#even if it's possible that this is just delirious gibberish

[y-rhywbeth2]

I'm playing with headcanoning the date of 'my' BG3 backwards since previously none of the events at the end of 3.5e happened in 'my realms' and just connecting the fanfic version in my head more directly to the originals rather than forcing myself to include things I don't enjoy just for its sake.

Most of it can be worked in: Bhaal was hinted to be semi-active since 1369 DR, Bane's back in 1372 DR, which is probably the ideal date to place BG3 around (Myrkul can either stay in his snazzy hat form or be handwaved back into full divinity. This is my headcanon so I can probably work MotB in).

My main problem is that Baldur's Gate is not a corrupt cesspit at this time! A lot of the pressures driving the issues are absent. Population growth and divisions due to Spellplague refugees; the Outer City doesn't even exist, crime rates are not as high, etc. The Chosen would have to engineer a crisis to exploit... unless you draw off BG2, where the Bhaalspawn Crisis was razing villages and creating refugees (Saradush being a prime example). The time jump has changed from 100+ years to just 3, the fallout of the Bhaalspawn Crisis is current history in this AU: the iron shortage only recently wrecked the economy, tensions with Amn may still be in recent memory, and If people moved or fled to Baldur's Gate for the safety of its walls and the reputation of the Flaming Fist (currently highly respected), stayed there, and created a similar stress it could work.

Although I assume that 1372 is when the Chosen get Chosen and start inflaming tensions towards their ultimate plan, BG3 would take place in 1382 DR or 1392 (the events of the Spellplague ain't happening so it's 3.5e status quo without much interruption. Some of the War of the Spider Queen can stay except the part where Eilistraee and Vhaeraun die; fuck off with that.) I would much prefer a shorter gap between the games, but eh. Keeping in mind the og plan for BG3, around 20 years would pass so I guess 1392 makes the best sense. Minsc making a cameo also feels less ham-fisted. Jaheira I would probably play off her epilogue where she's still wandering and trying to sort her head out. Although there is a slight issue with the part where she never ever went back to the Sword Coast ever again.

Durge I can work in fine (the concept of them, obviously not the actual default because I'd have to use the 3.5e dragonborn and Bahamut would sue); Orin is a bit odd. Assuming Sarevok had a doppelganger amongst his lovers there's enough time for him to have a changeling daughter who would reach adulthood by the 'starting point' - Winski could've been involved with her being raised Bhaalist or passed her on to somebody who would raise her in a Bhaalist community (possibly the cult Sarevok himself built), so she can still have her cult upbringing - but granddaughter's pushing it. You can still make it weird if her mother was also a Bhaalspawn though.

Karlach and the other tieflings need a redesign since the Toril Thirteen bs didn't happen, but tbh I'm always redesigning them all in my head anyway.

[macabrecake]

cake, my beloved, idk if you've been asked this but given this is the stuff you've been putting out - I thought I'd ask,

dam! leon x fem! reader x re6! leon smut?

pls and ty <3

I. AM. ON. MY. KNEES. RIGHT NOW. GOD HELP

Thought ID and Vendetta Leon was the final boss??? NAH IT'S THESE FUCKING TWO

LOOK AT THEM AND TRY TO CONVINCE ME THAT YOU WOULD STILL BE ABLE TO WALK AFTER THEY'RE DONE WITH YOU. Also hi I'm cutting this close but Merry Christmas Gabby! Have a sandwich! 💕💕💕

Minors step back this is a whole different kind of Christmas present.

"Come on sweetheart. You're not tired already, are you?"

Tired no.

But oh so ready to finally break.

Leon Scott Kennedy, and Leon Scott Kennedy two years from now, have been at this sweetly cruel game for what felt like ages.

It started when one kiss turned into two, then three, then five more.

One suddenly gives into his need for a challenge and shows, despite them being the same, just who exactly is the one and only man that can rock your world the best. In the form of a gentle bite turned hickey where he knows it'll get you squirming the most.

His counterpart decides to outdo him and places another, before a small galaxy ends up being intricately printed onto your skin. Leaving you breathless and needy. Much to both Leon's delight at seeing your panties ruined with just how unbearably soaked you were.

That's when they both lit this match that would set your body ablaze with high pitched mewls and gibberish filled whimpers when your husband finally slipped inside your wet, aching walls. Inch by inch until he bottomed out completely. Then softly bounced you on his cock, while his counterpart's fingers touched where you desperately craved him.

They'd watch like starving wolves at the point where your cunt would visibly flutter and squeeze every time the brunette would sink back in with the most satisfying squelch.

Squishing you between them more so you're certain to not miss those beautiful words and wonderful groans of his that burn you hotter.

"Look at you honey, so good for us.~"

"Always so fucking tight around me…"

You know he and himself do it on purpose. They wanna see you absolutely writhe for them.

Slow and soft at first. Then a little faster, and faster, harder.

So close.

Always so close.

A half driven delirious idea that Leon is finally going to let you fall into that blissful, messy heaven. Only for all of it to stop. And steadily start over again. They're both testing you and it's driving you mad in the best way possible.

Funny. Earlier you thought Leon's future blonde headed self would be the more gentleman-like to balance them both out, right?

Wrong.

He definitely still possesses that rough nature, not that you're complaining though to be honest. They'll both still treat you right, even in the meanest of ways.

"What's the matter, Princess?" The blonde softly cooes with a light nip to your ear, relaxing his arm just enough for you to quietly gasp. Greedily swallowing new lungfuls of air before the flex of his arm makes it shallow again. But you trust him, knowing he won't completely cut your oxygen off. Only enough to keep you perfectly suspended, high like a drug you know you couldn't live without.

He makes you never want to be sober.

"You wanna cum, don't you?" God, they have both edged you to oblivion and back to the point that your pussy immediately tightens up at just the word itself, which pulls a small hiss from your Leon considering his dick is still resting inside you. So deep you swear you could feel it in your throat. You want it to break you.

Ruin you.

They both see how much of a mess you are. There's a puddle on Leon's lap and if you were to stand up right now, your essence would be a dribbling mess down to your knees and onto the floor. Your lips let go of the most pitiful whine, desperate enough to take a chance that you lightly move your hips in a search for that sinfully amazing friction. Hoping they'll now show you mercy.

Sympathy isn't what you find however, instead it's those familiar hot blooded hands clamping down tight on your hips to cease your movements altogether. The moment you softly gasped, you knew it was a bad move. One that has you shrinking submissively before the intimidating blue flames that dance in his eyes. Feeling dark colored fringes lightly brush your cheek when he leans closer. "Didn't say you could move."

Leon's voice drops an octave, almost to a snarl with his waning patience. But he knows you love to hear it. Even if you don't admit it through words, your body betrays you when your hot, squishy walls twitch around him again. It's enough for the ghost of a smirk to tug at his lips, but that's not what he's after. "And I asked you a question…"

"Yes!" You immediately yelp, your hands already grasping at his future version's arm around your neck for dear life with another tear filled sob. "Please please please yes!"

Definitely an answer both Leon's like, but not the one he wants. One hand leaves your hips to travel up and take hold of your chin, forcing your gaze to fully lock with his. "Yes what?" The brunette hisses dangerously low against your lips.

"Yes I wanna cum, sir." Comes your breathless whisper. So so ready for that euphoric coil in your lower belly to wind up and snap, you almost didn't get all the words out. Luckily it's enough to reward you with the light scratch of stubble when he presses a hard kiss to your lips that steals what little breath you have, "Much better." Then another pair of lips sneak over to lay some love to your cheek with a smile against your ear. That wonderfully smooth tone uttering his praise. "Atta girl."

Atta girl indeed because finally…

Finally, your wish is fulfilled.

In the form of the blonde agent's hand taking yours and guiding it down to your drenched little pearl to softly press on it. The action reaches into your lungs to tear an airy moan from you at the sudden jolt to your core, that would've most definitely removed you from Leon altogether if the hands on your hips and the arm still locked around your neck wasn't there to keep you in place.

A warm sound vibrates against your back, that pretty chuckle of his. And oh his words that rumble into your ear. So sinfully sweet.

"Play with yourself for us."

"Show us what you like, Princess.~"

Given how Leon has pleasured you to the point you were nothing but putty by just his hands numerous times before, you'd think he already knows what you like. But you're quick to spot the underlying truth.

They both wanna watch you get yourself off.

Normally such a bold request like that would leave you rather timid, but you can't take another second of this game anymore. Your body is aching for a release to the point you can't help but obey. Letting a cry tear it's way out of your throat as your fingers desperately rub and caress your little pink bundle of nerves. Relieved for that spark of sweet friction tingling your senses.

Much to the delight of the two agents, watching your hand work and listening to your moans, sighs, and little whines steadily rise in volume and string together into a beautiful melody of your own making. Such wonderful sounds pairing with the most lewd gushy noise between your legs. Amazing.

It's much more than enough to pull a deep rooted groan from your Leon, "Fuck." He curses in a hoarse whisper, "Feel you getting close, Sunshine." His fingers dig deeper into the soft flesh of your hips. Forcing you to stay still so you won't ride him. Just to be a little mean, but also because the way your heat clamps down tighter around his twitching cock is a slice of heaven in itself. The moment you start bouncing, he knows he'll be done for.

Seems his future version knows it too, given his low chuckle into your skin. "That's it, Sunshine." Leon encourages between gentle open mouthed kisses up and up until his lips capture yours, while his free hand easily engulfs your breast to pinch and toy with your hardened bud before switching to give the other some attention.

You feel him smile and hum as he happily drinks up your muffled moans like it's a shot of his favorite whiskey. Until he pulls away to whisper against your kissed swollen lips.

"Let go, we'll catch you."

Oh Leon. Always so good with his words, his touches. Everything. It does the trick, almost a little too well in fact. Like a tsunami, your orgasm crashes into you hard enough to leave you squirting. But, as promised, both Leon's squish you close when your form trembles and writhes between the two with a loud moan of ecstasy filling the comfortable space of the bedroom.

But with the gaze your Leon fixes on his blonde headed self, he knew right away. You made such a pretty mess with his dick still nestled so deep inside you, he couldn't help but get a little greedy.

"W- ait! Leon Oh f-uck! T-too much! AH!" You squeal with a gasp while your dainty hands frantically grab at Leon's wrist in a weak attempt to move his fingers away when he rubs them mercilessly against your visibly pulsing clit. All you get from him, is a loving growl.

"Keep cumming, sweetheart." Lord help, what's left for him to love if he breaks you like this? Your senses are already too high and so sensitive, you don't know if you can handle anymore.

Thankfully, his movements are quick to cease as soon as he hears your sounds beginning to drift into sobs. Bringing his hands away to gently stroke your quivering thighs instead while his future self releases you from your headlock prison. Keeping you leaned back against him while he carefully kisses at your neck, further helping to ease you back down.

"There you are." A deep tone drips into your ears like honey, once you finally open your eyes. Only to release a tired, breathless giggle at the two pairs of sweet blue eyes centered on you. "Got scared I broke you for a second." Your Leon muses, gifting you a gentle apologetic kiss. "No, but… I don't know if I can go again." You sheepishly confess between quiet pants.

Two soft laughs from the same voice and a kiss to the crown of your head help put you at ease. "It's ok, baby." Leon reassures while his blonde counterpart tugs you a little closer. Letting the two wrap you up in his shared warmth filled with sweet kisses and gentle caresses that convey all you want to know.

The night is far from over.

[sayingyournames]

okay but also consider:

sirius comes again and doesn't even realize it's happening at first bc its never felt like that when he gets himself off. he’s never been able to come more than once and his whole body feels like it’s underwater. weightless, floating. remus just - stops moving his fingers, leaves them pressed in deep and stares at sirius while he shakes apart, moaning fuckin' gibberish. everything has bled together, rivers converging into an ocean, a wave that knocked his breath loose. shaken.

after, it's dead silent in the room for a beat - and then sirius is heaving huge, wracking breaths and saying, "what the fuck, oh my god" under his breath over and over again and remus is still just staring but now his mouth has dropped open into a soft bow of shock, looks down at his hand like he can’t believe it’s attached to him. remus takes his fingers out slowly, one by one, and sirius curses with each one until he's lying there in a pool of - something oh my god that had never happened when he was alone. what is happening to him, empty and tingling all over with no idea of what comes next.

remus is still hard, obviously, and he's petting the soft hair above sirius's dick, mindless, automatic. "that - that looked like a lot, are you?"

the last word buckles, splits in half. he tries again.

"are you okay? should we - keep going?"

sirius can't help himself, he laughs. he feels absolutely giddy. can't imagine what else could possibly come after this. he's just - delirious with the possibilities this opens up. it's not that he was ever afraid of someone else making him come, certainly would never be afraid of that person being remus. but part of him had been nervous that it wouldn't be as good as it was when he was alone. and was it even worth all the work, the risk, the mortifying ordeal of Someone Else seeing him split open, tossed against the rocks.

but remus is not Someone Else. or, he was. someone else entirely. something altogether different. remus was kneeling between sirius's legs, watching his full chest heave and literally running his long fingers through the hair around sirius's dick like is killing him not to touch it. remus is hard, and big, and loves him.

sirius runs one hand through his hair, wraps the other around remus's wrist to guide his hand back down.

"fuck yeah, let's keep going"

extremely nsfw trans wolfstar ideas:

image remus fingering sirius for the first time. he hadn't ever considered the fact that his partner wouldn't have a dick, so everything is uncharted territory. wet and sexy, remus has never been so hard in his life but like also - not something he's entirely prepared for.

sirius panting, twisting on the bed when remus touches him for the first time and they're both just - amazed at how quickly a finger, then two, then three slip inside him. they barely need lube, sirius is howling and pushing down against remus's hand and so he just - keeps adding more fingers.

keeps twisting and petting, and sirius is crying, the bedsheets are soaked and ruined - how are they going to replace then without remus's parents noticing oh god - and remus just. fucks sirius with four fingers, practically half his hand.

"your hands are - so big, moony, I don't know," sirius is whimpering and restless and thinks he's come probably three times already, "I didn't know it would be like this."

[alirhi]

TS 6

Title: Toy Soldiers Chapter: 6/? Fandom: MCU Rating: 18+ Focus: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes Summary: Wounded and delirious but grateful (and shocked) to be alive after his fall from the train, Bucky thinks he's been rescued when he's pulled from the snow. It doesn't take long for him to realize he would have been better off dead. WARNINGS: Language, references to (and possibly graphic depictions of; we'll see how it goes) torture, brainwashing, violence, rape Notes: ngl I'm really fucking nervous about this one. I hope it came out better than my anxiety wants me to believe lol...

Many years down the line, Bucky would remember the day he'd shot Margaret Carter as the last day that he felt remotely like himself. It was the last day he had a name; an identity.

“That woman really thinks we're going to eliminate the only true success we've ever had? Put him on ice. Send him back to our friends in Russia.”

He balked when he saw the machine. He didn't remember it, but he knew it; he knew it wasn't good, that it hurt, that he didn't want to sit in it, but the drugs were doing their job. He couldn't struggle, could barely cry out as he was lifted and pushed into the chair.

“No...”

Cold steel clamped down on his arms, raising goosebumps on the one that could still feel.

“Please.”

“Желание.”

“Not again.” Again? Even as fear made him shake and shrink the best he could while he was pinned in place like a butterfly in a display case, he wondered what that even meant. What 'again'? What was happening? Something cold framed his face, and he whimpered before he could stop himself.

“Ржавый.”

“Stop.”

“Семнадцать.”

“I don't understand!” What was wrong with him? Was it the drugs? Confused and terrified, he glanced wildly around with wide, tear-filled eyes. The man reciting gibberish continued to circle him, ignoring his pleas as if he wasn't even in the room, much less speaking.

And then the pain started. It ripped through him like a wildfire, yanking every muscle in his body taut. The man with the notebook was probably still speaking, but he couldn't hear him. He couldn't hear anything over the sounds of his own screams. Make it stop make it stop make it stop! The words he couldn't form, couldn't even truly think, echoed in his subconscious. Somewhere deep down, under the pain and hopelessness and the primal, mortal terror, under the steady drip of the IV still attached to him even as electricity seemed to burn him alive from the inside, a tiny, broken thing whimpered for it all to just stop.

When they finally cut the current and left him panting and sobbing, he heard someone beside him laugh. Whoever it was said something, but he still couldn't understand the words. Then the acrid smell of urine hit him and he flushed with shame. He could probably guess what they were laughing at. Muscles still locked up and trembling, refusing to obey him, he closed his eyes and waited. Whatever was coming next, be it relief or more pain, he knew his only option was to wait and see.

Time became a foreign concept; attempting to measure it was pointless, and he stopped trying long before he forgot what it really was. It really didn't matter how long his life was an endless cycle of hot and cold, of pain and delirium. The Asset learned to do as he was told. When he obeyed, he got praise and a pat on the head. When he refused or failed or didn't understand, he got hurt. He didn't want to hurt anymore.

“Longing.”

The words were still in that language that he seemed to remember leaving him frightened and bewildered, but now he understood them.

“Rusted.”

He understood their purpose, and knew that if he didn't resist, he wouldn't be hurt.

“Seventeen.”

He didn't like how they made him feel; like the liquid being fed into his veins, the words left him disoriented and unable to think. But the alternative was the machine, and so the Asset waited, and let the confusion overtake him.

“Daybreak.”

The frightened thing inside him began to shrink. He let it, encouraged it, coaxed it to go to sleep. Tears stung his eyes, and his chest burned with the urge to let them fall, but he resisted. Showing emotion, showing any sort of cognizance, always brought him back to the machine and the hurt.

“Furnace.”

No more hurt. He glanced at it, and then quickly away, hoping his handler hadn't seen. The liquid hurt, too, but it was a different kind of hurt. Not the cruel inferno searing every nerve in his body, like the machine... It was a discomfort, an itch under the skin and under his skull. He felt like there was something he needed, something locked away in his head and if he could just reach it, maybe the hurt would stop forever.

“Nine.”

The itch was better than the burn. He left it alone. The truth was, the Asset was tired; he was tired and afraid and couldn't take anymore pain. If he was good and completed his mission, the handler might let him sleep.

“Benign.”

If he did well, would they let him sleep in a bed this time? A bed meant more of that liquid and the itching, nagging something in his brain, but it also meant warm. He liked warm. Warm was safe, and meant he'd done his job.

“Homecoming.”

Distant memories of pain and fear slipped away. They weren't important anymore. The Asset was good, he was efficient and dutiful and would succeed. There was nothing to worry about.

“One.”

He sat a little straighter, listening, waiting. Breaths that had been coming in fast and shallow began to even out.

“Freight car.”

Clean. Ready. A tension he hadn't been aware of eased and he squared his shoulders, staring straight ahead. He felt the IV being slowly drawn out of his flesh, but ignored it. It was normal procedure.

“Ready to comply.”

“Quick and clean, Soldier. No collateral. Don't be seen.”

As he spoke, the handler gave him a folder. The Asset opened it immediately to familiarize himself with the mission. There was something oddly familiar about the photograph, but he dismissed it. It was only a target. Thinking any deeper on it would lead him nowhere good.

“Questions?”

“No.”

“Good.” A light pat on his shoulder made the tiny, shivering thing locked deep in the recesses of his subconscious heave a sigh of relief. The Asset barely noticed. “Transport in an hour.”

There was no point in speaking again. With a curt nod, he stood and followed one of the assistants into the next room, carefully not looking at the glass chamber where he spent most of the time that he wasn't training or strapped to the machine. Somehow, that chamber set him on edge more than the machine did. He didn't like it. He didn't like cold, and it was cold.

The assistant fed him and handed him his weapons. Completely silent, the Asset tugged his vest and holster into place, took one more look at the information in the folder, and headed out the door. He didn't know where Dallas was, but that didn't matter; they would take him directly to where he needed to be. Boarding the plane was a new experience, but he didn't feel any excitement or unease. The programming had done its work, and the Asset didn't feel much of anything at all.

Numb and focused, he carried out his mission exactly as it had been laid out for him: He found a perch on a hill overlooking the target's route, well behind the excited crowd and hidden from any wandering, curious eyes. Rifle assembled and loaded, he peered through the scope and waited. The target, he'd been told, would be in the open vehicle, fully exposed. How stupid. It was almost too easy, but that was good; easy meant success and praise, rather than pain, when he returned to base.

The car he was waiting for turned the corner. The Asset waited. There was a decoy shooter, waiting to take the fall, and he had to wait for them to take their shot.

There. The report of another rifle reached his ears. The Asset exhaled, squeezed the trigger, and lowered his weapon. He knew he'd hit the target and he didn't need to check again. Hesitating would only increase the risk of being seen. Rifle broken down and returned to its case, he spared a quick glance down at the pandemonium he and his decoy had caused and then walked away. Through the cool numbness of his programming, the Asset felt a tiny glimmer of pride. The mission had been a success, and he would be praised.

As he approached a car with its driver's side door open, a woman sitting in the seat, one foot out on the ground and a hand over her mouth caught his attention. She looked shocked, tears falling steadily from wide, vacantly staring brown eyes. From where she was sitting, she couldn't see what had happened, he knew; the parking lot was a terrible vantage point. The radio in her car was on, though, and as the Asset passed by, he could hear a tinny voice playing from the speakers.

“A tragic moment for all of America. If you're just tuning in, I'm here in downtown Dallas where President Kennedy was passing through, and somebody- Somebody shot him. President Kennedy has been killed...”

He stopped in his tracks as that word – president– brought the nagging familiarity of the photo into sudden sharp focus. It wasn't the man that had looked familiar, it was the room behind him. The Oval Office.

His target had been the President of the United States.

He just barely made it out of sight, ducking behind a nearby building, before he doubled over and vomited. Once he'd emptied his stomach and the dry heaves stopped, he slumped back against the wall. Horror shocked him out of his numb haze and his body began shaking violently. He stood frozen, staring at nothing as tears streamed down his cheeks, like the woman in the car.

“Soldier?”

Fuck. His handler. Startled by the unexpected voice, the Asset jumped and spun, wiping frantically at his wet face. Had he seen...? Fucking idiot, of course he saw!

“I killed him,” the Asset whimpered, staring blankly toward where the screams and sirens could still be heard in the air. Part of him screeched that it was a bad idea to show emotion or awareness, that his anguish and remorse would get him hurt, but he couldn't seem to make himself care. For the first time, he felt like he deserved the pain.

Eyes sharp and cautious, his handler reached for him, gently gripping his arm when the Asset didn't move. “Let's go, soldier. Mission successful. Time to go home.”

The unexpectedly soft treatment cut through the horror just a little, enough to drag up a tiny glimmer of relief and gratitude, and he followed his handler willingly. Home. Mission successful. No pain would be coming, after all. But I deserve it.

No. He moved closer to his handler, still shaking, but comforted by his presence. No pain. He'd done well. The target was eliminated.

The President was dead.

Where before he'd been stoic, conserving his energy and not wasting any on unnecessary conversation, this time the Asset was silent because he was spiraling. No pain. I deserve it. I did well. I'm a monster. Mission successful. The fucking President!

He was still trembling and silently weeping, clinging to his handler's arm for dear life, when they got back to base. The doctor took one look at the Asset's wet, blank face and uttered the sentence he'd been both dreading and hoping to hear since they left Dallas:

“Wipe him.”

Staggering under the weight of his fear and relief, he didn't resist as he was led across the room and strapped into the machine. He didn't want to hurt anymore. He was tired and broken and just wanted it all to stop... But this time he deserved it. He was a murderer. They'd turned him into a monster.

As the last piece moved into place around his head, he summoned his last tiny shred of courage and asked his handler in a small, cracking voice, “Why?”

The pain started before he could get an answer, and by the time it stopped, he'd forgotten the question, along with everything that had led him to ask it in the first place.

[otonymous]

Truths Revealed (MLQC Lucien - NSFW)

Description: Pangs of jealousy dig up inconvenient truths for Lucien Warnings:  NSFW/18+:  Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Spoilers for the True Love Date with Lucien, very mild spoilers for his Ball Date, and extremely minor spoilers for the main plot.   TRIGGER WARNING: jealousy, spying, some aggressive behaviour, possessiveness Word Count:  2722 words (~14 mins of angst/smut) AO3: read here

Author’s Notes:  I got a few requests for more Lucien smut, so of course you know the thirst compelled me 😂 One request specifically mentioned a spicy-in-public jealousy scenario, so I decided to combine Lucien’s True Love Date along with extremely minor bits from his Ball Date, as well as small details from the main plot.  The lines marked with an asterisk were taken directly from the True Love Date.  Thanks for the request lovelies, hope you all enjoy it and happy reading!

***PLEASE NOTE THE TRIGGER WARNINGS ABOVE!!***

Tagging: @your-sylphofhope @rougepetale @kitsune-mana

All characters and Mr Love: Queen’s Choice owned by Elex.

Sitting in the darkened apartment, Lucien counted down the hours with every metallic clack of the Newton’s Cradle, its pendulum swing glinting in the light of the streetlamp filtering in through gauzy curtains.

White and billowing in the evening breeze, the curtains recalled the way her dress had artlessly ridden up above her knees when she sat astride the wooden horse at the amusement park, laughing as a child might — the carousel propelling them over and over again in the direction from whence they came; trapped in the machinations of something they could not escape.

“And still you laughed, my little idiot.”

The thin smile on the professor’s face drops when he hears the rumble of a motorcycle, its approach much slower than Lucien was accustomed to.  And even without looking onto the street below, he knew she would be riding on the back, arms tightly wrapped around the officer’s waist in a way that made the latter smile when he thought she wasn’t looking.

But Lucien saw.

Saw how the man’s face lit up as he hopped back on his bike after escorting her home all those times before, the bright flush of his cheeks briefly visible before disappearing beneath his helmet.

“Gavin.”

The hint of a challenge in Lucien’s low tone is apparent even as the refrains start to fade — the echo of the man’s name taunting the professor as he watches him lay the delicate chain on the girl’s wrist.

And when the officer holds her hand for a beat too long, presumably under the pretence of readjusting the golden gingko leaf adorning it, Lucien feels the sting of his nails as they slide into the flesh of shaking palms.

He moves away from the sight, uncharacteristically careless as he brushes past the curtain.  And as he turns his attention to the unanswered invitation on his phone, he misses the glance she cast in his direction — the girl wondering if her longing for her neighbour had manifested in shadowy figures hiding behind curtains drawn over an empty home.

Lucien tosses the phone onto the couch, fingers massaging his temples as he exercised the last of his restraint.  Just as he had declined all her calls, he would continue to ignore the black font floating on a backlit screen, reading:

“Come to our team party in three days at the Petrichor, Lucien.*  I want you to come.”

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

Didn’t you decide to stay out of her life?*

Lucien had asked himself that question when he stepped into the crowded bar, ignoring the lascivious stares of women around him as he sought out the one who constantly occupied his mind, concerned that the gibberish text she sent him was a sign of something ominous.

He asked himself the same question now as he looked over at the empty seat where she had sat moments before, blushing crimson when the bottle pointed in her direction during an impromptu game of Truth or Dare.

“Who’s the most important person in your life, boss?”

Lucien had waited with bated breath to hear her response, disconcerted by the sudden flutter of his heart.

“He’s gentle but not pretentious, a mystery but also clear as day.  He can see all my thoughts and teach me the ways of the world.  When I met setbacks, he’d guide me with patience and understanding.  He showed me a brand new world…”*

The alcohol burned travelling down Lucien’s throat, but he welcomed the sensation, for it allowed him to focus on something other than the way he tensed at the memory of her response.

“Wow boss, that was visceral.  I bet the person ain’t here, or she wouldn’t have said all that!”*

So used to playing it cool, Lucien currently found himself completely devoid of composure, knocking back shot after shot of whiskey as he awaited her return from the restroom.  

Clack.  Clack.  Clack.  Clack.

Off-key singing and the din of drunken revelry barely concealed the sound of the Newton’s Cradle that bounced around the confines of his head, the remembrance loud enough to split his temples asunder.  

The professor was tired of waiting.

A heady mixture of anger, anxiety, and hurt coalesced into burning impatience that finally pushed him out of his seat, and it took everything in him to plaster on a smile as he excused himself to her coworkers, slipping past mingling bodies to embark on a singleminded mission.

For he wanted to know who the girl was picturing when she got that faraway look in her eyes.  Desperately needed to hear the name of the man capable of showing her a brand new world.  Lucien shook at the prospect of what he would do once he learned that the most important person in her life…was someone other than himself.

Gavin.

His nails find the same grooves etched into the flesh of his palms from three evenings ago, purple half-moons a visual reminder of the pain he experienced every time he pushed her away...straight into the arms of another man.

But the way he flew along the dimly lit corridor, the alcohol on his breath rising to his nostrils with every pounding beat of his heart, revealed an inconvenient truth: he could never stay out of her life.  No, because gradually…insidiously…she had become the one thing he could never, ever give up.

So his arms shot out to enfold her when she emerged from the restroom, holding her tightly to his chest as he pressed her against the wall, fingers tightening around delicate wrists to pin her in place and brook no argument as she stared wide-eyed into the savage darkness of his gaze.

“That person who is most important to you.  Who is he?  Tell me.”*

Lucien barely recognized his own voice, raspy from drink and emotion, but he was too far gone to stop himself.

One blink.  Then another.  Her brows furrow in confusion before she asks, “Why?”*

“Tell me!”*

She flinches under the threat in his voice, the muscles tensing under his grip bringing the professor back to his senses as he loosens his hold.  And when the sound of approaching footsteps heralded the arrival of potential spectators, Lucien found himself ushering the girl into a private room nearby.

There, in the unoccupied room lit solely by light spilling in from the hallway through a window in the door, Lucien covers her body with his own, laying flat against the wall in a bid to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible while they wait for the crowd outside to pass.

And when the chatter finally dies down, she speaks, the sound of her hesitant voice drawing Lucien’s attention as much as the beauty of her dimly lit features.

“It’s you…Lucien.  It’s you I was talking about.  You’re very important to me.  Everything I said was meant for you to hear but…you misunderstood.”*

Her voice was haunting in the dark, and it unnerved him to think of how deliriously relieved he felt to hear those words.  The tension clutched tight in his chest gradually unfurled to the point where he could breathe again.

His hands reached out for her once more — this time, to cup her face — and for a moment, Lucien wondered if he were the one caught in a lucid dream, one brought on by the intensity of the feelings he tried to bury away in the depths of his subconscious.

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step back to allow his hands to trail from her cheeks to her neck, sliding down the sides of her arms until they reached her wrists to gently rub.

Her countenance softens when he brings his mouth to her wrists, laying soothing kisses along the places affected by his overzealous grip.  But when his lips brush against the cool metal of the golden gingko leaf, Lucien pulls away as if burned, the movement so abrupt it immediately disperses her haze of ecstasy.

“Lucien?”

Eyes clouded with concern, the girl extends the hand adorned with Gavin’s bracelet in a bid to draw him close.

No.

The professor knew his behaviour bordered on the ridiculous, but he could not help the way his gut soured and churned with jealousy when he saw that silver bracelet against her skin — a gift from another man laying claim to the body of his woman.

So he yanks off the chain to free the girl for himself, slipping his tongue past lips beautifully rounded in surprise to swallow her gasp.

For that, too, belonged to him.

Lucien is as patient as she described him earlier that night, nimble tongue slowly coaxing hers out of her mouth and into his own.  He is gentle when he bites on the flesh of her lips, the colour she so carefully applied before the restroom mirror now transferring onto his face in shades of faded coral.

But the man wore it like a badge of pride, suddenly desperate for her to mark him as he intended to mark her, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down the smooth column of her neck.  And when they find the notch, a broad lick of his tongue prepares the delicate skin before he sucks the flesh hard enough to leave a crimson signature on the most conspicuous part of her body.

“Lucien!…”

She whimpers his name, fingers raking through his hair in a desperate attempt to steady herself against legs that felt like they would give out at any moment.  Finely attuned to even the slightest change in her body, he wraps his arms around her waist, supporting her firmly against him.

And when she sighs to feel the waves of heat rolling off Lucien’s body — intense even through fabric — her voice is a siren’s song, luring the man back up to drown in her eyes.

For there it was — that spark, the fire in her gaze that drew him like a moth to flame with a promise of passion as dangerous as it was enticing.  And even in the midst of intoxication, Lucien had the wherewithal to recognize that he had long since passed the point of no return, that try as he might, he could not extricate the girl from that place in his heart where she had deemed fit to make her home.

So, even if just for one night, Lucien yielded to his selfish desires, letting his eyes, lips and hands take what they pleased, teaching her body to react in ways the professor liked best, moulding her to his preferences in order to ruin her for anyone else.

The bracelet beneath the sole of his shoe, Lucien crushed it underfoot as he knelt to bury his head beneath her skirt, letting the gradients of heat guide his lips to where she needed them most to go in the darkness.  And when they finally brushed against dampened silk, he kissed her reverently through this second skin, feeling every twitch as his tongue slowly traced the folds made more prominent by the swell of desire.

“I need to see you.”

Like a man crazed, Lucien gathers the fabric of her skirt in one trembling fist as the fingers of the other gently pull her underwear aside.  He hears her breathing quicken when his index touches the pink flesh, glistening in the diffuse light from the window.

“Did the boss fall in the toilet or something?  Where did she go?”  

The girl goes stiff at the sound of Kiki’s voice right outside the door, quickly moving to push her skirt down in a panic.  But Lucien holds her hands in place, choosing that exact moment to suck her clit into his mouth, leaving her with no choice but to bite down hard on her lip to stifle a distressed moan of pleasure.

“I just checked all the stalls, she’s not there.  But, come to think of it, Professor Lucien’s been gone for a while too!  Maybe we should just let sleeping dogs lie…”

Willow’s snide remark chases after their receding footsteps.  Lucien can sense the girl’s newfound hesitation, but is intent on keeping her under his spell.

“Maybe we should head back, Lucien.  People are going to suspect…”

She gasps as one long finger slides deep inside her to interrupt her train of thought.  Looking down, she meets Lucien’s gaze, his eyes dark with mischievous intent.

“Let them.  They’re not wrong.”

Smiling to feel the reluctant pull of her pussy against the removal of his finger, Lucien slips the drenched digit into his mouth, his gaze falling on her flushed face as he licks it clean.

“You really are the sweetest thing.  Care to taste for yourself?”

He draws himself up to full height, the girl moaning into his mouth as his tongue delivers her flavour.  And as he kisses her deeply, her fervent response feeding his own, his deft fingers make quick work of the buttons on her blouse, pulling the lace of her bra aside to free the supple flesh within.

“God, Lucien…w-what are we doing here?”

She fights to get the words out, melting under the ministrations of Lucien’s mouth on her breasts.  But despite the heat between their bodies, the question cuts through him like a cold wind, and the professor is once again standing alone by his window, watching the tender moment unfold between the officer and the girl.

“Say the word and I’ll stop.”

The sound of their heaving chests is thunderous in the ensuing silence before she finally breaks it, reaching out to draw his hips against her own in a move bold enough to sweep all thoughts of Gavin from Lucien’s mind.  

“Lucien, please don’t misunderstand me.  It’s just that…I don’t know what it is about you that makes me feel the way I feel, do the things I do.  It’s like you have some strange power over me that makes me throw all caution to the wind, and honestly…that scares me a little.  But I do know that I want you, and I want this.  So please…please, touch me.”

She had barely finished before he was on her, ravenous as he kissed her neck, chest, shoulders…leaving savage marks wherever his lips fell.  And as the volume of her cries escalated with every stroke of his cock within her moist depths, Lucien bade her bite into his sculpted shoulder to muffle the noise, relishing the sting of her compliance as he wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pinning her harder against the wall with each vigorous thrust.

After a while, the professor pulled back to study the girl, wanting to burn the moment indelibly into his memories.  The swing of her hips against his own was mesmerizing, and Lucien became entranced by the sight of her folds greedily clinging to his length as he moved, deliberately slow…just to watch frustration colour her face in the most beautiful of ways.

And when she finally began to spasm around him, Lucien buried his face against her neck, making a silent plea that her eyes would never look upon any man other than himself.

“I’m yours, Lucien.”

It was barely a whisper, spoken as the unspooling tension left her blissfully limp in his arms.  But those three little words pulled the trigger to his own violent release, and Lucien could feel his temperature rising as his hands dug into her hips to hold her in place, allowing him to fill her to the hilt over and over again until his climax mixed with hers.

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

It was past midnight by the time Lucien tucked the girl in, placing a tender kiss on her forehead before slowly easing off her heels and lining them up neatly at the foot of her bed.

Setting down a glass of water and a couple of analgesic tablets at her bedside table, Lucien smiles as he takes in her apartment: clothing and papers strewn about, and a preponderance of pastels.  Simple and unassuming, like the girl herself, who had trusted him enough to fall asleep in the cab ride home next to him.

And as Lucien closes the door behind him, the shrinking sliver of light from the hallway illuminates her keys on the dining room table.  And next to them, the unmistakeable glint of a golden ginkgo leaf.

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Thanks for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚

[cherryplasmids]

☆ still my dove ☆

pairing: sandor clegane x reader fandom: game of thrones—season 8 anon request: Sandor x Reader where they’re involved in some sort of battle or they’re attacked by some bastards and the reader is greatly injured, losing an arm or a leg? “What use am I to you now?” notes: mentions of blood and violence and death.  — I am in no way an expert on disability. I don’t know the science behind having a leg chopped off or anything. I do not mean to offend anyone.

—check out my other works; masterlist

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

         The heavy bodies of four wights that struggled to desperately end your life, suddenly vanished, leaving your arms to drop at your sides. Besides immediately confusion—how in the actual fuck did they just disappear—soreness filled your body and you could finally breathe; inhale without fearing it would be your last.

After the initial shock, people began yelling out names or screaming in pain or crying when they stumbled upon dead loved ones or maybe all of the above. You wanted to feel emotional agony because you are certain you’ve lost someone in the battle but the exhaustion overwhelmed you, silencing any type of feeling besides content. Even when you heard your name being yelled, you just lied there waiting for someone to find you while thinking of a downing cold ale, kissing Sandor because you know your tall, brute lover survived, and sleeping for three days.

Whoever shouted for you came close and quieted down. Despite all the smoke in the air, temporarily disrupting your vision, Necalli’s distinct appearance captures your attention. He leans over, placing his hands on his knees and begins panting. His face is covered in a thick coat of blood and ash with streaks of sweat on his cheeks. Armor no longer rested on his chest or shoulders, instead, the thin olive tunic dangled loosely off his collarbones. Thankfully, you couldn’t find any major wounds, just little scratches decorating his tanned flesh.

“Y/N,” Obvious relief spilled out of him. He drops down to his knees and removes his Unsullied combat helmet which immediately makes you sad.

“I’m sorry about your friends.” You pointed at the helmet. “They nor the Dothraki should have died first. That’s just disrespectful.”

“Perhaps we were taken for granted.” He shrugs even though sorrow fills his eyes. “But we do what she asks of us with no question. If her intent was for us to die, I think we did a good job.”

It’s a poor attempt of a joke but you crack a smile anyway. “Is Grey Worm—”

“Alive, searching for Missandei. I looked for you as soon as the battle was over.”

You lift a hand up to touch his cheek. “Thank you, raqiros.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Good...I think? Just lightheaded.” You stop for a moment, pausing in order to take a deep breath. “Tired, really damn tired.”

Necalli doesn’t speak and looks you over, assessing your condition. He moves your head side to side, wiping away blood from your warm cheeks. You’re delirious to his ministrations because the exhaustion hits you. Hard. Like a sudden rainstorm or the Sept of Baelor blowing up.

Sleep; it’s alluring and the best idea you’ve had in ages. You just need uninterrupted sleep..forever. You, Sandor and the comfy beds filled with cozy furs that Winterfell had in abundance. Necalli is keeping you from fulfilling that desire. He needs to stop worrying—you’re completely and utterly fine, just exhausted. Nothing more and nothing less.

But then he starts shouting causing your ears to start ringing. You close your eyes and push your hands to close anymore sound from going into your ears. He’s screaming bloody murder for what? He needs to leave now because he’s being extremely rude now.

Despite his incessant screaming, sleep calls out to you—sending soft murmurs of delicate yearning. Your eyes close even further, darkening the outside light from penetrating your eyelids. It feels warm.

It doesn’t last long because you begin involuntarily shaking—violently as if you’ve basked in ice cold water. Eyes snapping shut, you see Necalli shaking you, his face filled with the utmost concern and worry.

“Necalli?” Then you feel a jolt in your lower region, shocking you into an upright position. There are so many people crowding you, all shouting incoherent nonsense. Sansa is there, tears spilling, and head shaking. Everything is suffocating, too hectic for you to focus until you notice her eyes shooting back and forth from your own gaze to your legs.

So, you look.

Blood gushes from your left leg, dark red, almost black, but that isn’t the worst part about it.

It was gone.

Your left fucking leg from the knee down wasn’t there—just empty space where the shin should be. Your mouth opens up, but nothing comes out—or maybe it did but you couldn’t tell because of the high volume ringing in your ears.

The pain hits you now, shooting through your body like fire. Somehow, at the same time, it felt like ice and electricity replaced your veins, throbbing at rapid a pace that seemed to quicken your heart rate. It makes you reel, sending you back to your previous lying position, head thudding against the wet dirt which is the worst thing you could have possibly done. An explosion of blinding whiteness blows up in your head and the last thing you could remember is watching Sandor race towards you before your consciousness simply vanishes into darkness.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 

          Beric’s death struck sorrow in Sandor. After all, the two men have spent many hours together, trying to survive all the obstacles life has thrown at them. They prevailed together, came to the North together, fought alongside each other, and buried comrades together. Although Sandor’s never been one for sentiment, there’s a bit of nostalgia coursing through him as his eyes wander out to the vastness of the North. Beric, an oddball, surrounded himself with other oddballs like Thoros, made Sandor feel welcomed. Not a hound—a brother who’s destiny is to survive. He’s not heartbroken, far from it, but he is sad.

Originally, he just drank a cups of ale in Beric’s honor. However, once he couldn’t find you among the dead or the living, he became inconsolable.

Three days after the battle, he still cannot find you. No one is telling him anything on account of you and Sandor not necessarily being in a relationship. If he specifically asked for you, people would be suspicious and Sandor was not the type to have his personal business under scrutiny by any means. Instead of sacrificing his pride and ask for aid, he helplessly searched for you throughout Winterfell. Every nook and cranny searched and stripped to find you. Three days worth of panic and innocent bystanders being shoved or yelled at and silent tears at night when he’s alone.

It registers after the fourth day that you might not be here. The sudden realization of your clingy self not being there to annoy him, jump on his back, or to play with his fingers when you’re nervous, suddenly slaps him so hard in the face, he physically caught whiplash.

Sandor’s thoughts increasingly became a jumbled mess as he kept drinking with his sight becoming a tad bit hazy. Tipsy is not the word to describe him at the moment. He’s intoxicated and smells like he took a bath in alcohol—not at all how he usually is. Nothing about him is normal anymore, well, as normal as he tried to be. Everything is different; the morning light disrupted by ash polluting the air, the frostiness of the North seems warmer, fewer people roaming around, even the ale tastes different. It’s dreary, dark, and depressing. And the only way he can combat that heartbreak is to drink until he’s dead.

He’s got nothing to live for anymore. He’s done his duty of protecting the Stark girls and without you around, he doesn’t see a future because he planned it with you. The brown cottage with cobble steps and yellow flowers planted beside it that you wanted to live in with him was a far fetched dream that is impossible to realize without you. All the little plans of being farmers and florists and chefs and any other random idea you had would never come true. He did not have the heart to continue, to move on without you because you were everything. How can he move on when you took his heart with you to wherever the fuck you ended up at.

That’s when he knew he could never be happy. The stars would never align for him to set him up with a good life. The one chance he did, the village had been slaughtered and the second time an opportunity came, you were taken from him.

Life’s a cruel joke and Sandor’s been the butt end of the joke since childhood.

So, he takes another gulp of ale, only to find the cup empty. He reaches over to the beer barrel to pour more but nothing comes out of the tap. Just one push of the barrel sends it over. Nothing sloshes inside of it. It’s empty.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

            Something slams heavily against the wall, but Sandor’s eyes are crusted shut. He can’t tell what the noise is and doesn’t want to. The massive pounding in his head makes him feel heavy as if his brain weighs a ton. It’s a heat stroke combined with a migraine, the frigidness of Winterfell doing nothing to cool him down.

Then he’s shaking. A second party is forcefully kicking him but he’s immune, numb. Kicking and stomping, loud slams, gibberish—nothing can shake him out of the thick haze and rut he’s succumbed to.

“Fuck off,” Vomit is on his tongue and it makes him gag.

Whoever is disturbing him speak again, more gibberish followed by another kick to his side. After that, they stop. Instead, freezing water with chunks of ice crashes down on his face, sending his body to jolt forward into a sitting position.

“Fuckin’ hell!”

“It’s about time you woke up.”

Sandor whips his head up despite the throb in his brain to find Arya standing over him, arms crossed over her chest with her eyebrows raised—unamused and certainly unimpressed. Light illuminates her tense silhouette which means it’s still daylight. He’s been sleeping for a few hours instead of a few days like he thought.

“Fuck you,”

She taps her foot and moves to sit on an ale barrel. “You’ve got some nerve.”

Sandor pushes himself to sit against the nearest wall, grunting the entire time. He can’t think straight without pushing his limits, can’t talk without feeling like he licked a shag carpet. Breathing heavily and eyes closed, he takes his time to calm down or else he’ll attack the younger girl. She might beat him, though. After all, he is intoxicated beyond belief.

“All this time you’ve been drinking your arse off for the fun of it and—”

Sandor shakes his head, brain sloshing around in his skull. “Dead,”

“What?”

“She’s dead.”

“Who—” Arya stops herself, sighing deeply before rubbing her forehead. “Y/N?”

“There’s not..nothing left.”

The young Stark girl gets down on her knees, leaning forward to meet his gaze. “You idiot!” Sandor’s eyes flare up in anger. She’s pissed too.  “While you’ve been here feeling sorry for yourself, mourning over her for no reason, she’ been screaming day and night about missing you.”

His eyes perk up, his body physically straightening as her words finally have some clarity. “She’s alive?”

Arya rolls her eyes and stands up. “Yes, been asking for you.”

Scrambling to get up, Sandor stumbles and trips over his own feet several times before standing properly, but his feet don’t have stability. Suddenly, he tilts backward, falls back and hits his head on a wooden barrel. It smashes and ale seeps out.

Arya remains unimpressed at the sight, offering no help to the groaning and probably concussed Hound. “Shower and sober up or she’ll have your head for smelling like an alehouse.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

            By the time Sandor sobers up, takes a shower, and actually attempts to groom a bit, it’s the next night. He didn’t think it would take him that long, obviously underestimating how fucked up he was. The hours leading up to the very moment he entered the makeshift hospital wing in the castle was filled with extreme anxiousness. It’s been five, almost six days, since the battle—fours days he deemed you dead. All the nasty thoughts of his lonely future remained in his head. Surely you wouldn’t want to be with him after he left you to deal with your injuries alone.

He assumed they were horrific since Arya refused to speak about them and even got a little teary-eyed mentioning it. Did you look like him now? Scarred flesh and ugliness tainting your features? No, no matter what happened to your face, he would still love you. It couldn’t be that. When Arya’s eyes got misty and somewhat pitiful, it reminded him of how she used to look when he brought up a specific topic on one of their adventures years ago. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t remember the subject.

When he reaches the wing, there are three Unsullied men guarding your door. They glare at him as he approaches. He expects them to part but they remain still, speaks held up high with their hands tightening their grips. He’s feeling particularly nasty at the moment and opens his mouth to swear but is cut short by your room door opening and swinging shut.

Necalli, your best friend, looks tired with bags under his eyes and terrible posture. His head is low even when one of the Unsullied guards speak to him. It’s in Valyrian, a language Sandor never heard of until the Targaryen girl invaded Westeros. You know it, though. You gave him cute nicknames and compliment him using that language. He never knows what you’re saying, but the little smile on your lips makes it okay.

“Sandor,” Necalli’s accented voice calls out to him, removing him from his memories. The tanned man looked a little pale but he smiled up at him anyway. He didn’t think the Unsullied were allowed to smile. “It’s really great to see you.”

He grunts and nods.

“Y/N has been in and out of sleep. She is awake now but might fall asleep on you. Just don’t do anything that causes her heart to quicken.” The sly bastard winks at him talk Valyrian to the guards before all four Unsullied members leave the wing.

As soon as he sees their bodies turning at the end of the hall, he pushes the door open. Firewood and lavender waft throughout the room, reminding him of his smell and your body scent mixing together. His boots noisily alert you of a new presence and before you can call out, Sandor is standing a few feet away from your bed.

Your breath hitches and hands tighten around the snow-white sheets.

“What—” You audibly gulp. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I’m not. Off you go.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t want you here.” Your voice is tight, eyes filled with terror.

Visibly caught off guard, Sandor takes a step back at your words. Not even a week ago were you declaring your love for him, begging for him to fuck you, preparing all these future plans with him. Now you’re telling him to leave as if that hadn’t happened? Had he done something wrong? Why do you look terrified?

“What the fuck do ya mean?” He snaps at her, anger taking ahold of him.

You match his ferocity. “Are you deaf now? I said get the fuck out!”

Sandor stares at you for a long time, causing you to shift. He always does that to you when he knows there’s an underlying issue. And you’ve just outed yourself out by swearing at him, something you rarely ever do.

“The Stark girl told me you were hurt.” Again, he stares, searching for something. “I don’t see anything.”

His lingering eyes sends anxiety through your body and you feel panic welling up in your throat. Again, you tighten your hands around the sheet, bringing it up toward your body.

“Please, Sandor, just go.”

Your whispered words do nothing to ease the giant man and he moves toward you. Your eyes shut when he gets near you, attempting to hold back the tears threatening to cascade downward. Each shuffle, creak, and any other movements cause you to tense up because Sandor will inevitably find out what’s wrong. Of course, it terrified you.

He kneels down beside you and gently tugs the sheet out of your hands. You whisper in disagreement and for a moment, he stops. Eyes intense, you could feel his stare at you and eventually, you relent, completely releasing the sheet.

Agonizingly slow, Sandor peels the cloth off of you, bare flesh gaining goosebumps. He stops when he reaches your knees. Realization stuns him, causing him to release the sheet.

Tears slip out underneath your closed eyelids. Before you know it, you’re sobbing and shaking.

Sandor feels his heartbreak at the sight of you completely and utterly devastated. He understands now. Why you didn’t send someone to get him, why he wasn’t by your side. You’d rather have him think you’re dead than in this condition.

“Oh, Sandor,” He leans forward, tugging you into his chest and you awkwardly grab onto him, twisting your body enough to be practically on him.

“I love you.”

Somehow you cry harder, chest heaving. You shake your head at his words and look up, eyes shining with tears with absolute sorrow leaking.

“What use am I to you now?”

“Listen to me, dove.” Voice gruff and stern, he pulls you further to him. “Nothing has changed. You’ll still be annoying and clingy and will still jump on my back. We will get that cottage with yellow flowers and cobblestone steps.” You cry even more. “Everything is the same. Legs or no legs, you’ll still be my dove.”

He pulls you into him again, smelling your lavender scented hair and lets you soak his shirt in tears. You try to talk but he hushes you, knowing that you’ll need sleep soon. So, he climbs onto the bed. Like routine, you curl up to his side and grip onto his shoulders. It’s silent after that, just you two together with bodies pressed against each other and breathes mingling—thinking about life together away from all the deaths and injuries and wars. Sandor kisses your head and you know you’re safe and absolutely loved at that moment.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

word count: 3,034 published: may 16, 2019 edited: n/a

[legobiwan]

someone getting into an Argument with yoda and calling him a moldy scrotum. in the background somebody chokes on their tea

Alright you guys, stay with me here, I swear it gets more humorous at the end. I had to WORK for this one, anon! (and I’m not 100% sure it works, but this is the best I could do :D

———–

“But sir, we haven’t fully stabilized the atmospheric pressure - “

The droid registered a clamorous metallic sound, followed by an overload of its surface sensors. Its processors worked in overdrive, compiling the trillions of causes and effects in its logic system - “false”, “if, then”, “true”. Apparently, T-42 had been shoved into a wall with no small degree of force, judging from the its rattled components. T-42’s optical receptors scanned the humanoid face that was a mere rod’s length from its dual input pathways - or in other words, its eyes.

The droid quickly found the correct category for the visual data, uploading the appropriate emotional response protocols in repsonse. 

T-42 registered Yan Dooku’s face as Level 5 angry.

“You will cease this pointless tittering, and you will open the Force-damned door this instant!”

The voice analysis came in at Level 7, which shouldn’t have been possible. An anomaly, its logic systems responded. Obviously, its data banks needed updating. 

The door to the ship immediately flew open, as T-42’s calculations had informed him of the odds of an unpleasant dismemberment if he failed to obey the Jedi’s orders.

They were high. Quite high.

The scan T-42 registered before powering down was the sweeping figure of one Jedi Master, Yan Dooku: age 30, dark brown hair, 1.93 meters height. 

Status: Vital signs elevated; no immediate threat.

In the man’s arms was the unconscious body of one Qui-gon Jinn, Jedi Padawan, age 20, brown hair, 1.93 meters height. 

Status: Vital signs depressed; failure imminent.

——-

Yan Dooku was getting too old for this type of thing. He had rushed into the healer’s ward, Qui-gon’s limp body in his arms. That in itself had been a feat, as the boy’s gangly limbs were everywhere, but somehow the older Jedi Master had been able to deposit his wayward Padawan on a bed before an errant arm took his nose off.

He sat back in his chair and sighed, crossing one leg over the other. Poison, the healers had said. Kytrogorgia, the cerulean slime mold favored by some bounty hunters on the Outer Rim. Dooku rubbed his forehead. Death’s long hand had come far too close - the way Qui-gon’s pulse had become faint, his breaths shallow and irregular, the ghastly pallor that had formed on his aquiline features. 

He’s fine now, the Serenno native reminded himself. He hadn’t been so sure a few days ago. It had taken all his will to suppress the instinct to hold vigil at his student’s bedside all day, to take Qui-gon’s hand in his, to not let go until he was certain his Padawan was alive.

He hadn’t though, and even though Qui-gon had been unconscious at the time, Dooku still couldn’t shake the thought that somewhere under his fevered haze, his Padawan knew that his Master had held back. Dooku had maintained his stoic, distant demeanor, even the older Jedi had thought his own heart would leap from his chest at any moment.

The moment had passed, however, and now Qui-gon was fine, having gone from nearly comatose to…

…something else entirely.

The healers had warned Dooku that the antidote could trigger this reaction in one out of every thousand patients. They had also said that it was highly unlikely that Qui-gon would suffer these side effects, given that he was human, and a Jedi.

But since when had Qui-gon ever been like everyone else?

Across the room, his young charge was sprawled on his bed, his eyes glassy, starting up at some invisible point of interest on the ceiling. Qui-gon’s long fingers twitched, and a smile began to spread over his face. Dooku coughed, steeling himself for what was to come next.

It started with moaning. The first time it happened, Dooku had thought his student to be in pain, but the bizarre, twitching grin on Qui-gon’s face indicated otherwise. Soon after would come the gibberish, true nonsense speak that eventually would form into words, into entire conversations. Sometimes Dooku thought Qui-gon was lucid - he would respond to questions, or at least seem like he was. Other times, the boy would be somewhere else completely, reciting studies on plants or animals. Yesterday, Dooku had learned more about the Freyan creeper moss of Artaax Prime than he had thought possible. 

“The delusions will fade, Master Dooku,” the healer had said. “But for the next few days you will have to anticipate somewhat…erratic behavior. I suggest you don’t be offended by anything he says.”

Qui-gon turned to his Master, his eyes wide. “And then, we can talk about rearing Oskan blood eaters in the quarters - ”  The younger Jedi froze mid-sentence, cackling like a madman. “Master Dooku will love it!” he exclaimed, before falling back into bed.

Delusional indeed, thought Dooku. In moments such as these he harbored doubts that his Padawan was still ill at all; that the Jedi Master was on the end of a very elaborate joke.

Give him the benefit of the doubt, Yan. After all, were you not sitting in this very place a few days ago, fretting he wouldn’t recover at all?

Still, Dooku would have be vigilant against his student’s tendency to adopt strays after his recovery. Just in case.

But before the Jedi Master could put any more thought into the breeding habits of Oskan blood eaters (and the likelihood of it occurring in their quarters), the door to Qui-gon’s room opened, revealing a small, green figure holding a tray.

“Tea, my former Padawan?”

Dooku gave his former Master a small, polite smile.

“I shall take you up on that offer, Master Yoda.”

If nothing else, Dooku mused, Yoda’s presence would reveal if his student was truly in the throes of delirium, or at the very least curtail his tongue.

The diminutive Jedi Master grunted and tottered towards Dooku, floating a cup of tea into Dooku’s hands with the Force. Dooku raised his eyebrows at the unnecessary gesture, but decided that this wasn’t the place or time to start that argument again.

A voice sang from the other side of the room. “That’s inappropriate use of the Force, Master Yoda!”

Dooku nearly dropped his cup. 

“Not yet recovered, your student is?” Yoda asked, his voice betraying no surprise, no annoyance whatsoever.

Dooku stared into his own drink, hoping that somehow it might swallow him whole. “No,” he replied, not lifting his eyes from the brown liquid. “At least, that’s what the healers believe,” Dooku added after a beat.

“Hmm!” Yoda responded, casting his gaze over to the young man on the bed. He lifted his gimmer stick, pointing it in Qui-gon’s direction. “Not appropriate it is, to talk back to your Masters, hmm?”

Qui-gon turned on his side, his face still flushed with fever. “Not appropriate it is,” he retorted in a gross imitation of the small Jedi Master, his face scrunched as if the young man had consumed a freighter’s worth of lemons. 

Dooku took a large swallow of tea, burning his throat in the process. 

Yoda remained silent, putting his both clawed hands on his gimmer stick. He sighed and shook his head.

“Rest, you need, young Qui-gon.”

Qui-gon scowled and dropped back into the bed, his pillow billowing at the sides with the movement. 

Satisfied that the conversation was over, Yoda turned his back to the young man. 

“��moldy old scrotum.”

Tea sprayed out of Dooku’s mouth, droplets landing on the far wall, the curtains, the floor and - the Jedi Master's eyes went as wide as his saucer - the head of his former Master. 

Force take me and my impertinent student!

“I sincerely apologize, Master. For both of us,” he stammered. “He has - not been himself. The poison has had a most deleterious effect on his common sense.” Dooku growled the last words while taking a cloth from his pocket, offering it to Yoda. Delirious or not, Qui-gon would be an old, wizened man before he was finished fulfilling the punishments Dooku was already imagining for his wayward student.

The troll took the cloth without word, patting the top of his head. The old troll stopped to consider the piece of fabric before the corner of his mouth perked upwards. 

“Most creative your Padawan is with insults, Master Dooku. Almost as creative as another young student I can remember.”

Dooku pulled at his collar.

Yoda hummed in amusement. “Oh yes. Most creative. Mmmmm.”

“Master Yoda, I - “

“Know, I did not, what a maggot-pie was. Nor how it could be both yeasty and mewling.” Yoda chuckled. “Very educational. Learn much about the ancient Serenno language, did I, that day.”

Dooku grit his teeth. “Yes, I’m sure you did,” he muttered, suddenly very anxious to leave the room. “I’m afraid I must be going, Master Yoda. I trust you will look after my very sick and addled student?”

The gimmer stick rocked back and forth in time with the old Jedi Master. “Oh yes, Master Dooku. Anxious am I, to learn more.”

Dooku opened his mouth but thought better of it. “Very well. Yes. Wonderful. Goodbye, then, Master Yoda,” Dooku muttered as he sprinted out the door.

Yoda hopped into a nearby chair and sighed. His people did not have the talent for insults that other species did. At least not insults in a language anyone else would be able to understand. The troll pulled a small notebook from an invisible pocket in his robes, slowly writing the words “moldy old scrotum” in angular script. Yoda laughed to himself, placing the object to the side. He now knew exactly what to call Master Windu if a disagreement arose during the next Council meeting. 

[queercapwriting]

Can you possibly do a fic where Alex is a surgeon at some hospital and Maggie is still a detective but got injured and becomes Alex's patient? And obvi they fall in love 😂

She argues the entire way to the hospital.

Of course she does.

Because it’s just a little bullet wound, and it’s just a little blood, and the job isn’t done, and she’s fine, really, if she could just – 

But the woman who listens intently as the EMTs report her condition on the way out of the ambulance is the most beautiful woman Maggie’s ever seen.

And it shuts her up.

For a moment.

“I’m really okay, my partner just overreacted and – “

“No, Ms. Sawyer – “ The surgeon – the gorgeous, god, beyond beautiful surgeon – who’s got her eyes half on Maggie’s chart and half on her bare torso, pauses and chews the inside of her cheek for a moment, her eyes sweeping to the badge still at Maggie’s hip – “Detective Sawyer, excuse me – your partner really didn’t overreact. This much blood loss, I’m surprised you haven’t gone into shock yet.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Maggie tries to grin before trying to smack her groaning work partner as he rolls his eyes at her terrible flirting.

The surgeon just raises an eyebrow and calls out some gibberish that Maggie supposes is English, but doctor-English. Sexy doctor English.

“I’m Alex, Detective Sawyer – “

“Maggie’s fine,” she answers hastily, even as she feels her arms being prodded with IVs.

She thinks she detects the ghost of a grin on the woman’s face. On Alex’s face.

“I’m Alex, Maggie. And I’m going to need to go in and get this bullet out for you. I know they already asked you these things in the ambulance, but I’m going to ask you again, alright?”

Maggie answers her questions about allergies and medical history and on and on as best she can, even as she feels herself slipping, as she feels herself surrendering to the pull of the pain and of the pain meds.

“You’re really beautiful,” she thinks she murmurs as she finally passes out, and she definitely thinks her surgeon – Alex – smiles this time.

When she comes to, it’s to the steady beeping of a monitor instead of the rush of the ER.

When she comes to, a woman with Dr. Alex Danvers stitched in script on her white coat is writing something on her chart.

Maggie must stir, because Alex meets her eyes almost immediately.

“You’re awake,” she smiles, and Maggie’s definitely not imagining it this time. “How do you feel?”

“Depends. Is there steel lodged in my body?”

Alex chuckles and shakes her head, and Maggie wonders deliriously what her lips taste like.

“I’m better at my job than that,” she tells her, and Maggie tries to swallow, but finds that her mouth is too dry.

“Here,” Alex rushes to put down her chart, reaching for the water and straw by Maggie’s bedside before holding it gently to her lips.

Maggie’s not accustomed to being fed – mainly because it’s not something she’s ever allowed, even with partners – but she finds it easy to let this Alex Danvers woman give her water.

It’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.

“Thank you,” she whispers when she doesn’t think she can handle any more.

Alex smiles, and there’s something stirring in the way she watches Maggie’s tongue flit out to catch a stray water droplet on her bottom lip, but then it’s gone, and then her back is straight and her tone is professional.

“I’ll have one of my residents come in soon to give you more information about the surgery, the recovery, all that. And you have quite the police squad in the waiting room for you; you seem to have quite the support system. That’ll be good for your recovery.”

Maggie wants to tell Alex that she’ll be good for her recovery. That taking her on a date would be good for her recovery.

And she’s high on pain meds. 

So she does.

Alex blushes and stammers and it is the most precious thing Maggie has ever seen.

“Come back. When you’re all better. When I’m not your surgeon any more, and when I haven’t just been inside you – damnit. I… it… I never do this right… Come back. If you still want to. If you even remember. Alright?”

“I’d never forget you, Dr. Alex Danvers,” Maggie promises, and Alex is skeptical, but she smiles and blushes and fidgets and blushes some more.

And, true to her word, Maggie comes back – this time, with flowers instead of a GSW – and takes her on the best date of her life.

[mindfulwrath]

Silver, Part XIV (Final)

I hope you’ve all enjoyed this whirlwind tour of Wrathfic, please come again soon! (No but seriously you’ve all been wonderful and brilliant and thank you so much to everybody who commented and otherwise came to talk to/yell at me about this fic. It wouldn’t have made it without you!)

Words: 1,973 Warnings: Themes of suicide

Part I Part XIII

Utterson came over again for tea the day after his initial visit, and Lanyon couldn't pretend he wasn't grateful. Losing Jekyll's friendship so suddenly had been like losing an arm—it had left him unbalanced, handicapped. He found himself struggling to do even simple things. It was difficult to think about anything else for any length of time. Having Utterson around helped, although the lawyer seemed preoccupied and gravely concerned.

They did not talk about Jekyll. Even though it left gaping holes in their conversation, it was probably for the best.

"How is Mr. Guest?" Lanyon asked, after one such silence.

"Convalescing admirably," Utterson said. "I believe he's enjoying being waited on."

"Couldn't possibly blame him," said Lanyon. "Just be sure he doesn't get too used to it."

"I doubt he will," Utterson said. "He's young enough that a sedentary lifestyle is unappealing. Sometimes I fear he'll run off and join the police, simply for the opportunity to be stabbed again. He's had a taste of what he thinks adventure is and it's softened his head."

"Oh, I don't know, young Mr. Guest could have a successful career in law enforcement," said Lanyon. "You've told me he's an avid student of handwriting, haven't you? Perhaps they'll make a detective of him."

"Tut-tut," said Utterson, shaking his head. Lanyon smiled at him.

"And I suppose you would be out a very fine clerk," he said.

"There are plenty of fine clerks in the world, Robert," said Utterson, offended. "I don't want the silly fool to get himself hurt again—and on my account, as well!"

"Consider it a voyage of self-discovery," said Lanyon, teasing. "And you simply the winds by which it set sail!"

"You're making fun of me," Utterson grumbled into his mustache.

"Only a little, Gabriel. Only so much as you deserve."

"I don't deserve any of it."

"It's only because you've got no sense of—"

Someone banged on the door so ferociously it sounded like they were trying to beat it down. Hopwood hurried past the conservatory door on his way to answer, but Lanyon got to his feet as well, curious about the disturbance.

"What on earth now?" he wondered.

"I hope no one's hurt," Utterson said, frowning.

"My good sir!" Hopwood exclaimed from the entry, and there was a thundering of feet and Poole dashed into the room. He was whey-faced and breathless, without his coat or hat. He ran straight to Lanyon and grabbed him by the arm.

"Something's terribly wrong with Dr. Jekyll, sir," he said urgently. "He sent for you, he gave me this."

He foisted a small glass phial on Lanyon. His hands were freezing cold. The phial was empty. It was labeled with a single word in Jekyll's hand.

Strychnine.

Lanyon sprinted for the door. He was down the steps and out onto the street in a heartbeat, in a single bound. His feet pounded against the cobblestones. Cold air stung his face. His lungs burned. His legs were on fire. His vision blurred. People scattered before him. Those that didn't, he shoved aside. He bounded up the steps to Jekyll's home, past the maid, up the stairs. Other footsteps thudded behind him. He burst through the door to the lab.

Jekyll was curled up on the floor, convulsing. It was too late for modern medicine already, he could see that. Lanyon ran to him and dropped to his knees. Utterson said something authoritative. Poole warbled out a yes, sir. The door closed.

"Henry," Lanyon panted, taking his face in his hands. "Henry, what do I do? What do I do, Henry?"

Jekyll's eyes were unfocused, weeping. His face was blue. He was drenched in sweat. He had minutes left, at best.

"Robert," he gasped, clutching at his shirt. "Robert—the wolf. The wolf."

"He's delirious," Utterson said, kneeling across from Lanyon. Jekyll moaned and spasmed. He kept repeating it, over and over—the wolf, the wolf—syllables slurred half into oblivion.

Lanyon looked back over his shoulder. There were papers strewn all over the floor, a drawer of the desk ripped out.

"No he's not," he said. He leapt to his feet, foisting Jekyll off onto Utterson. "Keep him conscious!"

Jekyll yelped and sucked in a breath through his teeth. Lanyon fell upon the notes like a madman—they were in Jekyll's own hand, smudged with bloody fingerprints. Dozens of pages littered the floor. Titles like Universal Elixir and Mediator stared up at him.

"Shh, shh," Utterson murmured. "It's all right, Henry. It's going to be all right."

"What is it called?" Lanyon demanded. "Henry, what is the potion called? I need the name!"

Jekyll cried out, a piteous scream of unbearable pain, and Lanyon cursed under his breath.

"Henry, shh, easy," Utterson said. "What's the name of the potion?"

Lanyon could not focus on the papers. They passed through his hands like water. Spagyric Tincture, Universal Fire, Flesh Weaver, Grossman's Herbal Elixir, all useless, all wrong.

"Gabe—Gabriel?" Jekyll whispered. "It—hurts, it hurts, please—"

"I know," Utterson said. "I know, Henry. You need to tell us the name of the potion, so that we can make it stop hurting."

"Robert—where's—"

"He's here. The name, Henry."

He gasped in agony, and Lanyon folded, mirrored pain striking through his heart. His fists clenched on the papers, the useless, stupid papers—

"Elixir," Jekyll mumbled. "Elixir of life. . . ."

Lanyon scrambled for the right paper, it had to be here, it must have just passed through his hands, where was the damn thing?

"Aha!" he cried, snatching it up. He leapt to his feet and darted to the lab bench. His hands shook, his eyes would not focus. Bottles, reagents, he needed the ingredients first, but God the place was such a mess!

"Gabriel?" Henry said again, as though he had forgotten.

"I'm here," Utterson said. "Robert's here. It's going to be all right."

"I'm frightened," Henry whimpered. "I don't want to go, I don't—I don't want—I can't—"

"Henry, your organization is abominable!" Lanyon called over his shoulder. His voice was trembling, like a wine glass in the instant before it shattered. "As soon as this is over, we are implementing a systematic categorization of your reagents!"

Jekyll made a choked noise and Utterson cursed. Lanyon glanced back. Jekyll's back had arched like a bow under full tension, his fists clenched and his jaw locked. Utterson was holding him, waxen and terrified. Lanyon vowed not to look back again. He put his full attention on the alchemy before him.

"Don't be afraid, Henry," Utterson said, keeping up his low murmur of assurances even as Lanyon tore through the laboratory like a whirlwind. "It's going to be all right. It's going to be all right. Robert and I are here. It's going to be all right."

Jekyll gasped suddenly, and whimpered, and his breath came fast and shallow and labored.

"Robert—" he slurred. "Robert . . . you were right. You were—you were right. . . ."

"There will be no talk of that kind!" Lanyon admonished. He dumped the reagents on the lab bench, fumbled with the glassware. "When you are healthy and well, good sir, you may grovel to your heart's content, but you will not talk like that now!"

Jekyll's only response was to cry out in pain again, weaker, God, so much weaker, they were running out of time. . . .

"I know," Utterson said to him. "I know. Hold on, Henry. Just hold on a little longer."

Lanyon set the first reagent to boiling, burning his hands on the bunsen flame. He didn't feel it. He couldn't possibly have felt it. The hiss and gurgle of the alchemy grew louder in his ears, deafening, drowning out Jekyll's gasping and Utterson's soft reassurances. The words on the page swam before his eyes, once so neat and scientific, written in Jekyll's immaculate hand.

"Not to mention your labeling!" Lanyon went on, because he had to speak or he would scream. "Simply abysmal! I don't know what sort of science you think you've been doing, but it's unacceptable!"

The solution boiled and Lanyon added the second reagent, the yellowish salt. He spilled half of it over the side. He added more, maybe too much or not enough. Precision was gone anyway, it was guesswork and prayer, instinct and hope.

"Clearly you never learned how to keep a proper laboratory in school," Lanyon said, choked by the lump in his throat. "I'll have to teach you all over again, you've gotten complacent, and now look at what it's bought you! Reproducibility, Henry, it's all down to reproducibility, and I'll not let you get away with this shoddy—shoddiness!"

Pale green smoke coughed from the bottle as the solution began to turn blue. Lanyon added the third reagent, drop by drop. His hands shook so hard that he had to hold his own wrist to even hope to get any of the liquid inside the flask.

"You're damned lucky I'm brilliant, you know! All this alchemical nonsense, even with your translations, half of it's gibberish anyway. You'd be lost without me, I've said it before, I'll say it again, completely lost, Henry! When all this is done with, you and I are going to have a very long talk about—about—about everything, and you're not going to go running off again, not this time, by God, I won't let you. Do you hear me, Henry? You'll not be running away from me again!"

"Robert," Utterson said.

"No," said Lanyon. The world was only smears of color. He couldn't breathe.

"Robert," Utterson insisted.

"Don't interrupt me, Gabriel, this is very delicate work!"

"It's too late, Robert," Utterson said, very softly, very gently.

Lanyon had to brace himself against the table. His eyes overflowed with tears and he squeezed them shut. There was a round river stone in his throat that he couldn't swallow down, stopping his breath, his words. The acrid, sulfurous stench of the alchemy thickened the air to a yellow miasma. His mind was full of white fog and silence.

He turned to look.

Utterson knelt on the floor, cradling Jekyll in his arms. The convulsions had stopped, and he was still, he was very still. The amber eyes were glassy, doll-like, the lips parted. One arm hung limply to the floor, the pale fingers half-curled; the other was draped across his stomach, relaxed, almost casual. He was not breathing. His head lolled against Utterson's elbow, baring his throat. He was not breathing. He was not breathing.

Lanyon sank to the floor, his legs unable to hold him any longer. Gently, Utterson closed Jekyll's eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks unheeded, dripped from his chin onto Jekyll's shirt. Something clawed and ruinous was rampaging through Lanyon's chest, shredding everything.

Utterson clasped Jekyll's hand in his own, as though there was any comfort left he could provide. Lanyon shattered all the way through. He collapsed into wracking sobs, ugly and unmindful, garish in his grief. Utterson was silent. Jekyll was silent. Jekyll was dead.

Henry was dead.

Lanyon's anguish spent itself as a fire would, leaving nothing but ash and smoke in its wake. He could not look away from Henry's body. Utterson was still holding him, still weeping silently over him, still holding his hand.

The alchemy boiled over, spilling sickly orange liquid all over the table. It dripped down onto Lanyon's head, forcing him to move, to take his eyes off of Henry. He'd forgotten that he could.

Utterson looked up, met his gaze. The wooden facade was gone, leaving only a man; a man cradling his friend's corpse in his arms.

"What in God's name happened here?" Utterson said, lost and in pain.

Lanyon could not answer him.

THE END

[joemuggs]

IT’S ALL ABOUT ME

Last week, I was asked by Rory O’Sullivan to contribute to his Raw Edge newsletter - so here’s me talking about myself and my reliably boojy tastes. It’s a really good newsletter, so SUBSCRIBE!

--------

This week we've been speaking with Music Journalist and Author Joe Muggs. Joe has written for major newspapers, magazines and websites including Mixmag, FACT and Boiler Room and is currently working on a secret book that will be announced soon.

Joe lets us into some of the things that are important to him and gives us a short insight into his life before dishing out his recommendations. Let's dive right in!

Joe, thanks for joining us, what is it you are working on at the moment?

JM: I wish I could plug the book I'm working on currently but it won't be announced for a little while yet, so you'll just have to imagine the brilliance... My other big thing at the moment is tracing the current rise in popularity of ambient music and finding new ways of blending it with spoken word and discussion. I've done a couple of events experimenting with this recently, plus there's the LOVE DRAIN series of mixes I did for NTS Radio last year.

What's your background as a journalist what did you do before that?

I got into professional journalism quite late: in my late 20s, around the turn of the millennium. For most of the 90s, I was knocking about Brighton, doing the things one does in Brighton: DJing, being in bands, running cabaret shows, dancing on the hillsides, getting into trouble.

What is your morning routine like?

Woken by cat at 6, swear at cat, go back to sleep, woken by children at 7, put on Radio 3, faff about with Weetabix and sandwiches for lunchboxes, grimace at the news, hurriedly edit whatever the last thing I was working on the previous day, take one or other child to school/nursery, start work either at home or in local cafe/Wetherspoons.

What's the one thing you can’t leave the house without?

Sennheiser HD-25s

Who do you draw inspiration from?

Mostly from the glorious nonsense and wisdom that comes from music-lovers gathering together in any scenario: when I was in my teens and early 20s it was gibbering in after parties and the backrooms of techno clubs, but I came to realise that there's a grand tradition of subcultural gibberish that constantly refreshes our language. Whether it's The Cocteau Twins or Taliban Trim, The Goon Show or Devo, Young Thug or Krazy Kat, I love language that makes little sense but leaves you reeling.

What got you started out on the path you have taken, and what's the most difficult thing you’ve had to overcome?

I always wrote - was involved in the spoken word scene, wrote for student mags and local entertainment mags etc to get free guestlist and tickets etc – and I was always around the music scene, so after a long while of titting about it ended up being all I was really qualified to do. Even after I decided to make a go of it and started getting work for national publications, there were quite a few years of waiting tables, working in low-level NHS admin etc before writing really became my bread and butter. I really got going, though, after a series of unfortunate incidents involving Will Young forced me to do a bit of soul-searching and decide to focus on the particular kinds of music and culture I was most interested in rather than trying to be a generalist, after which I managed to carve out a niche for myself.

How do you see your profession changing in the next 10 years?

Wouldn't like to say. The decline in ad revenue across all media may continue, and it may just be a steady decline – but there are a few glimmers that make me suspect that people are still hungry for good writing and (that much-abused word) curation, so it may be that people find new ways to make it pay. There'll certainly always be exciting new trends in music to talk about, regardless.

What’s the one piece of advice you could give to someone heading out in your field of work?

You'd better love what you do. The chances of making a living, let alone a good one, out of writing about culture, are slim – and just to add to the frustrations, there'll always be people less talented but more privileged and/or more self-assured than you blithely leapfrogging ahead. But writing, and immersion in the culture you love, has a value all of its own, and if you remind yourself of that again and again, eventually you can persuade other people too.

And here are Joe’s recommendations:

READ

McMafia McMafia by Misha Glenny – I was obsessed with this book by a former BBC journalist about the illegal 20% of the global economy when it came out, and nowadays its narrative of the convergence of governments and gangsterism looks all the more terrifyingly relevant.

Doubt Kind of ironically,  Doubt: A History has become my bible. Ostensibly a history of disbelief and atheism from the beginning of history until now, it's far more: a catalogue of the greatest inquiring and dissenting human minds. Doubt on Amazon

The Outrun Amy Liptrot and I started as professional writers together in the chaotic final days of The Face magazine, and I'm now furiously jealous of her huge talent, how far she's come and the acclaim she's had for the gripping The Outrun – though obviously not so jealous of the hard times and addiction the memoir describes. 

WATCH This Country This Country on BBC3 iPlayer – what People Just Do Nothing / Kurupt FM is to the inner city, this is to the countryside; if you grew up in a rural town like I did you will wince with recognition all the way through, but aside from that it's a brilliantly written and played piece.

The Circus is in Town The definition of cult viewing, Carnivàle is a flawed but deliriously dark and atmospheric occult HBO drama about a travelling circus in the depression-era USA which ran for a season and a half before abrupt cancellation in 2005 forced its rushed conclusion.

Cooking Down Under Masterchef Australia makes the UK version look small and shabby in comparison – the cooking, the Aussie camaraderie, the chefs' “journeys” and “food dreams”, the quality of presenters and guests: everything is super-sized, dramatic and gripping. The new season starts any day now, and I cannot wait.

LISTEN Underground House Talaboman – The Night Land – John Talabot from Barcelona and Axel Boman from Stockholm were already well-loved DJ/producers in underground house, but together they've produced an absolutely beautiful album more for home listening than the club, which I've had on repeat for months now (read my interview with them here)

Joni's Lawns Joni Mitchell – The Seeding of Summer Lawns – I was only ever a casual Joni fan until I discovered these leaked demos of The Hissing of Summer Lawns; suddenly everything fell into place – not just the perfection of her songwriting but her genius as a producer and arranger – and an unquenchable obsession began.

P Money P Money – Live & Direct – unfairly eclipsed by higher-profile releases from fellow grime veteran Skepta and young upstart Stormzy, this from Southeast London stalwart P Money deserves to be heard widely: it's as belligerent and problematic as can be, but also razor sharp and full of hard-won wisdom.

BUY Body Bass SubPac – a bodily bass speaker that you wear or lean on, that combines with headphones to give you the experience of being up close to a soundsystem or orchestra without upsetting the neighbours; incredible for deep ambient voyaging!

Animation Studio from Hue The Hue Animation Studio – a brilliantly simple bit of kit – a webcam on a flexible arm, plus super-intuitive software interface – for making stop-motion animation. Bought it for my son, but he has to fight to stop me monopolising it.

Human after all A FMLY 'HUMAN' sweatshirt – yes I do a lodda great work for charidee mate - stylish AND philanthropic, buying this also gets £10 to the Refugee Council. 

EAT & DRINK Salad - No, really. God this is poncey but I'm obsessed with Ottolenghi salads, like this fennel, pear and pecorino one. I think I could face being vegetarian if all veggie food tasted this good.

Meat! I am very much not a vegetarian though, and I love the short rib at  Zelman Meats in Soho – it specialises in less pricey cuts, but the quality of meat and cooking mean the eating experience rivals places WAY more expensive.

Everyone loves their local I have to shout out to my South London local 161 Food & Drink – whether for coffee and cake or lock-ins until god-knows-what-o-clock with a string quartet, Al is the consummate host and the food, wine and beer are reliably A1 quality. 

LEARN Learn Coding Learn the Essentials of coding with Makeblock robots – so easy to get started with, and massively fun, but quickly draws both kids and adults into really complex programming and logic concepts.

Snow Geysers There has been an amazing discovery of snow geysers and the possibilities of life on Enceladus, Saturn's snowball moon with an internal ocean full of warm currents and organic molecules.

Contribute! How, without having to be a massive hippy, to make small positive contributions to the world, courtesy of the Draw The Line collective of comics writers and artists.

DO Down House Go to Down House – Charles Darwin's house for many years, the downstairs is preserved exactly as it was when he lived and worked there, as are the gardens and the outbuildings where he experimented, and it's kind of magical.

Pink Trombone Drive yourself quietly mad with the (deliberately) unfortunately named Pink Trombone – an online tool that mimics the shape and movements of the human mouth to generate sounds: try and find the Kenneth Williams settings!

Rave in London Go raving at Printworks London – I thought I was way past dancing in giant rave barns, but the extraordinary post-apocalyptic industrial setting of Printworks has changed my mind and then some: extraordinary production values, some of the greatest names in techno, and even daytime opening for those of us too old and tired to stay out all night!

[funkymeihem-fiction]

Chapter 12

Roadhog had never been cryogenically frozen before. This was something new to him. Like most denizens of the outback, he avoided the cold. But, there had been little choice between the possibility of death in the ice, or the certainty of death in the storm. So, holding both his younger partners against him and taking in one last wheezing breath, he had steeled himself against the onslaught of ice that covered him, rushing over him in a chill so cold that it burned like fire. After that, there had been little time to think. He was vaguely aware of the feeling that he was dying, but then that faded along with everything else. For some time, he was not sure how long, he no longer existed. There was no pain, but no dreams either, a simple nothingness.

For a while, that was okay.

But then sensation began to return to him. The ice was thinning, the cold was lessening, and as it receded, it revealed more and more of his gargantuan body beneath it. He waited patiently, adjusting to the relative warmth of reality, becoming more and more aware of his own consciousness, until he realized that he was cold, and that the cold was hurting him. With a rumbling growl, he fought against it the same way he fought against everything, smashing and punching and surging forward with all his strength as he tore himself from the freezing prison, the ice cracking and shattering and landing in razor-sharp shards all around him as he lunged free.

There was daylight, and the skies were as blue as he’d ever seen them, dotted with fluffy white clouds. The storm was long gone, and the only evidence that it had ever been there was the utter wreckage all around them. The van had been ripped apart, twisted almost in two. The windshield and all glass had been shattered and in some places, melted. The doors had been torn away, and the roof was peeled like a sardine can, little remaining but the metal frame of it. Their belongings, what hadn’t been blocked in by the ice, were scattered in the sand or missing altogether.

He turned to check on the others, but Junkrat and Mei were still fully ensconced in their cryo-prison, Junkrat’s expression frozen into angry, terrified shock, his eyes open but unseeing. Even further in, at the heart of the source, was the tiny fetal-position form of Mei, barely visible through the blue-white of the ice. Roadhog was not entirely sure what to do. Again, his first thought was to simply break things, break them free and break them out. But even his massive strength was not enough to make much progress, and when a crack finally began to appear, he became aware that shattering the ice might shatter the bodies within.

So he turned and instead concentrated on salvaging what could be still be salvaged, and waited for them.

Moving about was somewhat painful, his muscles aching as he collected things from the derelict van. By some miracle only one of the water canisters had broken open, and the entire desert was littered with those horrible MRE packets. Food and water, the highest priorities in the outback, were checked off first. Their blankets and clothes had been distributed widely around as well, some with tears in them, and one of Mei’s brassieres was hanging and waving like a cheerful flag from a broken piece of metal door. He decided to spare her the embarrassment if she lived, and returned it to the pile back in the van. The van was a completely lost cause, and his bike had not fared very much better. It had been knocked down and buried in the sand, the sidecar twisted and the hitch broken, and the engine had been ripped completely off, but at least the wheels were still attached.

He was halfway through unearthing the rest of the sidecar when he heard movement. Returning to the wreckage, he found a delirious Junkrat trying to claw himself from the ice, mumbling gibberish and making little confused animal-sounds as he was slowly liberated from his prison, chunks of it falling away and splintering into pretty little snow-like motes as Hog helped pull him out. The light still hadn’t come back on in his eyes, a dull umber where they should have been gold, and his teeth were chattering and he was shaking wildly, his scrawny body unable to produce its own warmth. With a grumble, Roadhog sat down and seized him in one massive arm, dragging him forward and holding him against his side despite the discomfort of the younger junker’s still-chilled form pressing against him, hand resting on his quivering bony back. Junkrat clung to the source of heat as though his life depended on it, letting the heat from the older junker’s body add to the heat of the outback sun. Eventually his shivering subsided and he looked up, eyes blazing yellow again as he gave his usual sneering gold-toothed grin.

“You smell like shit, mate.”

Roadhog shoved him away and returned to scavenging through the debris. Junkrat rubbed both gangly arms, shuddering as the source of heat left him, his eyes widening as he took notice of the destruction all around them. “Fuck me running, Roadie, ain’t this something? How long were we out? You remember anything? I don’t remember nothing except little…I dunno, I think I saw bits of things, or maybe I didn’t. Where was I, again?”

“Don’t know how long it was,” he grunted in reply. “Don’t know how long it’ll be before the next one. But lots of storms in the red zone. Once she’s up, we need to get moving.”

“Where we moving, mate? Lucky’s is a fuckin’ trek backward, don’t suppose your bike is still working? Looks like a scrap heap at the moment.” Junkrat fiddled with several knobs on the radio, tried Mei’s black-screened phone, and even prodded several times at the dented husk of Snowball, who had been laying inactive half-buried in the sand inside the wrecked van. All remained dark. “Electrics are fried. Can’t be callin’ nobody.”

Roadhog paused at that, turning options over in his head before nodding. “We’re walking blind. Closest thing I can figure is an old safehouse one of my old employers used to have. If it’s still around, it’s our best bet. Go see if you can find the tools. We still have wheels, we’ll just have to push.”

Junkrat groaned and slumped over so hard he practically fell into the sand. “I thought our busted bike-pushing days were over!”

“Tools. Go get them,” he answered firmly. “Can fill the sidecar with what we need and haul it on foot.”

“…Don’t suppose there’s room in the sidecar for a tiny lil’ rat?” Junkrat grinned, then cringed at the look he received. “Bite my fuckin’ head off then, Roadie. Fine!”

The two junkers spent the afternoon struggling to get the bike in rolling order, as the hitch to the sidecar had bent so severely that it had nearly broken in two, and Roadhog tried different methods of connecting them instead. Junkrat, apparently refreshed from his ice nap, chattered incessantly; so much so that he’d been ordered to go ‘stand guard’ over Mei just to get him to shut up for a while. Roadhog had had all of about thirty seconds of peace and focus when Junkrat began simply talking to the unconscious woman instead.

“Oi, Mei! Thought I’d keep you company, just in case you could hear me. Not sure you can hear anything at all in there…but I’m here. Your ice thingy worked. I mean, it wasn’t great, but it worked. I mean, you know it worked, you’re still in there. If you want me to shut my yap, just tap on the ice three times… No? Roight, let me tell you about the day I’ve had!”

Evening fell, the bike was sitting in the sand with the sidecar finally attached, and packed full with water, food, bedrolls, and other necessities. Neither of the junkers had known what to do with Mei’s eco-station, the impenetrable silver boxes seemingly unharmed despite the severity of the storm. They had simply tied it on top and meant to ask her later.

But ‘later’ was indeed becoming later and later. The sun had set and the little climatologist remained silent and entombed. Her colleagues were forced to make camp for the night, and Junkrat started a tiny fire with the remains of the the shattered wooden crates. Both were ravenously hungry, eating several meals apiece, and Roadhog had actually snarled at Junkrat when he tried stealing a hunk of his cornbread, sending him flying with little more than a flick of one arm. Rebuffed, Junkrat skulked back into the van once more to check on things, before his wail cut through the night. “ROADHOG! ROADIE!”

Hog threw his meal to the side, hauling himself at top speed to the other side of the ruined vehicle, and found his partner hugging the newly-liberated Mei. But Junkrat was frantic, shaking her and patting her face as she lay draped in his lap, soaked with cold water and bits of ice, and Roadhog saw her limbs were limp and her face was a ghostly gray pallor and despite all of Junkrat’s attempts, she was unresponsive.

“She was on the floor not making any noise or anything, Roadie! She’s cold and she aint’ breathin’!” He jammed an ear against her chest. “Can’t hear nothing…ugh, damn tits are in the way! Never thought I’d curse these tits! Move! Still can’t hear anything!” He rose with her held in both arms, holding her out in a plaintive motion, as though asking for help with a broken toy; but his expressions twitched madly, worrying his lip until it bled, and his gaze was pleading. “Fix it! Fix her!”

Roadhog took her from him, tucking her in one arm as he patted her face with two fingers, pressed them into her chest, and leaned down to listen for her breath as he pried her mouth open. Very, very faintly, there came a fading wet rattle, but that was all. Junkrat danced helplessly nearby, shifting rapidly from leg to peg and back again, watching as Hog reached up to the top of his head. There was a clicking noise, then the straps loosened and he pulled off the entire pig mask, Setting it over her face and pulling the straps until they latched, he held out one hand. Junkrat immediately shoved one of the familiar yellow canisters into his palm as Roadhog twisted the gas canister into place, pulling the tab and activating it. The hogdrogen flooded the mask but Mei’s chest remained still. At a loss, Roadhog suddenly grasped the pig’s snout and pressed it as hard as he could. The gas, with nowhere else to go, invaded Mei’s mouth and nose and caused her to spasm violently, her back arching and ribs heaving as breath was forced into her. Roadhog squeezed the mask several more times, until the canister had emptied.

Both junkers watched as the mask was removed, crowding in to listen…as Mei’s chest rose and fell with a shallow cough and there was the soft noise of respiration once more, albeit weakly. Junkrat immediately began caterwauling in victory, while Roadhog sat back with a bemused “I don’t think Dr. Ziegler would appreciate what just happened.” He left the mask on her face, scratching at the gray-white stubble on his scarred chin. With the girl out, he didn’t have to worry about curious eyes trying to see his face.

“I won’t tell the doc if you don’t, mate. Blimey, she’s still all blue in the lips. Give ‘er here, I’ll warm her up.” He opened his arms, then frowned when Roadhog made no move to transfer the sad little package.

“Not yet. She needs more than a blanket and a bag of bones…and she’s still not breathing right. Before you ask, no, you can’t use the mask on her. Or ever.” He carried her out and sat before the fire, ignoring Rat’s complaints. The little scientist had taken the brunt of the damage from the cold, being next to its very source, and had suffered badly for it. Covering her back in one of the blankets, he simply plopped down with her still tucked in one arm, almost cradling her as she had recovered enough to start shivering. Her breathing became labored, and Hog dutifully replaced the mask on her and popped another canister, letting her breathe in more of its fumes until she stabilized once more.

Junkrat sullenly started in on another bag of food, shoving a dehydrated and dessicated porkchop-like substance into his jaws. “I coulda warmed her up, ya know. I’m real good at it. Now I’m gonna be up all night all worried, bet you anything.”

“Mm.”

Hours later, Junkrat was soundly asleep, having pulled his bedroll up next to Roadhog and firmly attached himself to his calf, hugging himself to it as he snored next to the dying fire. Hog himself was slumped to one side in half-slumber, the pig mask still half-covering Mei’s face as he listened to her breathing. It wasn’t the first night he’d stayed awake all night to watch over those who needed it.

Her breathing was steady for now, a steady in and out. The medicine seemed to have worked, what a relief. He sat just listening to it, letting it lull him. She was usually a more fitful sleeper, but seemed more lethargic tonight, probably because she was sick again. She got sick so easily, this was the third time this month. She’d probably be hungry when she got better and her appetite returned. He’d need to stop by the store again.

She squirmed a bit in his arm and he shifted at the movement, well used to her fussing. He merely leaned his face in his other hand, eyes shut as he rocked her slightly; just a very slight back and forth as he adjusted her blanket and watched the lamp make animal-shapes that moved slowly across the ceiling. He tried humming, his deep baritone crooning the notes of her favorite song…the lyrics had something to do with baby bumble bees, he could never remember them, but remembered the tune. He’d hummed it a thousand times.

There was a voice, whispering to him from the little bundle in his arms.

“…Mako?…Jamie?…”

Something in his brain lurched to the surface. Those names. His name and something else. This was wrong. She shouldn’t be talking. She couldn’t be talking. She didn’t speak.

She never got the chance.

Not after what he did…

His eyes flew open, humming cut off as he awoke and looked down. Mei was stirring and trying to look up at him, though her gaze was still far off and uncomprehending. She whispered again, something in Chinese that he couldn’t understand. She had stopped shivering and was breathing on her own now, but still wasn’t quite with them yet. But it was enough. He stood quickly, learning down to pry his partner’s arms from around his leg. Junkrat’s face scrunched unhappily, until Hog unzipped the side of his bedroll and quietly deposited Mei inside with him. Rat’s arms found her immediately, wrapping around her and pulling close, stilling her unrest as her squirming and muttering stopped, expression blanking back to something more peaceful.

Satisfied that the two would keep each other pacified and warm for the rest of the night. Roadhog moved back to his own side of the fire, kicking out his bedroll as he sprawled out on top of it, latching the pig mask back into place over his face and pulling the buckles tight, the comforting grind of the air filters returning and the blank lenses covering his eyes as he closed them again.

Perhaps he needed to sleep after all. Perhaps he’d not fully recovered from the cryo-freeze as much as he’d thought. Though at least the cryo-freeze had one vague comfort he’d enjoyed.

At least there, he didn’t have to dream.

Mei awoke, truly awoke, the next morning as the sun rose, the harsh light causing her eyes to twitch under her lids. Awareness came back to her slowly, the waking mind chasing away the hallucinations she’d been fighting for hours; the faces of her dead eco-team silently watching her as she pleaded with them to come back, her mother and father locked in ice as she struggled to claw them free, visions of Jamison walking away over the horizon and his burning features becoming the sun, and the faint tunes of someone singing to her.

She turned in the bedroll and realized someone was holding onto her, and the source of heat was a set of bony ribs, a gasoline odor, boa-constrictor arms, and a familiar voice that slurred a bit just above her. “Nnh…Got ya, darl. Ya there?”

She coughed a bit, and it was wet and deep and caused him to squeeze her tighter. “Don’t…feel so great.”

He shuffled down a bit in the bedroll until her could look her in the eye. “Thought you were gone, for a while. Feelin’ shitty is a lot better than feelin’ nothing at all.”

He was right. She was alive. She still felt like shards of ice were stuck deep inside her, hurting her all over, but she was alive. And the others with her, they were alive and she wasn’t alone. She grabbed onto him as much as she could with her weakened limbs, felt him embrace her in return. He was still here, and he was real, and he was so warm. He was flesh and bone under her fingertips, the heat melting away the coldness in her. “Jamie…I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I didn’t want to…”

He stifled a little chuckle, his ribs stuttering against her. “Don’t start that again, Mei. It was shit, I won’t lie, but it sure beats dying in the red. You did good. Just glad you’re b-”

Tears squeezed from her eyes as she managed to wriggle an arm from his tight grasp, pulling his chin down so she could find his lips with hers. Forget the worries she’d had before. He was here now, just like he said he’d be. She kissed him, and after a moment of surprise he kissed her back. He was trying to be careful, she could tell, the spindly fingers of his real hand moving up to cradle the back of her head, supporting her neck as he rolled half upright so he could lean down over her and kiss her again. Forget Overwatch, and Winston, and the disapproval of anyone else, including her. They were alive.

She let her tongue slip into his lips, earning a happy little groan in reply as his mouth opened and his tongue advanced to find hers again. He kissed her deeply, sharing his heat with her, and held her like he never wanted to let go. But he had forgotten himself again, and when he shifted atop her, she winced and her lips pulled away to make a little pained noise, bringing him back. He sat up quickly, and it pulled away his weight but also his warmth, and she whispered another apology as always.

He shook his head down at her, “Sorry, love, we’re still not tip-top. Maybe we gotta do this when we’re not both battered all to pieces? You stay here, s’morning anyway and Roadie is going to want to get moving, tip-top or not. I’ll get brekkie going.”

She nodded and let him wriggle the rest of the way out of the bedroll, sad to see him leave as she snuggled down and tried to enjoy the body heat still trapped inside. “Is he all right too? Roadhog?”

“You kidding me? Nothing can stop the whole hog, especially not a few ice cubes! He’s right as rain, you don’t gotta worry about a thing except how shit this food’s going to be!” He gave her a grin, and was heartened to see her smile back at him.

He left Mei and returned to his partner on the other side of the van, where Roadhog was tying down more supplies in the already-full sidecar. Junkrat leaned down to start rifling through what remained of the meal packs and filled his flask with water. “She’s back. Kept her real warm and good, just like I said! Never shoulda doubted me, Roadie. Still, not feeling too great, think it fucked her up worse than us, and it’s not like we felt too good about it either.”

Roadhog thought for a moment, then looked out at the horizon and the rapidly-moving clouds in the morning sky. “Mm. Hope she can walk. Safehouse is still a distance away.”

Junkrat shrugged one gaunt shoulder. “Welp, not like anyone is going to come out here for the rescue. Comms are all out and last thing we need is someone picking up a distress signal around here and coming to finish the job. We’ll get some food into her, get her up and moving again, and right she’ll be. Ha! Strawberry oatmeal! I knew I saw one still around, this’ll cheer her right up!”

Roadhog watched his younger cohort scamper off to deliver the good news, and continued to try and stack more supplies onto the already-heavy bike. It wasn’t the first time the junkers had been in dire straits, but it was the first time they’d be trying to haul a weakened climatologist with them. They needed the water, as much as they could get, and food to keep them strong for the journey. Three bedrolls took up a lot more space than two, and Mei’s science-boxes weighed a lot more than he’d guessed. The bike was heavy to begin with, so much so that only Roadhog himself could push it, and the sand-clogged dirt roads would make it that much harder.

They’d need to get moving soon, sickness or no. They would be sitting ducks in the most dangerous zone in the entirety of Australia, and they needed to travel during this window where they could. They had already played their only trump card, and even then they’d paid dearly for it.

They’d barely survived the trial by ice. Now it was time for a trial by fire.

[alirhi]

new Bucky fic

Title: Toy Soldiers Chapter: Prologue/? Fandom: MCU Rating: 18+ Focus: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes Summary: Wounded and delirious but grateful (and shocked) to be alive after his fall from the train, Bucky thinks he's been rescued when he's pulled from the snow. It doesn't take long for him to realize he would have been better off dead. WARNINGS: Language, references to (and possibly graphic depictions of; we'll see how it goes) torture, brainwashing, violence, rape Notes: This is what happens when I read too many Bucky metas and spend too long thinking about how the writers have failed our boy recently. I make no promises about my attention span, but the intenthere is to dig deep into Bucky's trauma and his time as The Winter Soldier. This will not be an easy read. You've been warned.

Steve had always liked to play with toy soldiers. The memory of his diminutive friend planning battle strategies on the living room floor bubbled up unbidden to the surface of his mind. He liked to fight; to play the hero and swoop in to save oppressed peoples all over his imaginary world. Bucky preferred going outside and talking to girls, but he humored his sickly friend. Steve couldn't always go out, so Bucky sat with him and played the 'bad guys'; the evil oppressors that General Rogers and his Howling Commandos would beat to a pulp.

Bucky loved to make that joke. Beating wooden toy soldiers 'to a pulp.' Steve would always roll his eyes and complain about his stupid puns. Bucky would never hesitate to counter with a jab about calling his troops 'Howling Commandos.' As if that wasn't the dumbest name, ever!

He knew that was why Steve had them actually howl on missions. The smug grin on his stupid face said it all.

“Told you, Buck.”

“Shut it, shrimp. You didn't tell me shit.”

The grin widened. “Told you I'd have my Howlies one day.”

Refusing to acknowledge this, Bucky only shook his head and gestured for Steve to go on. “Just don't get your star-spangled head blown off, alright, Cap?”

“I thought you liked the outfit!”

“Doesn't change the fact that it makes you an easy target.”

Smile fading, Steve shrugged and glanced around. “What else is new?”

What else is new, indeed... He was right, of course. Small, skinny, and often barely clinging to life, Steve had always been an easy target. Now that he was healthy and strong, he was just a bigger target.

But Steve wasn't the one who'd nearly died. Funny, in all the years they'd been friends, under all his affection and faith in the tenacity of his tiny friend, Bucky had always secretly braced himself to be the last one standing. To bury the last Rogers alongside his parents and say his goodbyes. It was a relief to be proven wrong.

As he faded in and out of consciousness, he clung to that thought the way pre-serum Steve had always clung to life. No matter what happened to him, at least Steve was healthy. He had a chance to actually live a life... if he didn't go getting himself killed, the reckless bastard. At the end of the day, Bucky had been wrong. He wouldn't outlive Steve; he wouldn't have to deal with the pain of burying his best friend.

Fuck, he was cold! His left hand was itching like crazy. He tried to frown, but didn't quite have the energy to. There was something off about that... Something about his left hand that he couldn't quite remember... It was too cold to think. He was chilled all the way through. Where was he? This wasn't the snowy ravine he'd landed in.

Somebody was talking. He couldn't make out the words. Something about them seemed... off. They weren't... This time he thought he managed the frown of confusion. What was going on?

Wrong language. The problem with the words finally filtered through the haze: Whoever these people were, they weren't speaking English. What was it? His head was pounding and he let his face relax, too tired to keep frowning. Whatever was happening, it was no concern of his. He was pretty sure he was dying. It was a fucking miracle that he'd even survived the fall. If his body could just get on with it, he'd appreciate it, though. He was so done with the rest of this. Pain and fatigue and delirium, and that maddening itch...

Someone lifted his left arm at the elbow, still speaking whatever the hell that language was, voice low and oddly gentle. Since death appeared to be taking its sweet time coming to claim him, Bucky figured he might as well try to satisfy his curiosity. He forced his tired, aching eyes to open and glanced around, wincing at the harsh lights overhead. There was something familiar about the setup, but he couldn't quite place it. Whatever it was, it was somehow comforting; like his memories of Steve, the sterile atmosphere reminded him of something...safe. Helpful.

A hospital. The equipment around him, the lights and instruments and the slab under him, it was all medical. Had he been rescued? Relief flooded through him and he relaxed back against the table, or whatever it was he was lying on, just letting the doctor probe at his arm.

His arm. Right. What was that thing about his left arm?

“OW, FUCK!”

The doctor jumped away from him, startled, as Bucky gaped at the empty space where his left hand should have been. Oh. That's what was wrong. His hand and half his forearm were missing. Too fucking tired for the grief and panic he was sure he should have been feeling, he registered this fact with a sort of cool detachment and returned his attention to the room around him.

Empty hand out in front of him, the doctor slowly approached again, still murmuring in whatever the hell that gibberish language was. He set down the syringe he'd been holding in his other hand; the syringe he'd used to inject Bucky's bloody stump, which had caused his unpleasant little outburst. Looking as though his patient might leap off the table and attack him any second, he crept ever so slowly closer.

“Look, pal,” Bucky grumbled, letting his eyes drift shut again. Whatever had been in that thing, at least his arm – what was left of it, anyway – was starting to go numb. That was nice; took care of the worst of the pain. “I ain't gonna hurt you. I don't even have the energy to wave at you. Just... do what you gotta do, alright?”

He was safe. He was being taken care of. Relieved all over again, he let all his confusion and all his half-formed questions fall by the wayside for the moment and relaxed. Everything else could wait. He'd been rescued; he was in a hospital, and either they'd fix him up and send him home, or he'd die. Either option was okay with him at the moment.

At least he didn't have to fight Nazis for a little while.