon?”

“Hm?” He is inconvenienced; he is already half-asleep.

You roll onto your side, turning towards him. Aegon feels the mattress shift. Reluctantly, he rouses himself, sighs, swallows the rest of the wine in the cup he left perched on the nightstand. “I’m so sorry,” you say softly.

“About what?” He peers at you, groggy and half-listening, stray beads of red wine like blood on his chin. “Oh, yes. That.”

That. What he means is three miscarriages in one year, all early, all excruciating beyond words, all destructive to both the body and the soul. “You have no idea how hard I’m trying.”

“Don’t worry yourself, wife,” he says, yawning again. He always calls you that—wife—with a vague, impersonal fondness. Aegon doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t seem interested in remedying that. He doesn’t see it as something to be remedied at all. He attempts to set his empty cup back on the nightstand and doesn’t notice when it tumbles off and clanks against the floor. He burrows beneath the blankets like a hedgehog. “We’ll get it right eventually.”

Eventually, you think with horror, as you are left alone in the candlelight; Aegon plummets into sleep and is silent except for his snoring. How long will I have to do this?

Twelve months of marriage and you are no closer to fulfilling your purpose here. You are told what to eat, when to sleep with your husband, how to lie still afterwards so his seed can take hold, which saints to pray to. You are offered tender-voiced morsels of advice until they feel more like palms cracking across your face than gifts. Every second of your existence is consumed by the desperate need for Aegon’s heir, for the Greens’ future. And each time you lose a pregnancy, the clock starts over again.

How long can I do this before it breaks me, kills me, drives me mad?

~~~~~~~~~~

When a northern pike glides through cool rippling currents, yellow perch and bluegills scatter; and that’s exactly what the courtiers do to you. It’s a bit like living inside a glass bowl: people press their palms to the arched walls and stare like you’re a captive animal—a leopard or an elephant or a white bear from the Arctic—but they don’t speak to you. None of them know what to say. There are whispers flying, women in gowns and men in tunics gossiping about how last night was the first time the prince returned to your bed since your most recent miscarriage. The tentative speculation can begin again, glances at your waistline and delicate inquiries about your health. Bets are placed on whether you will at last produce an heir this time: boy, girl, white-haired or not, early, late, alive, dead. The clock has been reset.

You do not allow anyone to see your pain, your desperation. You have no true friends here. You are allied with the Greens, yes, but that does not mean they are your friends. The Duke of Hightower, chief advisor to the king, was insistent that you bring none of your ladies with you from your homeland; and so the women who attend you are English, polite but not particularly devoted, dutiful but not reliably discreet. He wanted no weak links, no chess pieces that he could not entirely control, no loyalties that ran deeper than his ambitions for Alicent and her children. Now, the Duke of Hightower is fiercely disappointed with you. He’s losing his ability to hide it.

As you traverse the Great Hall of Westminster Palace—an island, a lone cloud roaming across a clear sky—Prince Daemon, smirking and wolflike, stalks into your path.

“Hello there, Navarre,” he says, circling with one hand on the hilt of his sword, his strange deep-set eyes flicking all over you. He likes to call you this, a reminder of where you came from, of why Aegon married you: for an alliance, for advantages in the inevitable civil war when King Viserys dies, for heirs intrinsically linked with the Continent. You were one piece of a far grander design. Helaena was married off to Castile, you were brought west from Navarre, and thus the Greens gained supporters in the Iberian Peninsula. Helaena has given birth to one healthy son so far, and by all accounts has found great happiness in her new life across the Bay of Biscay. Daemon never tires of drawing attention to the fact that you have yet to fulfill your half of the bargain.

You bow your head swiftly, without conviction. “Prince Daemon.”

“My, that’s quite an extravagant gown. What have you got hidden under it? Your father’s famed archers, perhaps? Gold coins and steel daggers? I know what Prince Aegon would want under his skirts.” Daemon grins. “Lady Joanna Montford. Or is it Mountford? You must forgive me, I’m always mixing up the details.”

“I’ll defer to your better judgment, you have far more experience with whores than I do.”

He offers you a single rose, dyed black. “I regret that I did not have the opportunity to properly express my condolences after your most recent loss. It’s become difficult to keep up with them, they’ve grown so numerous. I’m sure you understand.”

You take the rose; untrimmed thorns bite into the defenseless flesh of your fingertips, but you don’t let it show on your face. “Only one from you? Your wife sent me a dozen.” They were red, the color of Navarre’s flag; though the resemblance to blood did not escape you.

“Yes, it’s true, her heart remains rather tender, much to my chagrin.”

“And yours remains nonexistent.” You pluck onyx petals from the rose one by one and toss them to the floor. Courtiers watch this, chattering spiritedly.

Daemon is still grinning. He has won. It never matters what you say, what you do; until you give Aegon a son, in every interaction Daemon walks away the victor. “I hope you enjoy the rest of this glorious July afternoon. And I hope you enjoy your evening as well. And the evening after that, and the evening after that…” He prowls closer, his voice dropping low and sinister. “And all those countless, blundering, long evenings you’ll spend under your mortifying drunk of a husband.”

You rip away from him—not his hands, no, even Daemon would not deign to touch you in front of an audience, but from his suffocating antipathy—and continue on your way to the royal stables, courtiers dispersing in your wake like startled doves. The cobblestones of the palace gardens are weather-beaten and craggy as you sail over them, warm summer wind in your hair, the hem of your gown dragging. Herbs and spices grow high and vivid green: angelica for digestion, feverfew for headaches, St. John’s wort for melancholy, betony to ward off evil spirits, chamomile to bring sleep, rosemary to quell nightmares, pennyroyal to induce a woman’s monthly blood. You have the opposite problem. All you seem to be able to do is bleed.

Inside the royal stables, the world is reduced to hushed subtleties: hooves thudding against straw, nickers and huffs, the swishing of tails, cascading sunlight dotted with whirling planets of dust. You drift by each of the stalls, inhaling the scent of horses and mid-summer. King Viserys promised you an Andalusian, brought by ship all the way from your homeland, for each child born to you and Aegon; alas, none of the animals housed here are yours yet. There’s Sunfyre, an Akhal-Teke, small-boned and shimmering gold. There’s Caraxes, a temperamental blood bay Arabian, and Syrax, a Marwari, cremello with blue eyes and delicate ears that curl in towards each other. Tessarion is a dappled blue-grey Percheron, young but gaining height and brute force each day. Jacaerys and Lucerys have Marwaris like their mother, Baela and Rhaena own volatile Arabians like their father. Joffrey is still riding a slow, potbellied pony; little Aegon III, Viserys II, and Visenya cannot ride at all yet. Every time you blink, it seems, the Blacks have added another child to their ranks, another inheritor to carry their claim forward. Your stomach sinks beneath your skin and scarlet ropes of muscle, a basket full of rocks.

You stop at the last stall, twice the size of any of the others. Vhagar towers over you. She is an English Great Horse, and the largest one that anyone can remember knowing of; her coat is a dark, lustrous brown, her massive hooves feathered, her muzzle sloped and velvety when you lay your palm against it. She lets you do this, as she always does; more than that, you think, she welcomes it.

You remove the letter from your bodice, your true purpose for coming here. You want to read it where you can be alone, where there are no prying eyes to report back to King Viserys, Queen Alicent, the Duke of Hightower, Aegon, Daemon, Rhaenyra the Crown Princess. You must keep your composure, your dignity. It’s all you have left.

You unfold the letter, your gaze skimming across your mother’s words, the slopes and summits of her letters heartbreakingly familiar, her fears loud through the ink-and-parchment silence. You expected this, and yet the weight of it stacks up in your ribcage like the splintered wreckage of a ship.

Think, my love, the Queen of Navarre writes. Think of everything you do, see, say, and feel. There is something that is poisoning the children inside of you. Do not trouble yourself with court gossip or bitter rivalries. You cannot serve your husband’s family—your family, now—if your attention is divided and your heart heavy with doubts. Shut yourself away from all things impassioned. Commit yourself to prayer and needlework. Purify yourself, dear daughter, prepare yourself in body and soul. God answers the cries of those who have won his favor.

You crumple the letter in your fists and then rip it to pieces, not out of wrath but so that nobody else might read it. The fragments flutter away like autumn leaves. You cannot resent your mother for her cushioned reprimands. She means well, but she cannot hope to understand; she bore ten children, eight of whom lived past the cradle, with no exceptional difficulty. Your father has taken mistresses on occasion, but not until years into his marriage, and regardless of his dalliances your mother remains his confidant, his greatest desire, his heart. Your life is nothing like hers. Your future has become something you didn’t know existed. You feel as if you have stumbled into a mirror, a duplicate world where everything is the same but the wrong way around. Where is your own satisfaction? Where is your soulmate?

There are footsteps, and you spin to see Prince Aemond standing in the doorway. He immediately turns to leave, and this is unsurprising; he never speaks to you, rarely looks at you, glides out of rooms as you come into them. You had once hoped to befriend him before his aversion to the notion became clear. He is palpably disinterested in you. But this afternoon as warm golden sunlight spills down on him, for reasons you cannot fathom, he hesitates; and now he’s waited too long, it would be rude for him to flee so obviously from you. Slowly, Aemond walks into the stable. He is so much like Daemon, though lighter: not in color but in gravity, his steps quieter, his hands graceful and precise. You’ve never seen him without his eyepatch. The Blacks call the cause of his maiming a sparring accident, the Greens call it an ambush, King Viserys doesn’t call it anything; perhaps he has forgotten it completely.

You expect Aemond to demand to know what you’re doing here, to scold you for jeopardizing your health with unnecessary excursions. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through,” he says instead, his voice whisper-soft like pattering spring rain, like a leaf of lamb’s ear threaded between your fingers. “I hope my brother has been…kind about it.”

“He’s very kind. He doesn’t mention it at all.” Not once has anybody said those three words to you: I’m so sorry. They lift a million pounds from your shoulders, an eon of stones from your belly. “In fact, no one speaks of it with me. They speak in my direction, they tell me what to do differently, they assign blame…but no one has any interest in what I have to say back. No one asks me what it feels like to…to…”

It shocks you, knuckles to the gut: your breath hitches, your lips tremble, you swallow down tears like poison. It’s humiliating, this display of helplessness, this shattering of regal poise. You shield your face with both hands so Aemond cannot watch you war with yourself. And surely he is repulsed by you, this prince who has been mutilated and unavenged and overlooked since childhood. You have never known anyone as self-possessed as Aemond Targaryen. He endures all of life’s trials without emotion, without weakness. He must be appalled that you cannot do the same.

Yet when you are at last confident that you will not weep in front of him, you lower your hands to see that Aemond has silently obliterated the space between you. He is close enough to touch, his palm pressed to Vhagar’s monstrous neck. He’s looking at the horse, but he is listening to you. “She likes you,” he says gently. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

You’ve never been in such proximity to Aemond before. He’s taller than you remember; his eye is watchful and intent, a paler shade of blue than Aegon’s, more clear, a river rather than a sea riotous with storms. When you inhale, you taste pieces of him: leather, musk, the smoke of a blacksmith’s forge. There’s an abrupt weakness in your knees and ankles that you pretend not to notice. “Most of my friends have hooves these days.”

“I never see you go out riding.”

“I’m not allowed to.”

For an instant, his brow knits with confusion, and then he remembers. Horseback riding is thought to be calamitous for pregnancy, and your chances are slim enough already. “But that’s something that you once enjoyed, back in Navarre?” You flinch when you hear the name of your homeland, a reflex, Daemon’s taunts ringing in your skull like church bells. Everyone knows that’s what he calls you. “Forgive me, perhaps that word has painful connotations now.”

“It doesn’t sound so bad when you say it.” And that’s true: it’s not a dagger but a murmur, a musing, a dream. “Yes, I used to love riding horses. And dancing, attending hunting expeditions, reading poetry, plucking olives from the trees…my brothers and I would even knock swords together sometimes in the courtyard.” You smile wistfully, then lose it like a gull feather on waves. “And now I don’t do anything.”

“What brings you happiness here in England?”

“Nothing,” you reply, meeting his gaze for the first time. He studies you, his eye blue like the mid-summer afternoon sky, searching. And suddenly, you’ve never felt more interesting, you’ve never felt such raw hunger to unearth everything you’re built of. You skate your palm down Vhagar’s face and confess quietly, shakily: “I always thought I would teach my children to ride horses.”

“You will someday,” Aemond insists.

“When you’re little, five or ten years old, you dream about growing up and all the miraculous things you’ll be. And then you finally become an adult and you meet the rest of your life and…and…” You don’t like it. “It’s so different from what you imagined.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, soft and mournful.

“But I’ve interrupted you,” you say. “You came here to take Vhagar riding, I’m sure, and now you’re caught in my little web of nostalgia and self-pity. Please, accept my apology, and don’t let me delay you any further.”

“I was planning to go riding,” Aemond admits. He’s wearing a black leather messenger bag, you notice for the first time. He pulls at the strap that hangs from his right shoulder self-consciously. You have never seen Aemond betray any sign of self-consciousness before this moment. In many ways, you have never seen him at all. He asks you pointedly: “What if I took Vhagar out walking you accompanied me?”

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Not riding,” Aemond says. “Just walking. We’ll lead her down to the edge of the forest, let her stretch her legs a bit and eat some of the fallen apples. You’re allowed to walk, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so.” You stare at him, perplexed. You almost ask why he would offer to do such a thing, why he would feel inspired to raise your spirits. But you don’t want him to change his mind. You point to his messenger bag. “What do you have in there?”

“Parchment. Quills. A bottle of ink.”

“What do you write? Battle plans? Letters to marriageable foreign noblewomen?”

“Poems,” Aemond confesses in a whisper you can barely hear, not looking at you.

“Could I read some of your poems?”

“No,” he says immediately, startled.

“Never mind. It was wrong of me to ask.”

He doesn’t reply; he just fetches Vhagar’s halter from the hook on the stable wall, black leather studded with sapphires the size of ladybugs. She allows Aemond to place it on her without any resistance. He attaches the lead chain—heavy silver links—but he doesn’t need it. Vhagar follows him out of the stables, her colossal hooves drumming like distant thunder, her jet black mane whipping in the wind. Aemond matches his pace with yours as the three of you cross the emerald green field that separates Westminster Palace from the tree line of the forest.

After strolling for a while—Vhagar chomping on apples, you stepping gingerly over felled branches and gnarled roots—you and Aemond sit beneath a sprawling cedar that blots out the sun, its limbs like the wings of a dragon. He recounts myths and legends of England, things that Aegon has not thought to share with you once in the past twelve months, weeks of which you spent in bed bleeding out his would-be children: King Arthur and Beowulf, Robin Hood and the Rollright Stones, Saint George the guardian of the royal family. And as Aemond speaks, at some point you stop hearing him and start seeing him, everything that brought him here, everything that will happen next.

Once upon a time, King Viserys named his daughter Rhaenyra his successor. She was his only surviving offspring, the last vestige of his cherished wife Aemma, dead in fruitless childbirth and cold in her tomb in Windsor Castle. The king then promptly remarried and fathered four more Targaryens, closer to afterthoughts than assets in his eyes: Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. Rhaenyra is still the king’s favorite, and is much loved in Northern England, where her mother hailed from. She has the support of Scotland as well. Her marriage to their Crown Prince Laenor Velaryon was meant to consolidate the two nations under one ruling family, one flag. To reinforce this alliance, her uncle Daemon wed Laenor’s sister Laena. But then Laena died, and Laenor did too, and all those tragic pieces fell together for Rhaenyra to get what she evidently wanted all along: Daemon in wedlock, in her confidence, in her bed. Her sons with Laenor will soon marry his daughters with Laena, and each new white-haired child she produces with her uncle gives the Blacks one more dynastic pawn to play in the game of thrones.

The merchants of Southern England—the Duke of Hightower foremost among them—are aghast at the thought of Rhaenyra’s ascension. No woman has ever successfully ruled England, and she is sure to be malevolently influenced by her uncle-husband. The Pope will not sanction their incestuous union, nor those of their children, though this does not daunt the Blacks. They will make a new order here in the British Isles; they will not play by the Continent’s rules. In reply, the kingdoms of Western Europe—to varying degrees of zealousness—support the Greens and the coronation of Aegon II upon his father’s death. King Viserys is in fine health now, but that could change at a moment’s notice: with a fall from a horse, with veins darkened by infection, with a vial of poison, with a resurgence of Plague. When the king is dead, Aegon must have every possible advantage to offer England, including a clear line of succession. This was supposed to be your role. This has become your greatest failure. Yet here under a hundred-year-old cedar tree outside Westminster Palace, Aemond makes you forget that for a while.

Hours later, you are back in your bedchamber when your husband arrives to fuck you. That’s a crude word for it, but that’s exactly what it is: something he does to you, not with you. You gulp down a cup of your apple cider, the drink you like best here in England, not as thick and bitter as ale, not a poor imposter of the Continent’s red wine. It is bright, sweet, sometimes vaguely minty. It makes you think of spring and summer, of rebirth. It fills you with the undying ambition to bear fruit of your own.

You turn to Aegon, who is yanking off his white shirt with his back to you, his hair in disarray, his pores sweating out wine and indifference. He crawls into the bed on all fours, slapping himself lightly across the face, forcing himself to stay awake until the act is done.

And you think, for the very first time: I wonder what it would have been like to marry Aemond.

[the-moon-devi]

🦋Channeled Messages from Spirit 🦋

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Use your intuition & pick which mood board is calling u!

Decks used: The HooDoo Tarot & The Love oracle

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Pile 1:

Channeled Messages:

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♡ Flower dress- cottagecore

♡ The color pink??

♡ breadwinner

♡ shame

♡ gossip

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Cards pulled: Father of Baskets, 9 of sticks, the sun, son of knives, bottom of the deck; justice

You carry yourself respectfully,and you come off lady-like/ feminine. But I feel like you don't bs around, people may think your not very smart. People comment on your looks alot (maybe your hair) to make you feel self conscious about your appearance. (Cuz' their jealous) The first card that came out for you was the Father of Baskets and the energy I'm getting is maybe a father or perhaps a boss or love interest either way I feel like this person tries to tell you what to do and wants to keep you in harsh situations or puts you in harsh situations. You may find yourself in a position to defend yourself and your ego. This may have something to do with your reputation or how others view you this person could have been sneakily putting out rumors about you. I'm getting you deserve justice for this and your going to get it. Honestly, this could even be a legal battle your going through. I'm getting like legally blonde vibes from this pile. I feel like people think your too pretty to be smart. They try to pick you apart and get mad once they realize your more mentally strong than you gave off. This man gossiped and talked about you so bad. I feel so hurt and betrayed for ya'll. You could've trusted this person and talked to them about your emotions but they were very two-faced to you. You may have learned they were doing this to you because you were eavesdropping. If you haven't then you will and I'm getting the energy that's it going to come out pretty soon. Alright pile 1, I hope this helped and you guys cuss this person out because you have every right to. 😘😡

Pile 2:

Channeled Messages:

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♡ falling/ Tower card moment

♡ unexpected

♡ confusion

♡ lost

♡ tired

♡ starseed

♡ scorpio

♡ necklace

♡ overestimated/ exhaustion

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Cards pulled: The lovers, 5 of cups, ace of knives, 3 of Baskets, 5 of sticks, the high priestess.

Oracle: coffin- growth,change liberation,change

Heartbroken- deeply hurt,sad,seperation,breakup, feeling lost grieving mourning,

The runner- fear of intimacy, listening to ego

Ascending- transcending, obstacles, learning expansion, new phase, preparing for union

You are very confused right now, I feel like you guys hit rock bottom or you were just thrown down a hole or like a maze where you keep going around in circles. It could feel like something or someone is chasing you. I just had a dream similar to this, so this message could really resonate with this pile. You may be scared of a love interest hurting you, because we have the lovers card here, this person could have actually hurt you and left you feeling disappointed in love. That experience is what could have put you in this tower energy. I think your ancestors sent you into this to get clarity on something that's spiritual. You have the ascending card and the High priestess. Your in a maze and you have to find a way out instead of running from what your scared of face it head on. That thing your running from could be the thing that's going to protect you. You also have the 5 of wands there could be some spiritual warfare going on for you this may be affecting your mental. This is such a complex pile and I love it because your message is very deep. I felt the need to go on pinterest after channeling and I saw a cross necklace with Jesus and a picture that said Evara. Evara means gift of God. Your very connected to the ETHERS and your being called to pull out that ace of swords to beat whatever enemy you have. You have the gift of God and you are protected. You may be in some type of religion it doesn't have to be Christian, you could be like a witch/ apart of some type of cultural group or in a cult. I'm getting vibes like that. I feel like you work very well with dark energy. Because you are of light & dark and know how to transmute. Something could also be affecting your sleep or, you could literally avoid sleeping because you feel attacked in your dreams. I did also channel starseeds before I pulled your cards. You could be confused on why all of this is happening to you and this could be why. A certain celebration also could have not turned out the way you wanted to. There could have been a fight or smth like that. Theres also a few of you who are going through this because your running from your person, and they are trying to protect you. Im getting a lot as i close this energy out but yall are tired try to go to sleep. You could get alot of psychic downloads which leads to overstimulaion & paranoia try to journal and speak aloud. Maybe even psychic attacks. Some of you also could have lossed a partner. Im so sorry. I hope this helped in some way, and I pray for mental/ spiritual insight for you. Pls do some protection/banishing wrk if ur in2 that. 😘🔮

Pile 3:

Channeled messages:

••••••••••••••••••••••••

♡ Thick/ nice shape

♡ Monochromatic/ Luxury

♡ Natural hair

♡ single mom

♡ callou/ Arthur

♡ writer

♡ Family by dream girls

♡ the box- Roddy rich (this is so random ik 🤣 but maybe there's a message 4 u 🤭)

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Cards pulled: Son of Baskets, 2 of knives, Mother of baskets, 4 of wands, Hierophant,  Father of swords

Oracle: Photograph- looking at your photos, missing you, Nostalgia, make new memories

For those of you who chose this pile, you could have children or your pregnant. While I was started channeling I started rubbing my stomach so maybe your expecting. I also started remembering shows from my childhood like callou and Aurthur (2000s babies know). You could be a young parent reflecting back on your childhood because your energy pulled  the Photograph oracle card and this represents old memories and Nostalgia, I kinda got like a melancholy feeling from this like you miss it. Your now realizing your entering a new phase in your life. You may be having/ have a boy too since both of those shows have little boy as the main characters. I feel like you have two options with the two of swords here. You may not know the specifics of each option and feel like you don't know enough about either to choose. 4 of wands here im getting family but also you have the hierophant and this card represents traditional values. The hierophant can also represent marriage so you could be getting married and starting a family with the father of knives soon. (I'm seeing 717 as I'm writing this) look up that number it could have a meaning for you. This person could feel you have very mothering energy. Your energy is the mother of cups. I see you and this person have built a very solid foundation. You may be worried about being pregnant or whatever your case is but whichever turn you make you'll be fine. I'm also getting your family will have your back no matter what. You may be worried about being a single mom or conforming to traditional roles of being married before you have children. You could have this mindset because of your family. It was a pleasure reading for you guys, yall energy feels so venusian & Lunar. Best wishes to you and your decision! 🌺🦋

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Catch ya later lovelies! Til' next time!

𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓵 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼 xx🤎💋

~𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓵

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𝓓𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓓𝓮'𝓛𝓾𝔁𝔁𝓮 (masterlist)

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©𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓵 (Do not copy or steal my work)

[bardic-tales]

I’ve finally got Lucien's character page filed out on here. For reference, all my FF 7 OCs can be found at the FF 7 Muses Hub.

faceclaim: Timothée Chalamet

Warnings: AU: Canon divergent. Abandonment, abuse (emotional, physical), alienation, creation via forbidden magic, cloning, complex family dynamics, conception struggles, conflict with parental expectations, creator deity, death and destruction, experimentation (genetic), forced isolation, genetic manipulation, internal conflict, manipulation, obsessive love, PTSD, religious themes, reproductive trauma, self-worth struggles, spiritual conflict, violence, war, and warfare.

Lucien (Moore)

Lucien was created a millennium after the Omniverse's rebirth as the heir to both Bianca Moore and Sephiroth's legacy. Bianca, unable to conceive due to Shinra's experiments, used forbidden magic to create Lucien and his twin sister, Aurora, combining celestial, infernal, and Jenova’s alien DNA. Raised in isolation in the abandoned town within the Ethereal Nexus, Lucien’s upbringing focused on honing his intellect and leadership, influenced by both Bianca’s nurturing and Sephiroth’s harsh training in warfare and strategy. His heritage shaped his abilities, as his parents instilled in him a sense of purpose, with Bianca’s love ensuring his commitment to their family's dark legacy. Lucien’s deep attachment to his mother, Bianca, was evident throughout his upbringing—he was a self-proclaimed "momma’s boy," finding comfort and security in her presence above all else. This devotion mirrored the obsessive bond Sephiroth had with Jenova, as Lucien saw Bianca as both a source of love and the guiding force behind his destiny.

As Lucien grew, he faced internal conflict due to his cautious nature, which clashed with the decisive, aggressive tendencies his parents expected. While Sephiroth pushed for swift action, Lucien’s tendency to weigh risks created tension, especially in battle. Despite this, his bond with Bianca remained central to his development, with her constant guidance ensuring his loyalty to their cause. Lucien’s strategic mind and patience earned him respect, and by the age of 18, he began to solidify his position in the Celestial Realm, using his unique blend of celestial and infernal powers to rebuild and assert his dominance after the destruction of the Celestial Realm and Omniverse that was orchestrated by Bianca millennium before.

By the time Lucien reached 25, he had fully established himself as the Creator deity of the Celestial Realm, moving beyond his parents' legacy of destruction. His leadership was rooted in balance, diplomacy, and foresight, using his power to reshape the realm into one that reflected his ideals. Despite his successes, Lucien continued to struggle with the influence of his father, Sephiroth, and his own internal conflict between his celestial nature and the infernal and alien forces within him. As Lucien matured, he came to realize that his unique path as a creator, one focused on balance rather than conquest, could be just as powerful as the destructive legacy his parents had sought.

tagging some fellow mutuals: @themaradwrites @littleshopofchaos @serenofroses @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@nightingaleflow @prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap @prehistoric-creatures

@seastarblue

[spencerreidswhore187]

Take Me to Church

Ava x Beatrice (Warrior Nun)

Summary: Amidst the chaos of their lives, Beatrice finds solace in playing with Ava's hair.

Word Count: 0.3k

In the subdued ambience of their makeshift refuge, Beatrice sat beside Ava, the flickering flame of a solitary candle casting an ethereal glow across the room. The air was thick with the weight of unspoken battles and the lingering echoes of their pasts. Yet, amidst the calmness, Ava rested her head on Beatrice's shoulder, humming quietly as Beatrice's fingers gently traced through her hair.

Beatrice's gaze remained fixed, her movements deliberate as she navigated the strands of Ava's hair. There was a certain stoicism about her, a demeanour that spoke of a sister warrior's discipline, even in the seemingly mundane act of playing with hair. 

"You ever notice how we're always on the brink of chaos, yet there's something oddly grounding about this?" Beatrice asked.

Ava, nuzzling into Beatrice's shoulder, couldn't help but smirk at her unexpected insight.

"Grounding, huh? I wouldn't have expected you to go all Zen on me, Bea."

Beatrice's response was a subtle nod, her focus unwavering.

"Call it what you want. It's a distraction. Keeps the mind sharp."

As her fingers continued their purposeful dance, it was as if Beatrice was untangling more than just hair – unravelling the knots of tension that accompanied them wherever they went.

 "They say focus is a weapon," Bea murmured. "And if you can make someone lose focus on the chaos, even for a moment, it's a victory."

Ava, ever the pragmatist, chuckled at the notion.

"I'm all for unconventional warfare. Carry on, soldier."

Beatrice's fingers moved with a seasoned precision, each stroke a deliberate manoeuvre in a silent strategy. Though small and confined, The room was a sanctuary of sorts, shielded from the outside tumult by the quiet exchange between two warriors seeking solace.

"In the midst of battles and skirmishes, even nuns need a moment of respite. This... this is our moment."

Ava, in the embrace of the momentary truce, acknowledged the unspoken pact with a nod.

"If this is a warrior's version of a spa day, I'm all in."

A/N: Thank you for reading ◡̈

[toastandjamie]

You know I think the most compelling thing about Mat is? He’s a subversion of literally everything his character is Supposed to be. He’s the rogue archetype but he’s not a lonewolf or even particularly cowardly despite his insistence in the contrary. His major character trait is his Loyalty, that’s his defining characteristic. Not his wit or even his charm though he has both, the thing that all other characters around him mention is that he’s loyal and true to his word. Not the most Rogue-like personality traits.

But he’s not even just a subversion of the rogue archetype. He’s also a subversion of masculinity in a lot of ways, he’s described as wiry and isn’t especially tall. He ISNT physically intimidating, which stands juxtaposed to him being one of the greatest generals and fighters in the book. I really like how the fact that he isn’t what people expect is one of his strengths, he’s chronically underestimated by other characters. When he’s hunted by darkfriends they often send big classic street thugs after him and expect him to be overpowered because unlike Rand or Perrin he doesn’t LOOK strong. Only the moment anyone actually gets into a fight with him they’re taken off guard by his absolutely brutally he fights. And he’s not actually that physically strong, he’s certainly not weak by any means, but compared to many of the other characters and enemies they face Mat isn’t particularly strong. He instead outsmarts his opponents, he’s faster and more agile, he takes advantage of distance fighting mostly with throwing knives, polearms, and long bows.

Compared to the other Ta’veren he’s also the least traditionally heroic, “he’s no bloody hero” isn’t entirely a false claim. He’s the only one the three Ta’veren boys that doesn’t have a crisis of conscious over being violent in battle, sure he’s got the sane hang up as Rand about killing women, but he had no issues with immediately employing guerrilla warfare against the Seanchen and never takes prisoners. The Aes Sedai tell him off for leaving leaving wounded enemies without aid, breaking the rules of warfare, and he tells them that he doesn’t care about being honorable. And he doesn’t, Perrin and Rand(particularly in the beginning and end of his character arc) tend to be very honorable and respectable opponents when they aren’t fighting Shadowspawn. Mat will cheat and trick throughout battles because he’s first and only priority is keeping himself and as many of his men alive as possible while killing as many enemies as he can. He’s vicious and efficient, Perrin went back for the Whitecloaks in Towers of Midnight, where Mat wouldn’t have. He helps invent canons and immediately begins trying to make the automatic crossbows faster, because his priority is always doing the most damage to the rival army before retreating to safety. Mat’s style of warfare is certainly reflective of RJ’s experience in Vietnam. The Band literally wears camo armor.

Lastly is Mat and Tuon’s relationship. When we first learn of the Daughter of Nine Moons prophecy, Mat always describes this future as her appearing from the ether and spiriting him away, and Egwene’s vision is of Tuon wrestling Mat to the ground and collaring him. We are set up with the expectation that Tuon is going to be the one chasing him down and capturing him. Then Mat kidnaps Tuon and you’d think “oh there’s the subversion Tuon’s the kidnapped damsel” but BAM we get another subversion because Tuon CHOSE to be kidnapped, and Mat fell head over heels in love with her, like tripping off a cliff. She didn’t capture him physically but she certainly captured his heart and that has always been a much more effective collar and leash than any physical one you could put on him.

I just love Mat being so unexpected to both the audience and other characters. I love how he’s just a walking contradiction, of being irresponsible but loyal, being vicious but compassionate, being foolish and clever. He’s everything and nothing, complicated and simple. I love him.