#his progeny and company?

[rars]

helena eagan is yandere but for adult women with jobs. Grown Adult Woman CEO Yandere, even

[senselessviolets]

“stay soft”

Roman Roy x Fem. Reader

Rating E (Smut)

Word Count: 3.3k

AO3 Link

WARNINGS:

Mommy kink, smut, some plot, this man has MOMMY ISSUES™️, gentle femdom, titplay, breast sucking, so much dirty talk, Roman gets called “baby” a lot, no PIV, no uses of Y/N

Author's Notes:

The people have spoken—y’all want Roman being fucking babied in bed so that’s what the fuck I did and I have zero regrets. Totally gave up in the end but school’s been incredibly draining for me so I’m proud of myself for even getting THIS out.

[Gif creds: I forget. if it’s yours, lemme know!!]

Summary:

You are an equally wealthy childhood friend of the Roys and Roman in particular. After years of little to no contact with him, he and you decide to finally act on the mutual attraction you both share in the most ‘Roman way’ you can think of. 

“Okay, but like if we…fuckin’...if we fuckin’ do this, I will want…some things. But I’m not g’na fuckin’ beg or anything…call you mommy, ‘goo goo ga ga’…none of that shit. I will want you…to be there…and I will want you to ‘not be there’...if you catch my drift. I-I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ word or a single moan. I don’t want—I just don’t want it, okay. And this might sound bad—even though I’ve definitely said worse—but you would be just a-a means for me,” a voicemail blears in your ear as you are made aware of the four calls you missed in your slumber, “‘Kay? I dunno. Think it over. It’s not fuckin’ life or death. Until it is. And I kill you. And hide the body and burn the evidence…kidding! ‘Kay, love you, kidding, ‘kay, bye!”

This was uncharted territory for you both. 

You and Roman and the other Roy children were longtime family friends. Like Stewy Hosseni or a lesser example Ray Kennedy. What that meant was your incredibly loaded dad gave Logan Roy an ungodly sum of money in the nineties and had managed to stay on his good side ever since. At their status, that’s what qualified as ‘friendship’. Everything was a transaction at the end of the day. Like you suspected Logan and Caroline had bought their way into their kids’ hearts, to even be in the same room as these titans—to breathe the same air—you had to beg, steal, or borrow. Fortunately, you hailed from less-than-humble beginnings; your father being an incredibly successful venture capitalist-turned-philanthropist and your mother the heiress of a billion-dollar publishing company. 

But it was all just details. 

You were eternally grateful to be an only child, imagining an existence where you and your progeny were destined to forever claw at each other's throats—all for whatever scraps your parents were generous enough to leave you.

Unfortunate. ‘Pitiful’ felt more accurate. Every hollow soiree and vapid function served as a reminder. These were not your people. And they never would be. And yet—

“Heya! Well, you look less miserable than usual. Lemme guess, you finally ditched Loser What’s-His-Face and have taken up my longstanding advice of giving lesbianism a try,”

“Hi, Roman. No, I’ve actually been reminiscing about our younger years together. Remember the time you threw up in your mouth before presenting me my corsage the night of the winter formal? Seventh grade? Ring a bell?”

“That was because it only dawned upon me then that I would be getting Cody Keener’s sloppy seconds,” he answers, “I just couldn’t cope with that, I’m sorry,”

You slug him in the arm and he reacts overdramatically, as if someone stuck him with the pointy end of a knife. Onlookers included none other than Frank Vernon, Hugo Baker, and a close friend of your mom’s, Michelle Anne. This time, you and Roman had crossed paths at your father’s 70th birthday party. It was held at your parents’ penthouse on the Upper East Side and attracted a decent crowd. Faces you’d sworn you met pass you by as strangers come up to you, recounting memories of you who were only this tall. It was always a discombobulating experience but you continued to frolic and mingle nonetheless. 

In truth, this little ‘reunion’ was nothing but a facade. 

You and Roman had been talking for weeks now after years of no contact with one another. Brief texts turned into prolonged phone calls which by the end of the night became one-sided, pathetic voicemails expressing some sort of yearning for the other. It was becoming all-consuming and quite frankly, exhausting. And now it had finally come to blows. 

There was a plan, there were contingencies (of course, there were) but above all—there was transparency. And that was something you could hold onto. Oh, the many men who lied their way into your bed. And then here comes Roman, who’d made it abundantly clear he’d rather inhale glass than have you worm your way into his. So this scheme would not transpire at his place or yours. 

It would be occurring in a Central Park Suite at The Carlyle—just a quick jaunt from your parents’ place. He deigned to be a gentleman and handled the reservations as well as your transportation because you had to already be there. You were going to be lying on the bed, in some satiny sleepwear. No lingerie, no hosiery—nothing that could be construed as ‘sexy’. You were to look mundane, average, and bored. 

Roman would enter and you would be still and let him do as he pleased. While you’d had this endeavor nailed to a T, you’d be lying if you said the prospect of him going off-script—doing things rougher, harder, doors off the hinges, letting his darker impulses get the better of him—didn’t make your knees buckle a bit. 

So once the candles had been blown, the birthday wishes made, and goodbyes were said—you were to slide into his black Range Rover SV while his secondary chauffeur Crispin brought you to your destination. In your duffel was your change of clothes and a few other goodies. It had crossed your mind—once, twice how exceedingly easy it would be to bail right about now. Crispin could drop you off on the side of the road like some floozy and then your personal chauffeur could pick you up and drive you back to your cozy brownstone for a mundane evening spent by yourself—alone. That was the part that struck a pang in your stomach. That was the truly unbearable part. That, and the heat between your thighs which was starting to become really inconvenient. 

…

Now was not the time to get cold feet. 

You had already slid your sequin cocktail dress off and exchanged it for your satin sleepwear. Like the pretty kept thing he’d instructed you to be, you lay flat across the plush hotel mattress, awaiting his arrival, legs swinging to and fro like an eager teenage girl.

Maybe he’d be the one to pussy out.

At least then you’d have yet another thing to hold over his head for the foreseeable future. In your phone’s front-facing camera, you inspected the makeup you’d done earlier that evening for the party and it still seemed sufficient. Your lips seemed a bit drab. You roll off the bed and I sift through the contents of your bag, searching for the mauve lip color you’d brought along. Dabbing it onto the purse of your mouth while gazing into the mirror of the room’s modest vanity—you begin to lose track. 

This isn’t it and you know it. 

You know it. 

So fucking do something about it. 

Examining the time on the wall clock, you decide to hastily shake off your striped satin pj set and tear through your duffel for the sheer lace slip and matching long gloves. Not liking the unkemptness of your long hair at this particular moment, you palm your bag for one of the chignon French hairpins that had sunk their way to the bottom—a go-to for you since your younger years. The best you can muster is a half-up, loose, more-than-messy low bun because suddenly, a knock on the door can be heard. Your heart leaps into your throat and you shove your duffel bag into the armoire in a hurried panic. The click of the hotel room’s keycard lock comes next and you spring to the door as to be the one to open it. You and Roman meet each other’s gaze through the crack of the half-open door, you two beam down at your hands, enclosed over both sides of the handle. He is very noticeably startled, not expecting you to answer the door.

“C-Come on in,” you stutter, gesturing into the hotel suite with a gloved hand. 

Roman’s mouth goes dry. It is not all that often the family jester is able to be truly caught off-guard. This absolutely was one of those times. He shuffles into the room with tepid steps and doesn’t turn around to face you until he hears the door click shut. With a blank, nonchalant expression—he shrugs, prompting you to provide some sort of explanation. Of which, you do not possess. 

“What?” you say. 

“What’s…all of that about?”

“Yeah, sorry…wasn’t really feeling the pajamas tonight. I opted for something I felt was a little more fitting. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,”

He definitely fucking does mind actually. But any frustration at being caught unawares expresses itself in the form of big beautiful hazel eyes beaming at you with fear and uncertainty. His lips are parted, unable to form the words he can’t even begin to think of at this particular moment.

“So…,”

“...so…?”

“So…lay down,” you finally say.

Roman is able to briefly channel the smarmy assholeishness he usually hones with a sarcastic scoff and smirk. He shakes his head to himself before his gaze finds the floor. 

“...I’m sorry, maybe you just didn’t hear me right the first time,” you say, crossing over until you are eye-to-eye with him and your competing breaths can be felt, “...or maybe I should’ve been a bit more specific.”

You lean in until your lips brush the outer shell of his right ear and he stops breathing. 

“Roman. Lay the fuck down on that bed. Now.”

He quickly scrambles onto the bed, resting on his back while slightly sitting up. There is a tentative eagerness in his demeanor as if the last hints of resistance in his muscles had yet to dissipate.

“Good. Now can you unbutton your shirt by yourself or do you need my help?”

“...I-I-I need your help,” he mindlessly babbles, “P-Please. Please, can you help me?”

You click your tongue at his wanton request, attempting to maintain your composure. It was after the first ‘please’ that you knew you were going to willingly give everything in you to this man right then and there. 

The safeguards? Fuck the safeguards. 

The time for self-preservation was about five or so minutes ago before his knuckles had rapped gently on the heavy wooden door. Without breaking eye contact, you straddle him effortlessly, both knees on either side of his hips. You aren’t certain because all the blood had flooded to your ears and you were unable to hear much over the thumping of your own heartbeat but you swear you hear a quiet ‘oh god’ slip out of him. Your fingers find the buttons on his grey button-down and your wrists noticeably begin to shake as they undo them.

For fuck’s sake.

Up until this point, you had conjured the impression that you were the one in control here and that there was nothing he could say or do otherwise. But now the true vulnerability of the situation had begun to set in. The playing field had been leveled. 

His fingers enrapture yours and he steadies your grasp as you both work to unbutton his shirt. Roman swallows, anxiously. You get more than half of the way there before he gives up and presses his face firmly to yours. 

It’s a declarative kiss. 

It’s long-lasting and when the two of you eventually break it—you know there’s no going back. Those hands of his, wracked with nerves, find their way to your hips. He slowly drags the lacey fabric up so your upper thighs are exposed. Once you can feel the soft flesh of your hips exposed to the cold air, you grab his wrists and he freezes. 

“Ah-ah-ah, I don’t think I remember saying you could do that,”

“I-I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t—I’m sorry,”

“So many apologies, they just keep on coming,”

“I’m…,” he deeply exhales out of his nose. 

“You’re what? Wait, lemme guess,” you goad, “Sorry?”

He bobs his head up and down, face full of embarrassment.

“Hm…think I’m a little sick and tired of those ‘sorrys’, sweetie. You and that mouth of yours. Oh, that fuckin’ mouth of yours. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of headaches it’s caused me in what, the two decades I’ve known you? What are we gonna finally do about that mouth?”

Roman looks up to you, hanging onto your every last word. 

“I-I don’t know, j-just tell me what to do. I can make it up to you, I-I promise,”

You genuinely take a moment to mull it over, though the growing hardness pressing against your most intimate place admittedly was making it hard to think.

“...I think…we need to find another use for that mouth of yours—something to keep it busy, hm? How does that sound, my sweet baby?”

You swear his face goes pale as he assumes you mean your cunt. While the thought had crossed your mind (many, many times in fact), knowing Roman—you know that would be too much. And that you would lose him forever somewhere along the way and you didn’t even want to begin to think about that. 

You tilt your head, staring longingly at that poor little boyish face of his. Your clothed index finger traces its way slowly from the exposed flesh of his tummy, up to his ribs, across his collarbone, along his Adam’s apple, over his bearded chin— finally stopping at his pinkish bottom lip. You pull it down, making him pout for you. 

“Open for me,” you utter softly. 

Roman obeys, his tongue moving upwards in his mouth when he swallows. You continue to tease around his mouth torturously, the lace creating a delicious friction against his beard. The heat of his pants against your lone finger makes you stir inside. 

“Now, close your eyes—mouth still open,”

He noticeably resists before relenting, his eyes flutter closed. You drop one of the spaghetti straps of the slip off of your shoulder, exposing yourself. Your nipple pebbles in the cool air conditioning of the room. You awkwardly lean your torso inwards, inching your breast closer to his mouth. For a brief second, his eyes flick open, taking in the scene. Catching your drift instantly, he swallows as much of the soft flesh as his mouth will allow, moaning into it. The most obscene sucking sounds soon fill the room. Roman whimpers into your skin, letting his head fall limp against your chest. You wrap your arms around his neck, cradling his head. His brown fluff of hair is too tempting for your hands to not tangle themselves in. 

“There, you go…you’re so good. You’re so good for me, aren’t you? Yeah?” you sigh, tilting your head backward.

You swear you can feel your hips gyrating on their own. Roman’s fingers have ensnared themselves onto the flimsy fabric of your slip, gripping it so tight you think it might tear. Not that you’d give a shit if it did. 

“Y’know what I think? I think you act the way you do all the fucking time because you’re just waiting for someone to come and put you in your place, is that right? Yeah? You’re a brat ‘cause you want someone to do this to you? Hm?”

He releases your nipple and an almost pornographic line of spit drools from his mouth. Roman’s lips are plump and rosy, kiss-bruised and swollen. You find out just how warm they’ve become when his wet mouth comes to meet your own in a kiss so messy, you know you’ll touch yourself thinking about it later.

“I-Is this good? A-Am I being a good boy for you?”

“Mm-hm, you’re being a very good boy for me. My good boy. Mommy’s good boy, right?”

“Yes, fuck, yes—” he sobs, moving onto your other breast.

His voice is shrill and wrought with desperation. You only ever heard it get this high-pitched when he was making a mocking impression of you or some other woman. And now here he was, making these noises all on his own. The edge of his bottom teeth catches your nipple in just the right away. You squeal, jolting upwards in his lap and laughing at the surprise sensation. He soothes the sensitive skin with the flat of his tongue immediately after. 

“That’s it. There’s my boy, there’s my sweet baby boy,”

All of the sudden, his hands leave your slip and fly to the buckle of his belt. Roman undoes his zipper and shimmies down his slacks enough to pull his dick out. He jerks it quickly with his eyes wound tightly shut in an attempt to get himself completely hard. 

“M-Mommy, c-can I see ‘it’? P-Please, god!” Roman begs out.

Your current position leaves his cock hidden by the hem of your slip. All you can see is the silhouette of his fist in the fabric pumping up and down speedily—relentlessly. He could easily just lift the skirt himself and look at your bare pussy, just as he hungrily wants but he doesn’t. 

He waits. He waits for you to give him permission. 

“See what, sweet boy? Say it, use your words for me. You’re a big boy, you can do it. I know you can,” 

Your hands cup his face and you rest your forehead on his. The skin is taught and slick with sweat. A vein above his brow becomes visible as he strains into his own palm. 

“What do you want, Roman?” you reiterate, trying to regain his attention.

“Fff-fuck! Your p-pussy, I wanna see y-your pussy!”

“All together. Say it all together. Say ‘Mommy, can I please see your pretty pussy?’” 

“Mommy, can I please see your pretty pussy?”

His eyes finally open and they aim downwards, expectantly. 

“Is that all you want, pretty boy?”

“N-N-yes!”

“Is that all you want?”

“No! No, I wanna cum, I-I wanna f-f-finish! W-Wanna finish on it,” he whines.

“All together, baby…”

“Mommy, can I please finish on your pretty pussy?! Please!”

It’s on the last syllable of his sentence that he erupts. Only as he’s cumming is he able to look at your cunt. You swiftly move the fabric up and his load catches the edge of it, the rest of it coating your exposed pussy. Roman falls backwards limp onto the pillow and you roll off of him and the bed and onto your jelly-like legs. The two of you don’t look at each other, occupying opposite sides of the room while you make yourselves decent. You shed your stained garment, using it to wipe your cunt clean. You fling it onto the hotel carpet and don’t think twice about it. 

“Mind if I…borrow that…for a bit?” a weak voice croaks from across the suite. 

You turn your head and smirk, still topless.

“All yours.”

Briefly, you catch a glimpse of Roman from behind, buttoning up his shirt. You pull up your dress, sweatier than before when you had taken it off. You expected there to be a palpable shift between the two of you, had everything gone according to plan. You figured the next RECNY ball that was just around the corner might be a bit awkward but it was nothing a few sarcastic quips and some alcohol couldn’t fix.

“My guy’s still waiting out front, so that’s my not-so-stealthy getaway. I can have Crispin pull around in twenty if I guess, I dunno, you wanted to shower the stank off of y…”

Roman’s words trail off as he becomes caught up in the sight of you; your cocktail dress zipped up halfway, your hair in an even messier updo than before, one heel on with the other remaining to be seen. It left him dumbfounded, feeling impulsive, like he could leave everything behind then and there and things might turn out alright. 

“Um…d’you maybe wanna just come with me…I dunno. Back at my place, I mean. And don’t make it into…it’s not a thing. Th-This is not a thing. But, yeah, we could order in whatever you, you could stay over, I-I got spare rooms–”

“Roman—”

“—it-its not like a big deal or anything, y’know? This isn’t, this wasn’t ‘a thing’. Fuckin’ labels and everything, I m—”

“Roman! That all sounds fine; I just would like to exit one of the nicest hotels in the damn city not looking like a two-bit whore, yeah? Come and zip me up,”

“I mean, if you ask me—I think it’s a rather fitting look,” he says, echoing your previous words.

“ROMAN!” 

“Alright, fuck, fine!”

End.

{ Feedback is welcome! }

Follow me on twt: @endlessviolets

<3

[radabeast]

Why Aren't The Hornsent NPCs Named? An Essay On The Challenge for Compassion

So easy answer. Neither our pal in the Miquella Brigade nor the Grandam actually tell their names to us. Case closed!

No no no but more like, why didn't the DEVELOPERS choose to let us know them by name? A whole chunk of The Point is that the hornsent are people too, right? So why would we not even get to know our two (mostly just one, even, as you're not likely to even find grandam) hornsent ambassadors' actual names?

Fromsoft did something similar to this in Armored Core 6 just recently. That game is PLAINLY all about the horrors of capitalism, colonization and war, albeit almost all of your time is spent not with the resistance, but with the companies trying to tear the planet apart for fuel. Your protag's motivations aside, the RLF, Rubicon Liberation Front, are hardly given any narrative ambassadors to you at all; your Rubiconian partner pleads with your on some occasions, but otherwise the emphasis is elsewhere. Their liaison with their organization isn't even named. You don't even get to MEET most of their ranks until the secret third route, and even then, half the time that's just when you're fighting against said individuals as opponents. So...

Fromsoft is unique in that they often don't spoon-feed you "this is right" and "this is wrong". By no means do they ever seem to say colonization and slaughter is correct, and in fact the very crux of the plot is in grappling with the justifications. BUT, you are placed directly in the role of the oppressors' side. All around you are people you will grow to respect, and fight alongside, and they will also help you tear down this planet if you choose that route. You do, very much so, have to FIGHT and CHOOSE to aid the people of Rubicon, even if it hurts. Even if it means fighting, abandoning and even killing the people who have been by your side. And I think that's much more realistic to many real-life experiences than just "starting out on the right side".

Back to Elden RIng and the hornsent, though. Grandam is found only under very specific circumstances, within a single location, and within a small time window of the game. You step out of that window? You lose her completely, including the lore she had, and the means with which to understand better the hornsent. Why? Why would Fromsoft even implement her, if it's that hard to even reach her words?

And again, I think it's... realistic. You, the Tarnished, are a human along Marika's progeny, barring your own personal character lore. You are a human and you are part of the race that had slaughtered the hornsent. Of COURSE the hornsent themselves aren't going to trust you, spoonfeed you WHY you should care about them. Shouldn't you care already about the pain and suffering of others? Why WOULDN'T you? If it's that hard to come to grips with the horrors Your Kind caused, then maybe you're no better.

And I think. The story wants to challenge you like that, past gameplay, past feeding you their intent directly. You have to SEEK OUT the answers and THINK. Is it truly justified to slaughter a whole race? Was this truly right? Should I think of these individuals as people, or as monsters?

Hornsent (NPC) is also a very interesting choice. Not only is he the only hornsent you're actually likely to find and speak with, but he actively hates your guts. Soon as the charm is off, even, he's back on his path of vengeance. He says time and time again, he's nothing more than this mission to Get Back on those responsible. Wouldn't the devs want to make you weep for someone far more pitiable, far more palatable?

Well, if you bother paying attention to him enough, and aid the man in his questline, you'll understand then that he's someone who lost his whole family to Messmer's crusades. Mother, wife, child, in addition of course to the innumerable others slaughtered. Is that not enough to want all-consuming vengeance? Wouldn't YOU want people dead because of that? Regardless, even, of whether or not he was even a perpetrator of the original jar slaughters (and I've seen enough feasible evidence against that)... Is he not pitiable enough for that alone?

To you, he is just a Hornsent. To he himself, the man is a Hornsent, likely a title he wears both in defiance, as well as the only scrap of identity he has left. His people were killed because they were Hornsent. His family was killed because they were Hornsent. Would you even ever see him as anything else? Would it matter, even, if he HIMSELF has nothing else?

And, clearly, if you've been seeing anything anywhere in the fan discussions: this challenge to Think is lost on many people. Some people, somewhat understandably, take these aspects as Fromsoft caring little about the hornsent at all, and claiming them as The Original Evils within their own story. Others don't even bother to take anything not fed to them, and claim that the slaughter of hornsent was duly justified, and that this is undeniably supported within the game. But even barring the consistent themes of dichotomies, dualities, and the cycles of abuse ever-present throughout the game-- yeah, I'd say a good deal of reflection could and should be found in the self, first. Who are YOU when challenged for this compassion, first?

[my-writings-and-musings]

Continuing to break through my slump with more indulgent fics! Here's some Starscream x Reader in response to some earlier polls, where our beloved Seeker has just become a sire to three precious bitlets. As reader gets some much needed sleep, Starscream admires the triplets.

He'd been terrified of the diagnosis at first, for both your sakes, but had recovered quickly and even made a point to brag when telling others the news. There were few who could recall the last time a Cybertronian managed to kindle with an organic, but none would forget his success after spending a mere minute in his company. It was about what one might expect from Starscream, especially with how he went on and on about how your progeny would be the start of a glorious Cybertronian legacy without equal. You'd actually found his enthusiasm both sweet and comforting.

Then came the scan that revealed you were expecting triplets.

He'd fainted upon the medic's pronouncement, though claimed upon waking he'd merely lost his balance. Seeing three separate sparks nourished by your own heartbeat had been quite shocking for you as well, and you'd needed his support once he came to. Thankfully, it had been provided then and every moment after, which had made those long months that followed a great deal easier to endure. Cravings were much easier to handle when you had someone capable of traversing the continent in mere hours to fetch them.

Now that the longest day of your lives so far was done, all the work had been rewarded with three perfect little bundles, and the Seeker had yet to take his optics off you or them. Such constant supervision had allowed you to drift off into a much needed slumber in the company of your equally sleepy bitlets.

Watching your sleeping form like a father hawk, Starscream slowly moved his gaze over the sparklings snoozing between the two of you, his much larger frame across from yours and leaning forward like a protective wall. He didn't dare sleep while you finally rested, despite being thoroughly exhausted himself. It had taken hours for the triplets to arrive, and while they'd come as smoothly as one could hope, the toll on your body had been considerable. Primus only knew how you hadn't fallen asleep as soon as the bundled newborns were lain in your arms.

One of the seekerlets trilled softly, and he reflexively dipped his helm to check on them, unable to help being paranoid. The newborn only made another quiet coo before nuzzling their rounded helm back into the nest, fluttering the stubs of their wings as they drifted back to sleep. His spark warmed at the sight as he welcomed a fresh burst of pride. All three were incredibly tiny for now, but with time and care, they would grow to be his equal in size and strength. Your genetic influence would also show itself in equal time, influencing their abilities in ways Ratchet had explained could not be predicted. Primus, he just couldn't wait to see...

Another tiny sound startled him back into active alert, and he leaned down once more to check on the group, optics scanning for any sign of distress. The bitlet that had made the noise only cracked open a sleepy optic and yawned, stubby servos smushing against their ample cheeks as they adjusted themselves in the nest with a tired squirm. As he watched them settle back to sleep, Starscream had to bite his lip to avoid making a sound at the painfully adorable antics. He'd known that they would be cute, but Primus, these little ones were precious beyond reason.

Spotting a microscopic flaw in the blankets, he adjusted it with the precision of a surgeon, wanting to be absolutely sure that you and the sparklings were covered. Once you all were secure and cozy, he allowed himself a moment to drink it all in: you, your sparklings; a little unexpected family he'd made by accident. It was more than he deserved, but he'd never let anyone lay a hand on you or your precious bundles. Every ounce of his strength would forevermore be dedicated to your safety.

Laying himself on his side, he stretched out an arm to encircle the lot of you with his bulk, the gentle sound of your breathing tempting him to sleep. He resisted, and used the closeness to tenderly brush his digits over a sleeping sparklings chubby cheeks. The warm softness of their mesh was enough to crack his spark, but the little one's reflexive cuddle into his touch absolutely shattered it. A single, joyful tear fell to the berth as his sparkling snuggled into his palm and pulled him closer.

When you woke, you wouldn't have to ask for anything ever again. It was the least he could do for three of the most precious gifts he'd ever known.

[candyswirls]

The Unbound Flame

Tu'Shan laughed as the final seal was removed, and the inner forge began to open. Engraved upon it, in traditional Nocturnian, read: The Unbound Flame: Pyre.

"Another artifact found," he sighed. "We are closer to the return of our Primarch."

"VULKAN LIVES!!" Cheered the surviving companies of battle-brothers.

The thick golden ichor of the xenos of this planet coated each astartes and the ground surrounding them. In the light of the forge, they appeared to glow with the emperor's glory.

The forge bloomed out like petals. The flames and heat still going from when they were first lit near ten millennia ago.

A large oblong shape of metal was in the middle of the flames. Placed carefully amongst the ashes.

Tu'Shan reached out and took it out of the forge. Despite the constant high flames, the artifact was solid. He needed two arms to carry it.

He looked it over, trying to determine what it was. The outside was smooth and it was heavy. But definitely not solid all the way through.

He thought about shaking it but an immense feeling of dread followed that thought.

"Let us return to the ships!" He announced.

Even as the metal cooled in the open air, the artifact emanated warmth. The Unbound Flame: Pyre. What secrets did this artifact of their primarch hold?

***

Upon the ship, many discussed what it could be. Perhaps it was some type of battery? A heat source given its name? A beacon for their primarch or to find the rest of the relics?

Scans were done upon it. It indeed was hollow inside with a large mass. They were reviewing what it could be when a crack echoed around the strategium.

Forgemaster Vulkan He'Stan dashed to the artifact. A long jagged line ran across the top of it. Should it have been kept in the heat?

"It's breaking!" He called out.

Several others rushed to get supplies and tools to prevent it from doing so. He'Stan was about to lift it. There was another crack with another jagged line appearing. The artifact wobbled.

"Somethings in there," one battle-brother said aloud.

The artifact continued to wobble as what lay within tried to get out.

"Like a salamander egg..." another spoke.

Silence filled the room as each astartes held their breath in anticipation at the Unbound Flame. The egg.

A chunk of shell fell off, exposing the molten innards. Then it practically split open. Molten fluids spilled onto the ground, sizzling against the floor.

A soft cry came from within in.

Tu'Shan was the first to move forward. He peered inside and nearly gasped. He gently reached in.

"There, there," he said softly.

Out from the artifact he pulled out a large and squirming mass. It cried at the exposure to cold air. No teeth, squishy face, wispy hairs atop it's head, soft red eyes seen through tears.

A familiar sight when visiting their families back home and seeing new progeny.

The large infant kept crying and squirming. Bits of magma dripping off of him, still.

"By the Primarch," Ajax breathed.

He quickly removed his cape and offered it to He'Stan. Several others removed any piece of fabric and passed it forward. The closest Salamanders cleaned the infant and wrapped him in the cape, remembering the way the new mothers of their families taught them to.

Apothecaries surged forward to aid and check his vitals.

Once swaddled, the babe grew calmer and the rest of the Salamanders moved in. A massive encircling. Arms upon shoulders, all vying to get a view.

Tu'Shan held the baby up for all to see.

"Behold," he announced calmly. "The Unbound Flame: Pyre. Artifact of our Primarch. The son of Vulkan."

"Vulkan lives," the astartes said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

"We must return home to Nocturne," Tu'Shan decided. "We require the wisdom of those who took care of us."

"What do we call him?" Inquired one.

He'Stan answered without hesitation, "Pyre."

[meanbossart]

Hi!! I don't know if this has been asked before, but I was curious about the DU Drow's relationship with our dear little wretch Sceleritas Fel! What's their dynamic like? Btw love love love your Drow. You made him so freaky and fun, I should not but by god I want to chew on that man

THANK YOU SO MUCH! Oh boy, I love Sceleritas Fel a lot and I feel like they had a pretty in depth relationship.

The way I wrote DU drow's backstory involves him being almost solely in Sceleritas company for a couple of years. I really took the line "You always needed a lot of assistance" that you get from him to heart - Sceleritas didn't just serve idly, he was a grim cheerleader and sponsor who, for whatever reason (I guess just inherit nature - this is his whole life's purpose after all) would have always been eager to see DU drow succeed. After He killed his matron and Sceleritas finally appeared, he became a near-constant companion in leading him out of the Underdark and through the surface, save for seldom times where he was just gone for a little while, but never for longer than a couple of days.

As a pre-adolescent and through young adulthood (And eventual bhaal...hood) I picture their relationship evolving pretty drastically. child/pre-teen DU drow was a badly socialized feral child with very little grasp on reality, I think he assumed Sceleritas was some sort of figment of his imagination for a very long time - but followed his instructions nonetheless as he had no other direction in life. He was near-mute and seemingly lacking cognitive capabilities/self preservation instincts, so when Sceleritas said go, he'd go. When the butler would point at something he could kill and eat, he would try (and at the start, usually fail) when Sceleritas told him to seek shelter from the elements or danger, he would do it. When he came into contact with people who seemed to have his best interest in mind (concerned travelers and the odd kindly city person whenever he happened to be passing through a town) and Sceleritas told him not to trust them, to take whatever advantage he could from the situation and, often, kill them, he'd do just that. It was almost as if Sceleritas was the master and he was the thrall.

As he grew a little older (15 and on) and his skills in survival and cunning had been honed, as well as him growing a little more talkative, the dynamic would begin to flip; not only that, but DU drow would slowly grow more and more frustrated and skeptical of Sceleritas promises that he was leading him to his supposed destiny, and would try to press him for what that even entailed - Sceleritas would never fold or tell him anything (he didn't want to ruin the suprise!) and instead just reassured DU drow that if he could just outlast his circumstances for a little longer, that he would eventually be greatly rewarded - that he just needed to prove himself first.

This is also around the time where DU Drow first killed him in what was probably a fit of anger and frustration; a decision he immediately regretted and panicked about, since he was so reliant on his guidance and Sceleritas was essentially the only reason he had to keep on living - but when the butler just popped back up after a few days later (he figured it would be good to scare him a little bit!) and DU drow realized he was immortal, it became a habit to take his frustrations out on him.

After a while of finally joining the temple and learning of his status as Bhaal's progeny, DU Drow would completely grow into the role of Sceleritas superior and master. He was tyrannous and demeaning and Sceleritas loved it, of course. He was still very attached to his assistance, but now it mostly applied to trivial things and everyday necessities; fetching and sending off mail, arranging his meals and meetings, keeping track of his schedule, cleaning and organizing his space, every so often playing little pranks on the other bhaalists and Orin, and, of course, aiding with DU drow's constant bouts of violence and cruelty, as well as every so often listening as he vented his frustrations at him. He took Sceleritas everywhere - DU drow most definitely didn't need him anymore, he simply wanted him around (to the despair of most people).

Sceleritas would also... Gently criticize him for some of his choices, specially DU drow's masochistic penchant and his obsession with Orin - which was usually met with a swift demise at DU drow's hands for daring to question him. Simultaneously, he would enable the same habits by complying with DU drow's orders of arranging for his wounds to be cared for or keeping close track of Orin's schedule, conversations and habits for him when requested.

If we're talking main campaign, tadpoled DU drow was understandably surprised by the visits he received from this tiny dapper gremlin LOL but he very quickly fell into his flattery like second-nature. It was only around Act 2 where he began to turn on Sceleritas for trying to order him around (telling him he should kill Isobel) and obviously for setting him up to kill Astarion, seeing the butler as an enemy and traitor from that point forward even though he would remain inexplicably fond of the little guy throughout.

[terrence-silver]

Imagine beloved had left 80s Terry around the same time as John and he couldn’t find her despite all of his resources. Then at his little garden party where he’s introduced in CK, he/she turns up with Kreese. How would he react?….

The One Who Got Away

Terry Silver x Reader (With spectacular amounts of meddling from John Kreese)

—

John believed himself a good friend, even when nobody understood his methods.

His technique.

But, sometimes genuinely favorable intentions tended to be misunderstood in life precisely because truth had the habit of being a hard pill to swallow for some, the same way Terry misunderstood him when he hung up the phone on him after decades of radio silence even though John didn’t take it to heart; not in the way someone else might’ve taken it to heart, anyway. He understood bitterness. Festering, unresolved issues. Baggage. Old resentments. Hell, he lived with a great many old things like the lack of closure as the only companionship he could openly boast for quite a while — in fact, old memories proved to be better company than most people would've. After all, Terry reached out countless times over the years, offering him opportunities, employment, money, second, third and fourth chances, never once getting the fact that to John, living off of quite so much charity was like castration, even if a good friend was the one holding the amputation blade. He might as well not be a man if someone else puts his bread and butter on the table instead of himself. Of course they both knew where the other was these past thirty something years, the short distance between them like an aching gap that couldn’t close or stop bleeding. John was legally homeless because, to him, there was a certain honor in refusing handouts and across town, Terry was cooped up in possibly his millionth new mansion since the 80’s, switching his usual old haunt up in The Hills for a beachfront porch out in Malibu were he took to hosting garden parties and charity events nowadays; a pastime for the semi-retired.

It was all over the newspapers and luckily, John enjoyed swapping through articles — has done so ever since he was a young man. Terry Silver had no marriage, no children, no official affiliation with any martial arts by the looks of it, some woman beside him.

John knows her type.

What GI's back in the days used to call a Boom Boom Girl.

A Boom Boom Girl putting on airs that she wasn't a Boom Boom Girl.

John places his finger over her face on the glossy paper of the periodical, covering her features as he eyes the phone in his hand, wondering if Terry never quite got down to having either progeny or matrimony because it wasn’t with you; somehow, things fell apart after the ‘85 tournament and old friendships and creeds broke into a thousand pieces, you becoming the one who got away amidst the wreckage and all the fallout. John felt responsible for you. Responsible, perhaps, in a way an older brother would be. A father, even though you were close in age, only several years of difference between you. Thinking that someone Terry cared about was in equal measure someone he should keep an eye out for. Watch, from afar. A solidarity of a Cobra for another Cobra and the Cobra’s mate. You never married either. Never had kids. John kept a careful tab on everything. Seems like the three of you were much the same, he thinks, as he hits up your number, one hand entering the digits who went to some pretty big lengths to track down, his other hand and his finger still pressed against the paper of the periodical; something or other about a Mindfulness App and its upcoming promotion. John saw nothing wrong in sabotaging an existing relationship to make another one happen. Picking apart people to bring together someone with somebody else. He’s done worse in life. Done better too. Never regretted any of it. This was probably the first time he was willingly playing a game of Good Cupid, Bad Cupid.

To quote Terry himself, extreme situations required extreme measures.

A nearby thin, black ballpoint marker stands on the table of his dojo office and listening to the clicking of the phone line pressed against his ear, John unplugs the top, drawing an X over the face of the person Hello! Magazine’s interviewer described as one Cheyenne Hamidi, standing next to Terry during what seemed like an official photoshoot of sorts. Promotional glossy bullshit with a plastic sprinkling of sparkles doused all over it.

Battle plans.

So many battle plans for the Thirty Year War.

Terry shouldn’t have terminated their phone call like that. Shouldn’t have left him out in the cold when all he wanted to do was talk. Cut him off, will he? The man who saved his life as many times as he did? His oldest ever friend? Whenever John Kreese was faced with an unmovable wall that barricaded him out, he returned to the place with a tank. You happened to be a crucial part of his heavy artillery.

A familiar voice answers on the other side; you sound aged. But still you.

-"Hello? Who’s this?"-

You inquire carefully, the questioning in your voice peppered with confusion once you get no immediate answer back. John sets down the marker on the desk. After a brief moment of silence, he has to smile. My, was it good to hear you loud and clear after all these years. He wondered if you’d recognize him if he spoke. Regardless, taking no chances, he chooses to introduce himself, hoping you wouldn’t hang up on him like Terry did. He shuts the periodical he’s drawn on, tossing it aside.

-"Toots? It’s John Kreese."-

—

-"Look at you. You’re a smokeshow!"-

-"Oh, please, John, I’ve aged. I’m all wrinkles."-

Those are the first words you exchange once he arranges a meeting, wondering to a degree, how was it that for all his connections, money, resources and usual habit of getting what he wants when he wants it, Terry never sought you out when John managed, not possessing a quarter of his means, concluding that Terry simply choose to capitulate, which was entirely out of character for him, to be as defeatist as to give up on something he felt belonged to him. Things changed. Things needed to be back to order, by the looks of it. John squeezes your hand in a handshake, for old times sake. -"I resent that."- He says, smiling into his own chin, looking you up and down. The years did it's toll, but you were still a grand lady. Shocking how nobody came to scoop you up over the years. Less shocking once he'd consider the fact that he'd make them disappear even if they tried ---- for Terry's own sake. Even if Terry never asked him to do that, John knew --- oh, he knew he needed someone to do that regardless; someone needed to pick up the good fight for him and in his stead occasionally now that he was seemingly playing the role of a Pacifist in newspapers people kept in their salons and never actually read. So, naturally, John plays clueless and asks the very question he already the knew the answer to. -"Tell me, how come you never got married? How’s that even possible?"- He goes by way of flattery, watching something gloomy wash over your face as you sit down on a nearby park bench, sighing deeply. That serious, huh?

-"Oh, John. You know why."-

He knew why. He knew everything.

Collecting intel was one of his talents.

But, still. A looker like you? Men in this city either became dumber over the years or they've lost their taste entirely. Probably both.

-"He’s never married either."-

And he just about should've been by now, he yearns to add.

Keeping his thoughts to himself for the time being and instead, John immediately chooses to cut to the chase; cut the bullshit, get to the point, meeting your glance knowingly and you nod, visibly gulping hard. It was clear it was difficult for you to talk about this --- that this was a taxing topic, even after all these decades, even though you knew exactly who he was talking about even without a name ever being mentioned. Terry was always on your mind, wasn't he? At least, frequently enough that he didn't even have to be brought up directly for you to catch the context immediately. -"Look, I was the one who ran when things got out of hand. You know that. He’s got every right be hurt."- You manage, appearing almost apologetic about it. -"And by the looks of it, he’s been doing very well for himself now. Then again, has there ever been a time when he wasn’t?"- You looking down towards your own lap and the hands on them, chuckling to yourself with a note of bitterness, and yeah, there have been times when Terry Silver hasn't been doing good, and if John could attest to that with certainty it is because he's seen him at his lowest and ironically, for all the razzle, dazzle, glitz and glamour, he'd be damned if anyone could convince him he was doing good right now, no matter what the shills in the media were claiming; Newspapers you no doubt saw too. John wondered if you were jealous? Heartbroken? You had to be. If his Betsy went and married some random schmuck who wasn't him he'd about ram his teeth down his throat over it, and that would only be the introduction. -"What I mean to say, John, I am happy, if he’s happy. We’re from two different worlds, we always have been, but Terry’s contentment is all I want."- 

No lies detected in your voice.

Only honesty. Clear as a stream. Just as vulnerable. Fragile.

See, this is exactly why he wanted you for Terry.

Kind.

Selfless.

Almost noble.

The willingness to stay in the shadows and self-sacrifice your happiness.

Not a single advantageous, opportunistic bone in your body in regards to Terry.

True love.

That was it. What it looked like.

In strange ways beyond explanation, your manner reminded John of Betsy all his life --- Betsy if she was allowed to age and grow old, no more than it did there and then, something similarly timeless and eerily haunting about you two; something sweet and genuine once you said that you wanted nothing but Terry's contentment and he figured, Terry, Twig --- he needed all the help he could get even when he didn't realize it. Even when he wouldn't admit to it. Ever since the war, he needed a push in the right direction. Someone to guide him in a seamless sense. Save him. John would guide him. Save him, yes. For the umpteenth time. John would guide him right where he witnessed Terry happiest back in the day, right to you. The natural payment for that would be Cobra Kai reestablished and reinstated to it's former glory where it belonged. John watches Terry's back, Terry watches his. Who said there wasn't a thread of selfishness to the transaction? In 'Nam, when rations were low, John tended to let Twig drink out of his canteen, eat from his share of meals purely so he'd have a fighting chance at growing a pair of muscles and surviving the long marches out in the jungle even if it meant there would be less food left for John. Was it quite so different today, over forty years later? John gets Cobra Kai and Terry gets the love of his life because John would ensure the meeting possible. Precisely because he was ready to selfishly meddle. Divide and conquer.

So, really, in the end, who gets more out of the deal?

-"Look, toots, I’ll be going to see him to talk business."-

John offers.

-"If you want to come with me, you should."-

-"No, John, c’mon. I can't."-

You immediately snort and fidget, overtaken by a nervous edge of unwillingness.

Profusely embarrassed, gripping the edge of the bench with both hands.

Looking like you wanted to stand up and make an excuse to leave.

-"I can’t randomly show up in his life like that."-

Can't or were too afraid to?

Because John wasn't afraid; he'd scale the walls of his mansion if he had to.

Fight whatever security detour there was in place.

With you on his back.

-"Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t."-

John inquires, taking no prisoners, being as serious as he could be as he scrutinizes your anxiety, because no, genuinely, your place was by Terry's side ever since the good, old days. Everything between there and now was a load of bullshit and if John loathed anything it was loads of bullshit. You shake your head, prodding on, still not convinced. Did you think someone was going to come along and award you a Medal of Honor if you were continued to deprive yourself of joy? -"No fair! Tell me what’s this business you two are suddenly talking about? I thought you weren’t close like that anymore."- You furrow your brows with incredulity and John simply shrugs, choosing to be blunt. After all, he didn't track you down and bring you out here to pull your nose or waste too much of his own time doing so when there was work to be done. He came here to tie up loose ends. -"It’s Cobra Kai."- He confesses, holding your gaze firmly. Your mouth remains open, like you intended to say something, but the words remained stuck halfway in your throat. Sounded like you haven't heard that name uttered in thirty years and like you weren't certain if you should even say it anymore, after everything that's transpired. -"Cobra Kai?"- You stutter, practically shooting up from where you were seated, your body language rigid. Stiff as a board. -"So, this is what it’s all about? I should've known you had an agenda the minute you contacted me! You want me to butter Terry up for you, John? Isn't that right? Get whatever financing and bankrolling you need to get your revenue expanding! None of this is honest, good or dignified!"- You point a finger at him, ranting, visibly impassioned and John has to smile into his chin. Feisty, huh? Feisty and ever so selfless once again, with all the consideration in the world for Terry's honor and well-being, like the saint you were. If anything, another proof you belonged together; that is, if Terry as he was now was man enough to even deserve you back.

And after all, so what if it wasn't honest, good or dignified?

When was war ever honest, good or dignified?

What Cobra Kai was about to do is enter an all out war.

Terry could be out here blowing his cash on buying some broad with an over inflated ego and a smug face the credentials for an unearned start-up and splitting grey hairs on a silky mansion cushion like the sad, neutered old pensioner he's made himself out to be, or he could be bringing their life's work to the fullest potential and fruition, get married to you, have an actual legacy to boast and be the man and the warrior he was always supposed to be; John didn't save him as many times as he did in Vietnam to have him withering away doing nothing with himself, and if that was the wrong attitude to have, then fuck it. John stands up too, placing himself in front of you. This wasn't just about the money and you knew it. This was greater than money. Cobra Kai, him, you and Terry were always greater than money. Terry and you were a major chunk of John Kreese's entire life. -"No. I want old times back. I want things made right. Set straight. And I want you to be on good terms again."- John explains himself, nearly saying 'I want the clock to go back', deciding not to, choosing not to risk sounding too damn sentimental for his own good, regardless how true it was. -"Why?"- You shrug your shoulders, appearing angry, unsatisfied with what you've just heard. Would you be more satisfied if he told you he was concerned with who his friend wasted his time on? That he wanted Terry with someone who was good for him? Who knew him inside out? Someone who understood him? Loved him?

Because John could do that. So, he does.

-"Because he cares about you, doll."-

John allows his head to cock to the side, endeared by the way your eyes welled up with suppressed, prideful tears once you were rendered temporarily speechless by that bit of unfiltered truth. You cared about his Twig too, didn't you? You cared about him more than you've ever cared about anyone else. Always have. Otherwise, you would've settled down. You would've done so ages ago. You could still do so now, in spite of your wrinkles and the occasional silver hair; a beauty even now. The same way John would've settled down if it wasn't for Betsy's memory. Just the way Terry would've too, if it wasn't for the memory of you. But, here you were, still choosing to be your stubborn, combative self. Well, Terry liked them with some spunk and fire, after all. So did John.

-"Oh, please, how can you claim to even know that!? Leave him be! He's in an relationship! He's moved on! It was all over the ---"-

You start arguing, getting emotional and heated, deflecting, clearly out of fear at the prospect of a reunion taking place, pleading Terry's case for him and if it wasn't for the fact the vista he choose the meeting to take place in wasn't remote, overlooking the gridded skyline of LA, giving you two some much needed privacy from prying eyes he was certain people would be turning around to stare you down, looking for the cause of all the noise and commotion, but regardless of the semantics; How could John claim Terry still cared about you? When two people were as intrinsically tied with each other for as long as he and Terry were, and they've been through all the crap he and Terry have been through, when a man is sure, he's sure. Doesn't require a science.

-"I know that man's soul better than he knows his own, is how."-

Is all John says, finally stunning you into silence.

—

The mansion was everything the newspaper spreads portrayed it as.

And in person, the walls surrounding the outer garden wall were just as tall as they seemed in the periodicals, their overall width and height causing John's throat to erupt in a chuckle once he landed on the immaculately trimmed green lawn cut to staggering perfection almost resembling a carpet trampled under his footwear pressing down it's surfaces in the aftermath of his jump down, letting you climb off of his back and unto the rug-like grass spread that encircled the whole estate dotted with decorative shrubberies, looming palm trees, white rocks and sprawling and exotic plants; a man simply never forgot his military basic training and the things he picked up there --- not even after half a century --- and in spite of the near bastion like fence embracing the premises of the manor from all sides, John found it easy to come in, undetected, grabbing hold of your hand and guiding you behind himself, following the pathway going along the sleek, white facade of the mansion's backyard. If Terry Silver's new home was a country, it would've been long since invaded by now. All pastels, light colors and jagged shapes; either his tastes drastically changed over time or he was simply following the new fashion of things purely because they were the new fashion of things and because he wanted to fly low, slipping beneath the radar, being like everyone else, pretending to be both the grass and the snake inside of it. Now, all was left was finding the man of the hour himself if he was present on the estate and judging by all the cars parked out front, like so many models on a show, he must've been. A maid carrying a tray of crushed ice in a heavy crystal decanter appears in sight and John feels you gasp in concealed surprise behind him, squeezing his arm wordlessly, fearing getting caught and seen by someone prematurely, no doubt, only for a taller, smartly dressed figure in blue to immediately come into sight once the server nearly drops the contents she was carrying away from whatever party she was catering, struggling underneath the weight of her platter's contents. At this point, John feels your hand let go of his.

Terry Silver. There he was. Meeting his gaze, head on.

He was dressed for vacation, looking like he was on a very long one.

John nods his way, smiling; the gesture unreturned. Figures.

The man, the legend, the myth.

It was time to leave the eternal vacation, though --- come back down to planet Earth.

-"What do you want?"-

Terry immediately snipes dryly, tight-jawed, seemingly cracking his neck, instantly recognizing him, appearing cold and detached, John certain that you were still in his shadow, just behind him, too embarrassed and scared to stand side by side beside him, trying to make yourself look small once he steps out of the looming corner of the manor's outer wall opening into a grand garden affair, riddled with people seated on outdoors commodes and loveseats not far off, further into the estate grounds, waited on by a staff of mingling butlers, finding Terry's eyes travelling from him, to his shoulders, of his arms, to the body adjoined to him and finding you standing there, discerning you, perhaps instantly, the shift in demeanor being almost immediate once the apologetic maid scurries off to tend to her duties and Terry's gaze remains frozen on you, through John. If he was on the verge of arguing with him on sight, the desire visibly disperses and Terry merely stands there, motionless, lost and vacant, you reacting much the same as the party goes on, only a couple of feet away, the silence looming heavy, like a bullet fired in the dead of night. John could swear, if someone dropped a tiny silver cocktail spoon at this party, it would be heard over on the other side, in Mexico; tension only interrupted by a chipper voice cutting through the discomfort looming like a dark cloud. The woman from the newspaper. The one with the 'X' over her face. Charlene, Charlotte, Cherry whatever. John remembered her full name alright, but he didn't bother giving her respect of pretending he did. -"Terrence! Aren’t you going to introduce us?"- Pep in her step followed with an English accent, she stands beside him, showing off a cool smile, Martini glass adorned with a garnish in hand; John interlocks his arm with yours, practically forcing you forward, stiff as you were, refusing to allow you stand behind his back, like some sort of nobody vagrant or a mouse attempting to crawl back into its hole. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, not on his watch, he thinks to himself. The very fact Terry didn't introduce you as This was the woman I loved, wanted to marry, wanted to have children with, wanted to have everything in the world with thirty years ago side by side with the man I've been through literal hell and back with was offensive enough John's taste buds.

So, he introduces himself.

-"Old friend."-

He speaks up, gruffly, with some humor. Introducing you next.

Seeing as how clearly you were too tongue tied to do it by yourself.

-"Old friend of an old friend."-

John glances at you averting your gaze awkwardly, forcing a tiny smile and trying not to look at anyone for too long, Cheyenne's giggle giving off the airs that she didn't particularly care what he introduced you or himself as in the vast coterie of all the other people here present with Terry still being as speechless as can be, trying not to show it, giving a million dollar act. Was he truly going to say nothing to you? Not even a common greeting? Nothing at all? Nothing came to mind? -"Oh, how cheeky!"- The woman next to him exclaims, and for fuck's sake, was he going to take that icicle of seemingly haughty, stoic indifference Terry was toting around and ram it in deep until it bleeds; twist it too, for good measure, until he snaps to his senses. John goes in for the jab. -"So, you tied the knot, did you?"- He asks, even though he knew the answer was negative. He did enough research by now. Terry knew him well enough to be well aware he wouldn't come here unprepared and the way he fidgets in his skin, jaw nearly bending forward in discomfort only proves as much. The woman next to him nearly erupts in laughter at the query. That funny, huh? Like it was the funniest prospect she's ever heard in her life. Your arm interlocked with John's only tightens, like a vice. -"Oh, no, me and Terrence aren’t married!"- Cheyenne throws her head back and for a brief second, John catches Terry's eyes grazing you, lingering there from the edge of his peripheral vision, there's the brilliant vestige of tears in the corner of your stare, firmly tucked away beneath your lashes. -"But, any friends of his are my friends."- She declares jubilantly. -"Margaritas?"- Before a yes or no answer could even properly be given, a uniformed server with a silver tray approaches you, offering you both wordlessly a drink, and going for fair play, John grabs himself a tall beverage, being a gentleman and handing you one too even though he was more of a Scotch or beer type of guy, not whatever green cooled off slop concoction this was, cooler perhaps being only Terry's gaze, watching you and watching him unblinking from across the array of decorative glasses while Cheyenne already disappeared from by his side, making herself busy schmoozing a guest not even two steps away.

None of them dare say a word to you.

Certainly not one of scorn, haughtiness, mockery or criticism.

John was certain that if they did, that he'd set the mansion on fire.

---

-"Why’d you bring her along? Why’d you dredge up the past?"-

The whole thing was tactically hurried; Terry practically ushering him up the second floor of the manor and towards a balcony fenced off transparent glass overlooking the lawn for some privacy. He knew he touched a nerve through the very fact they were in a secluded place, away from the crowd, having this conversation in the first place and that Terry was cutting right to the chance, his body language concealing nervousness, hands in his pockets, shoulders protruding forward defensively. The stance a prisoner of war has when he's being interrogating and trying to convince everyone he doesn't know anything when he clearly does. John speaks dryly. With all the seriousness in the world, keeping his eyes firmly planted on you down below, looking a bit lost but trying to make the best of it, chatting with a maid from across a table spread of elaborate salads. Probably the most preferable company at the whole party, for all intents and purposes. -"Because I believe in a little something called love. You should try it sometimes, Terrence."- John takes the figurative proverbial knife of mockery and digs it in deep and Terry's right there, receiving the blow and returning it in kind just like John knew he would. Terry wouldn't be Terry if he didn't. -"Rich, coming from you! Pushing me away as many times as you did. Disappearing! Wanting to stay gone. Insisting on it no matter how hard I tried. Now, you show up, jumping over the fence of my home, ammunition in hand."- His jaw tightens, hand gripping the edge of the balcony with whitened knuckles, his other free hand pointing vigorously. He was angry. Why, though? If he was quite so happy as he claimed to be? Nothing real could ever be damaged, no matter how much ammunition John brought to the fold. Terry's sudden onslaught of semi-suppressed anger is suddenly replaced by a deep exasperation once his gaze falls down on you; a figure against the green of his perfect lawn. Terry's hand anxiously runs through his loose hair. When did that happen by the way? Did he forget why he tied his hair back so many years ago in the first place? For who? -"Don’t even want to know how she jumped fence. Did you put her on your back or something!?"- 

Avoidance.

Avoiding the topic at hand by focusing on random semantics.

Yeah, John put you on his back and climbed over the mansion walls.

What of it?

Would he prefer if he did things the way his new, so-called friends apparently tended to? Discussing on feeding the destitute with Kale over an App? Playing at acceptance and bleeding heart Liberal tolerance and then calling strangers inbred? Pretending that an old army friend was nobody of consequence and that what they've been through out there together, the type of thing someone would write a memoir about, was nothing special either? Would that be preferable?

-"It’s how I do things. You know me. Tough old spine."- 

John shrugs and grins into his own chin, self-content.

Terry's weirdly harrowed reaction brought on a warm wave of relish.

He deserved to have the smug, distant aura of coldness wiped off from his face.

If only for a moment.

John steps closer as he spoke.

-"But, you should also know, there was only ever one woman for me, and I loved her all my life. There’s never been another one since."-

He shakes his head steadily, feeling his voice slide forth from the precipice of his mouth with so much firm, unyielding, silent conviction that he could've been easily giving the pledge of allegiance. There's been women in the physical sense. Just not in any that matters. Terry knew that. Terry tried to set him up with the occasional dime piece a million times throughout the years and while John used the opportunity, the epilogue of such acquittances ended the same way; by ending. John thought Terry needed a reminder of that too right before he'd get the bright idea of accusing him of being loveless. Of not knowing what love is. Wouldn't put it past him nowadays. -"I know everything there is to know about it."- John assesses. -"Think you do too, sweetheart."-  He adds, semi-snarky, semi-sincere, watching something about Terry's eyes change. A distant shadow falling over them. The distant sunset overcast across the Pacific vista encasing the outline of his features in a hazy red overtone. The view looked like a million dollars from up here. Probably cost as much too. But, Terry wasn't even looking out towards the ocean. He looked down towards you instead --- all alone, walking out towards the row of palm trees separating his garden from his private beach, away from the company of guests engrossed in their mutual conversations. -"Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here having this conversation."- John states matter-of-factly, scrutinizing Terry's averted gaze, staring out into the distance. No, you'd be down there, with the broad you're flaunting and you'd never let her out of your sights, John thinks to himself. Not up here, discussing who's right or wrong with me. Suddenly, Terry's face erupts into anger. Figures. People tended to get mad when someone made them face the truth of things. It was usually their last refuge. -"You don’t have the right to meddle in my private life. The war’s over! This isn’t military hierarchy anymore! We're not out on the battlefield! You don’t know the first thing about me, John."- He seethes through gritted teeth, speaking in a partially hushed, venom-riddled tone as to not disrupt the party going on below. A party lacking its host up here doing cartwheels around sheer facts instead of going down there --- rushing down there, in fact --- grabbing you by the hand and never letting you go again before you get bored of being alone. Embarrassed at being forgotten and overlooked. And you'd decide to leave.

Not know the first thing about him?

Heck, he knew everything about him!

From when he got his last mandatory Malaria shot in the army stationed doctor's office back in the military and how his arm where the needle jab when through swell up for days because his skin was that sensitive to how they used to eat insects, worms and bugs to survive back in that cage in 'Nam. There was nobody who knew Terry like John --- except for you.

-"Sure do."-

John has to laugh.

Not know him? He knew Terry like his own fingers.

Like his own two hands.

Was time for some tough love on the matter.

-"I know Tofu Screw down there laughed at the prospect of being married to you to your face while you couldn’t get your eyes off another woman who looked like she was going to cry because of it."-

John decides to speak clearly, without murmuring it and for once, Terry seems to be rendered speechless, like he knew what he was hearing was legitimate and accurate, mouth agape right before he took to chewing his own lip in agitation, suddenly uneasy in his own skin. If he wanted to go to you, he should just go to you. Now. Right now. Drop this whole charade. Quite pretending he was something he wasn't. Stop neutering himself. Aim for what he really want it and hold unto it. Cease living a lie. Because of all this? It was all a lie. John knew as much and he knew Terry knew as much too. Was never about therapy. About that crap he inhaled into his nose. It was about passion. Terry being built from it. Every drop of blood in his veins singing out for it. He wasn't built for a half-assed existence. Neither of them were. You weren't either, that was for sure. The old wound was rendered open, bleeding inwardly and one last time, John decides to press his finger into it for good measure. -"Not quite the life you dreamed of, huh?"- He prods and Terry's face and eyes shoot up towards him, appearing haunted, like someone who's seen a ghost. At this point, you stood on the edge of his estate next to a wall of pale rocks on a sandy white dune, windswept against the swaying palm trees, quiet and dignified with your beverage in hand. You could've had your children's children with Terry by your side at this point, going for a coastline stroll at dusk. Funny how when you lose one battle, you tend to lose all of them and one domino collapsing leads to all of them following suit; he supposed that's why he took the tournament loss in 1985 as hard as he did even though Terry never quite understood his reasoning, but he came here today to fix that. Fix forty years of mistake making and put back everything in order. Starting with you. Starting with Terry. Because it was better late than never. Things were only ever truly lost when one gave up fighting and if John had to, he'd prefer going down while still wearing his boots. Remembering to blink, Terry practically spits his words. It was all a ploy, of course. A mask. A carefully curated facade. To conceal just how raw he was right now. John would let him have his coping mechanisms, for now, if that's what he needed. To bullshit and delude himself some more.

-"What'd you tell her to get her to agree to come out here?"-

Only the truth, John thought of himself, so help me God.

Terry's hand grabs the edge of his jacket, pulling him closer, squeezing the zipper.

Careful now, or his guests would find their host isn't quite as mindful as he touts himself.

That there was, perhaps, a bit of Cobra Kai still present inside of him.

That it never left. It was merely brumating.

Now rearing its head; waking up.

-"I told you that you never stopped loving her. Did I lie?"-

John drawls steadily and just like that, Terry's fingers let him go and before John can blink, he's already gone, long legs strutting and rushing down the foyer past a baffled member of staff, away from the balcony, practically rushing down the stairs, leaving John behind. Showtime, he thinks to himself, once Terry's voice, loud and abrupt, echoes across the foyer, reaching his ears like a brewing tempest. -"I’ll need the premises cleared out. Now! Show’s over!"- He shouts. John doesn't see it in action, but his senses sure enjoy the sound of complete and utter wrath shaking up the ground floor of the manor. He hears the grand main entrance down below practically swing open with a loud thud and he witnesses Terry, on the lawn, sauntering towards his own guest, hands open, ordering them out. No two ways around it. Baby, now we're talking. Oh, we're back in business, alright --- some pleased, content part of John's whispers in response. As if on cue, the so far unseen security detour scours the premises in black suits, ushering people out, one by one and all it took was one line on Terry's part. That's precisely the man John remembered. The man he called his friend. -"Everyone."- Terry assesses himself and the giggling woman from the newspaper jumps up from the wicker garden recliner, her mouth practically plopping open, Martini glass adorned with a garnish forgotten on a nearby table. -"What do you mean!?"- She practically squeaks, demanding answers in a shrill voice. John didn't blame her, but it was too damn pleasing to see, like scratching a long overdue itch. -"What about my promotion, Terrence!?"- Cheyenne's shock is palpable once one of the dozen bodyguards Terry had on stand placed his hand on her shoulder, ready to show her and her posse out. -"Promotion’s canceled."- Terry clarifies bluntly, offering no further explanations, cutting the cord without remorse. Back turned towards the balcony in his blue blazer, John doesn't see his expression, but he doesn't have to; it was the words he caught from upstairs that mattered. The fact your attention was caught by the ruckus was what mattered. Standing on the beach front, you turn your head to the commotion, slightly perplexed and frightened by all the noise, no doubt --- the sun was sinking into the ocean and the dimmed skyline behind you was nightfall purple, solar torches flickering alive all around the grounds like so many stars.

John was a good friend. Always. One way or another.

Even when his intent was immediately clearly understood.

He'd clear the terrain for you and Terry to be alone.

By any means necessary.

This was war.

The first among many battles.

And he's just won the chief one.

-"Sir, everyone's been told to evacuate the premises."-

One of the waiters fearfully approaches him; some boy in his late twenties by the looks of it, carrying a tray of something he entirely wouldn't mind having, for a change, considering the circumstances and the scene unfolding in front of him. A good Macallan in a massive crystal decanter. Not bad. Not bad at all. Finally --- a man's drink. Was time for a celebration. -"Nope. Don't think I will, kiddo."- John helps himself, grabbing a glass and the bottle at ease, pouring himself some much-deserve refreshments refreshments, turning towards the emptied out garden lawn, watching the dispossessed, struggling girlfriend get carted out and left at the car park, roaring engines hurriedly abandoning the lot, her ginger haired friend with the Habsburg jawline comment in tow. Emile, was it? Good riddance. Sometimes, someone's sole purpose in life was to serve as an example; the example here being, offensive words and shittalking don't come cheap and John Kreese always find a way to dish out payback. Often, much sooner than anyone would've hoped. Life comes at you fast. John brings the edge of the glass to his mouth, relishing the taste of things working out just the way he knew it would, observing Terry cleaning house, guiding the last of his guests out, towards the front gate. Was it tremendously ethical to have one woman moved out only for another one to immediately take her place? Absolutely not. John knew you'd have your reservations. That you'd pity those undeserving of pity because you were a fundamentally good person, just like his Betsy used to be. That you'd pity those who'd never pity you. Who'd barely show you a molecule of respect. That you'd fight against this, in your own way, citing ethics. Kindness. Honor. But, there was no ethics in warfare. Only winners and losers. And this victory belonged to you. To him. To Terry himself. To Cobra Kai. Whether you liked it or not. You'd learn to like it. He sighs, content, the heavy, hearty liquor taste burning his tongue as he addressed the baffled waiter eyeing him he had a pair of horns growing from his forehead. Hilarious. -"But I do think I'll have that drink now. Today deserves a toast."- Terry's form disappears somewhere in the shadow of his palm tree lot on the precipice of the beach where you stood just a moment ago and John knew then that he's done a good job. The rest of the battle was up to his Lieutenant.

John smiles against his hard liquor, enjoying the lays rays of the sunset's golden hour.

He nearly busted out laughing once a question came unbidden into his mind.

Who's gonna eat all that Tofu and vegetable screws now?

---

Desperation.

His heart is pounding like a drum when he finds you by the incoming tide, concealed by the shadow of an Acacia tree from the fallout of the evening, arms wrapped around your torso and he reaches out, on instinct, thirty years of yearning contained in a single touch. You seem like you were worried. Scared. A verge away from crying. Windswept by the salty gusts of air blown in from the coastline. He needs you. Needs you. Needs you so badly, he could imagine myself dying, combusting, if he didn't embrace you here and now, protecting you from everything and anything that surrounded you. Pulling you close to him. You nearly stutter when you see him walking into sight, leaving John in the manor and relying on his security to close the gates and show everyone out into the streets; he was certain half of The Valley would be talking about this by tomorrow but he could always use the excuse that he was an old man who needed his rest and that his guests --- well, they simply stayed longer than propriety allowed. Did it matter? Fuck them all. Fuck everything and everyone. He was happy. Feral. Crestfallen. So many years. So many. He wants to shout at the sky like a lost, howling dog. -"Terry, what's happening back there!? What are you doing here!?"- You ask in a hurry, confused, unsure if you should stay or leave, panic highlighting your voice and your eyes resembling a deer caught in the headlights of a moving car speeding your way. Leave? Not a chance. Not ever again. He'd burn the World down if you ever deprived him of your company for even but a moment. The palms of his hands encircle your face and before he knows it, his body is conjoined with yours with every atom of ache, nostalgia and heartache bleeding together and it feels like time is standing and rushing all at once, caught amidst his fingertips grazing your skin. You're cold.

He'll be your warmth.

Your friend, your confidante, your family, your lover.

He wants to know everything. Absolutely everything.

Every minute, every second of your life between now and 1985.

-"What I should've done thirty two years ago."-

Terry murmurs, kissing you with such a ferocity his yellow shades slide off the top of his head and into the sand under his feet.

Fuck's sake, he could weep.

[themareverine]

Hi!! For your valentines day event I was hoping to get a drabble with Charlie Kenton or Leopold! You pick! I'm leaving this totally up to you and PG-13 is okay, I'm 23 and use she/her pronouns o7

tysm!!

— Renaissance

Leopold Mountbatten x fem!reader

tags: fluff, some backstory added in for context, reader is an ex-girlfriend of Stuart's, Kate x Stuart mentions, definitely some blue balling of a kiss.

a/n: this definitely got away from me, honey! I haven't ever played with Leopold, and it was so much fun! This was quite the challenge. I've kinda been in a writing funk the last few days, so I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this, but, please enjoy it anyway, if you can!

☆ ── 💌FROM MARE WITH LOVE

They don’t lie about the city that never sleeps. 

It doesn’t, not truly. Sunlight may exit left and give way to starlight, but the city’s blood never stops pumping in its concrete veins. Forever time starved and anorexic in the thrumming life of a big city, there’s never enough of the twenty-four seven left.

The clock always spins out of control, there’s always a redline, nothing is ever on time but somehow, also, never truly late. 

Anonymous faces are millions among millions, rubbing elbows and fighting to look away all while never really accomplishing the task – one is truly nameless in a neverending current, without really even having to be anyone at all. 

New York is a Goliath that breathes unlike any other giant of its kind, and she didn’t really realize how right Hollywood got it until her sneakers had scuffed Jamaica Station’s dirty pavement three weeks ago, feet throbbing as her calf muscles all but lacerated from bone.

Still, the chill of spring cutting through her clothes kissed her in the early mornings, watching the fingers of skyscrapers reaching from the earth into flat, gray sky.

It had taken an hour tracking her luggage, fighting the hive of bodies at JFK on a Friday – that crushing feeling of being packed into open air like a sardine had her head spinning, buildings and street signs blurring together like watercolors. 

Veins of taxi-yellow had conquered her dreams the first night she’d dreamed, curled under comfortable blankets in her college best friend’s apartment — she’d lost a cab to a local, who’d all but shoved her off the curb with nothing so much as a by-your-leave. 

Cabs mocked her, public transportation chuckled and would shake its head, if possible, at the naive little lamb behind her eyes, taking in the wilds of the urban jungle all too much of the first time. 

Her first day alone in the city, Stuart had warned her not to venture far from the apartment without escort – his vacation from his mad scientist work didn’t start until the weekend. “We’ll go out and you can get your first taste of the city, just you wait — but stay here. Bart needs the company anyway,” he’d offered nothing else, naturally. Stuart never had felt a need to share important details. 

Simply just thrust the half-abandoned coffee in his Back to the Future mug into her hand as she took up the doorway to his room, speaking around the pencil between his teeth as he wrangled into a jacket.  

And Bart was quiet enough, sure. She liked dogs — her parents had four of them at the farm, coupled with the flocks of geese and chicken, horses and the odd smattering of dairy cows laying around the lazy sunlight of spring. 

They’d all but donned black in grief when she announced she would be taking time in New York to see Stuart, the man she was supposed to be married to, if heaven allowed. 

Overwhelmed at the prospect of their progeny returning to the only man who had ever bothered to date her romantically, they’d deflated as soon as the evidence became irreconcilable — Stuart’s girlfriend, Kate, would be only a phone call away if she needed anything. 

Her mother had gasped so audibly it could be heard from the team currently bunking at the International Space Station. 

But where Bart was good company she could handle, Stuart’s unexplained roommate — Leo, no, Leopold right? –  was not.

Very much unexplained, actually, his presence in her ex’s apartment.

Stranger things certainly happened within the lines of New York City, she knew. And Stuart hadn’t felt it necessary to share this information with her the first night in.

What a guy. 

She’d almost felt her heart eviscerating into atoms when she’d padded out of Stuart’s room in socks, a too-big Batman T-shirt and sleeping shorts — thank God she's opened to sleep clothed. Looking like hell warmed over and in desperate need of caffeine, to boot.

Stuart didn’t possess a mirror in his room, and a passing glance by the TV offered somewhat of a reflection that confirmed she’d slept like the dead. Hair similar to something from the 80s, wilding in every direction – hadn’t even bothered.

Why would she? This was Stuart’s apartment, he confirmed he lived alone. Or, well — had. Past tense. 

Last night’s booze from Stuart’s tragic supply of in-apartment food still lingered in the back of her mouth, threatened to make a reappearance when Leopold had just  stood up from the couch in the living space, stretching long arms over his head in a catlike, very-much-there stretch. 

Stars aligned and her anatomy reborn in places you don’t confess, in the blink of an eye. As he’d come about sharply on his foot, wide eyed and milk white with surprise, as if she were the unexpected intrusion into Stuart’s little apartment. 

Three weeks ago she’d thrown War and Peace at the Duke of Albany’s head, all but threatening decapitation. An offense that, in Leopold’s time, surely, would have her head rolling. 

She believed him, of course. Why would he lie about time travel? Why would Stuart have scientific evidence and K-Mart photographs, all for lies? Stuart didn’t even like K-Mart.

He could barely carry on a conversation with the same barista he’d been getting coffee from for three years. 

It wasn't unthinkable, time travel. God himself had parted seas, held the sun in place for Joshua. Time travel was not beyond the realm of the Almighty, reasons aside.

How and why didn’t really matter, not in the blip of a grand scheme of a person’s life — Leopold had stumbled into the modern age for a reason, bless him. For what, who was to know? 

Divisions of her were grateful, three weeks into the arrangement, to not be the only one in the city not from here. To have company that understood the shock and awe of new wonders, of a city with it’s own voice.

Leopold was as naive and innocent to this world as she was to New York, a combination she found riveting and more thrilling than she’d admit in therapy. A renaissance man in an era that had forgotten renaissance. 

What a trip. “Lost in your thoughts again, hm?” 

Jarred by the light brush of Leopold’s hand against the back of her own as they cut through the bodies clogging  the afternoon sidewalk, she tucks a little closer to his side. Rests a stabilizing hand on his arm, trying not to knock into those waiting at the crosswalk. 

Often during these last three weeks, she got so lost thinking not only about Leopold’s situation, but him — how he takes up more space than God, but not in an aggressive way. A smile as bright and lovely as any Monet, that races the sun.

How his otherworldly charm cracks like a whip when he wants it to but isn’t cutting or belittling to those without — and the way he moves. Regal and alive in a way that’s as raw and natural as the world beneath her feet. 

He’s more alive than any man she’d ever known, so otherworldly. 

Reading a thousand fantasy manuscripts in her nine-to-five had ruined her for most men in the world, the idea so far away in between pages font choice. Nobody of Leopold’s caliber existed outside of fiction, she’d stake her life on it. The upper echelon was an understatement—people just didn’t dare dream about men like him.

A prince charming on a white horse— minus the horse and the Cinderella-esque backdrop. 

“Yeah, just a little,” her spine straightens a little more as his hand comes to linger at the low of her back, a sort of medieval courtesy that’s only ever written about. It sparks low embers in the fire of her gut as they cross the street with the others, she nods towards the subway stairs cutting down into the earth,  “Sorry, just—thinking. We’re going this way, I think,” puffing out a breath, “if my sense of direction is right.”  

He hums quietly, taking to her left to allow her access to the stair’s rail, “You possess more of a head for direction than any other woman I’ve had the pleasure to know,” he chuckles, his elbow extending politely, the nod of his chin gesturing for her to loop her arm through his.

“I trust you implicitly in this, my dear.” 

My dear.

Her heart kicks like a mule against her ribs.

“Such blind faith you have, Leo,” her nose scrunches, and she dips her gaze to her feet lest he notice the pop of color on her cheeks, “Could be leading us to Timbuktu for all you know—I’ve never been to New York. You probably know this city better than me, my lord.” 

His chest rumbles with a low, pleasant chuckle that’s almost growling.

“A venture to Timbuktu does not sound so unpleasant, such company considered."

His smile is genuine, nearly flawless—wrinkles around his eyes deepen with the effort as he leans in to whisper in her ear, “And—do be careful about such flattery, my lady. I’m prone to blushing under the attentions of the fairer sex.”  

Heat pouncing into the pit of her stomach, she swallows the gaps that threaten to knock her back teeth.

For all of a few seconds she expects to be speechless, but his endlessly charming wink produced a wry little smile of her own. 

“Is that right?” Elbowing him gently in the ribs, she giggles, “You don’t strike me as the type to blush, Leo,” brushing a curl behind her ear, “especially not with the ladies—not with all that suave charm. I still can’t believe you’re not married in your world,”

It's a topic she’d been hesitant to address, but he’d assured her he didn’t mind discussion the affairs of marriage over the course of their quick and blossoming companionship.

“But I understand. To give your heart away is a divine act. To love, well — that’s selfless. And hard.” 

He nods, once. Firmly. Too firmly for a man of his stature.

“Indeed. If I recall my uncle’s frustrations properly, ‘tis one of my many fiercely tiresome flaws, I’m afraid,” the venom behind his words is contained, but on a blade’s edge. Wlilling to fly at any moment.

The muscle in his jaw ticks with effort, “And to love is to be selfless, certainly, though in some cases it demands more of us than we think we can bear.” 

Weighty shadows behind his eyes shoves her into silent corners. 

Her arm slides through his proffered one like it’s the easiest thing in the world, more at home at his side than she’s ever felt. Leopold leads her down the stairs graciously, hand over hers on his arm in a sort of protection she’d only ever seen depicted in period films.

The landing comes up quickly, and he guides her a little closer to his side in the crowd, until her hip brushes his. And how the fibers of her jacket kiss the little pull of Stuart’s leather jacket draped across his frame may as well topple mountains in her soul.

The maw of the subway track looms beyond them, dark and ominous, more dungeon-esque than she’d ever imagined.

People pile in. Open air shrinks around them rapidly, forcing her to a snug against Leopold’s side that, by all counts, is far too intimate for her conservative liking.

He doesn’t seem to mind, however, too busy watching people and eyeballing for the train. She can feel the thrum of his heart from here, the bite of aftershave he’d borrowed from Stuart so alive on his skin it may as well reach out to smack her. 

His hand firms over hers still looped through his arm, the rumble of an engine in the darkness signaling the arrival of their train.

“Extraordinary,” he shakes his head, marveled as the subway comes up quickly in a burst of light and steel. It pulls to a sharp stop as the doors pop open with a static hiss, and Leopold is frozen in an airy, almost fond, wonder. 

“Whoever would have thought, beneath this very city. Boggling, simply wondrous.”  

Taking her arm, he tugs her forward into the car not at all unlike an eager child. A sweeping gaze down the length of the car and Leopold decides they will stand, reaching above his head for the standing bar.

His chest opens to a broad that empties her mouth of any and all moisture as she collects her breathing, straightens the line of her long jacket. 

She situates her purse when Leopold’s arm gently slips around her shoulders, drawing her into his chest beneath his arm. His smile down at her is soft, a tender gaze considering the features of her face as she shyly peers up at him through her lashes.

Here against his ribs, she can feel the throb of his heart, how his lungs fill with breath and empty steadily, like the rising of the sun. 

And he’s so beautiful, so everything she’d only ever wrote about in diaries and film and poetry she’d never showed the world. 

His warmth intoxicates her blood, she’s keening beneath his quiet shadow — she can’t breathe properly when his gaze drops from her eyes to her mouth.

It’s that Hollywood moment everyone talks about, but few ever experience, and her skin explodes with chill when he manages to pull in a sharp little inhale that straightens his spine, squares back his shoulders. 

Gnawing on the inside of her cheek, her toes curl within her sneakers — it’s almost surely that moment. Her brain laps with the thought of kissing him, wondering how he’d taste; experiencing for the first time how a kiss could shatter the very glass ceiling of the known universe. 

At one point in her life, she’d never imagined kissing anyone but Stuart—the man her parents loved like a son. How long ago that felt, almost as if it were another lifetime, on another planet. 

She can’t fathom how, in any time, he’d be the right man when the right man stands right in front of her. 

His arm around her shoulders shifts to gently skip his thumb along her arm, tenderly. “Do you know you are beautiful thing?”

A small smile forms around the words when her eyes snap up, breathlessly, and Leopold drops his hand from the standing bar above them to tip her chin up with tender fingers, “I have seen many women in my time, but few so fiercely beautiful,” his eyes hold hers, and she can’t help but notice he swallows a little breath.

“Stuart is a foolish man, letting you slip away if he truly once possessed you as his own. Unimaginable.” 

Tears well behind her lashes, his warmth pounding at walls around her heart. The way he looks at her, his eyes soft and so deeply honest, rattles her places she can’t quite identify. It’s like ripping open heavy curtains to a darkened room deprived of sunlight, flinching at pervasive light. Hurts, but in a good way—like removing a thorn. 

And there are thorns to remove, many of them — Stuart had contributed little to what the world has done. 

Looking away, she goes to step out from beneath his arm. Leopold retaliates, pressing her closer, his arm firm along her shoulders. Unyielding, like a sentinel pillar.

Wanting to rest a hand on his chest, she pulls it away as if he is a furnace — the heavy throb of his heart beneath her hand is all too hot, all too intimate, to fathom. 

His brow lifts, curiously, “It would please me if you’d allow me to kiss you,” with all seriousness he graces her with title, breath shallow and even.

He edges her a little closer, and almost mindlessly, she lifts on her toes to meet his angle.

“I’ve wanted to do so since the first moment I heard you say my name.” His lower lip rolls in, tempted, “Say my name. Speak it, and I’ll be yours.” 

It escapes her, suddenly, how many times she’s said his name in the last three weeks — but it doesn’t matter. Now it takes on an entirely new meaning, a weight that threatens to change the small universe between them.

Only able to be reborn beneath his gaze, she feels her chest swelling with warm pride—with a riotous joy that rattles her all the way down. 

Never had she imagined hearing such words, such love. In seconds, she’s Aphrodite, lost to the ages in the weight of his gaze, adrift in his words. Who even spoke like that, anymore? Nobody, she knows — nobody here, nobody like you. It only could be the words of a man out of time, a man in renaissance.  

Weighing the weight of his name on her tongue, she swallows how wrong the short of Leo feels, now.

He can never be Leo again — Leo was a man shacking up with her ex boyfriend in New York City, starry eyed and funny in his innocence. A friend, someone she could enjoy talking to. 

He no longer existed. Leopold took his place, burying any boyish fantasy between them.

He was a man, standing like the sun, extending to her a sort of thing only ever envisioned. Where Leo was a boyish wonder, Leopold was a man of purpose, driven. Powerful. Man enough to bend the very boughs of time and space. 

Her lips form around the syllables and consonants of his name. And it tastes so good, a sweet thing that she’ll dine on with every breath God decides to lend.

How many times does she say his name to make him hers? A hundred? A thousand?

Uncountable lifetimes of him would never be enough. 

So she says it again, again, again and again. 

“Leopold.” 

@sidkneeeee

@thevoicefromanotherworld

@misscrissfemmefatale

@eternallyfrustratedwriter

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@laaadygisbooornex3

@itsafullmoon

@kmc1989

@steviebbboi

@matronmothercrone

[beguilingcorpse]

i have Very Many Thoughts about helena eagan and helly r. but the foremost one right now is like. lumon loooooves to use language about how the workers are family, in a sense beyond the usual corporate “we’re all a team here! we’re all one big happy family!! :)” lumon takes it to an oddly literal extreme. the employees are referred to directly as kier’s children, his offspring, his progeny. helena talks about it directly in the video at the gala, where she mentions that as a kid she assumed that she literally had hundreds of thousands of blood siblings.

and i’m so obsessed with the way the show examines that relationship reflexively: if workers = family, then family = workers. we start to see it in the reveal at the end of season one that helena (seemingly willingly) became a severed employee, but they’ve been playing with it more and more in season two - how the board intermediates and sometimes even stifles communication between helena and her father, how despite her status as heiress to the company and to the eagan legacy she’s often treated as a mid-level executive, how even when she grasps at autonomy by hijacking helly’s identity she is forced out and then not given a choice about letting her innie return to the basement.

and then to contrast that with the FOUND family in mdr - with helly’s romantic entanglement with mark, her sibling-like banter with dylan, and ESPECIALLY her paternal trust in irving - which helena seems to both be made uncomfortable by and to envy - where workers = family is a true and positive reality as opposed to cold corporate propaganda…..

Very Many Thoughts. i am so excited to see how they keep developing this

[srbachchan]

DAY 5897

Jalsa, Mumbai Apr 10/11, 2024 Wed/Thu 12:54 AM

Ramzan Id/ Eid ul Fitar greetings

🌹

🪔 ,

April 11 .. birthday greetings to Ef Lyudmila RF Zueva .. and Ef Heena Maru .. 🙏🏻🚩 .. and may all the best be reserved for you .. love from the Ef's .. ❤️

An extended work out .. repeats, increases of weights , greater time walkabouts .. free arm and the physio to pull the body parts in all conceivable directions ..😁 .. hot showers, the IPL game , when the results are reaching tantalising ends .. and then ..

The mystery of the World Wars .. the building of the armouries .. the mindset of those that work to protect and fight .. the psychological studies of them that initiate such ..

Fascinating .. scary ..

Were then .. am now .. shall be later ..

And life shall move on .. the fears of the past remain fogged and buried .. for the todays, evident and present .. for the tomorrow, the anxiety for the progeny that shall face it .. in time ..

aaahhhhh .. too much philosophy .. this GEN Z shall have none of it .. for them .. Doris Day .. and 🎶 .. and 'que sera sera , whatever will be be will be .. the future's not ours to see .. QUE SERA SERA .. but the song shall ever remain a ???? question mark for the them of today ..

BUT ..

.. how time has kept us all in tune and line .. 1957 Sherwood , Nainital, School Play, Nikolai Gogol's 'The Government Inspector' , Danny Kaye the phenomenal talent, playing the Inspector .. and I use it on stage in Milman Hall for the Annual Concert, where I play the Mayor .. and during a rehearsal, class mate Chris Borthwick, who plays the Inspector suggests the famous line to be spoken at a particular scene - impromptu .. and the entire Hall comes down .. it was the most popular song of the World .. and gives me my best actor Cup - the Kendall Cup .. Geoffrey Kendall, who built the drama Company Shakespeareana, travelling all over the World with it .. came to put up the plays of Shakespeare in School .. asked me to play a part on one such day .. I did not coz' was prepping for my Finals Senior Cambridge Exam .. John Kurrien, classmate did it .. Shashi Kapoor married his daughter - Jennifer - who acted on stage with her Father, and where and when Shashi ji met her ..

GEN Z .. 🥹 !!

Alright then .. its 😴

Amitabh Bachchan

[epicfroggz]

Would love to see more of your Messmer/Abyssal takes, it’s just really, really fresh and interesting!

Thanks y’all for the asks, I’ll be answering these under one roof since they work for a broad thematic post! On the subject of Messmer’s

Disorder

(long post ahead!)

Definition 1: “The disruption of peaceful and law-abiding behavior.”

If the law is the Golden Order, then the Abyssal Serpent represents the opposite of that, Shadow and Disorder. Seen in the contrast between his two phases: phase 1 Messmer is disciplined like his army, a little bit dramatic, and tired of his role in this charade. His lines are practiced and the way he says his own name worn out. Yet, my purpose standeth unchanged… Phase 2 Messmer, on the other hand, drops all such pretense, his strikes and movements becoming wild and exceedingly violent as he thrashes and twists and crawls upon the ground like the base serpent he is. He sheds all regard for his own safety, like Guts donning the Berserker armor—and the similarities don’t end there. Messmer’s beast of darkness may take on a serpentine shape, but it certainly still represents his hatred, bloodlust, and desire for revenge. Revenge, in this case, against the mother that imprisoned him—a curse upon thee. All his suffering and pent-up negative emotions that he has pushed aside for her sake have been concentrated into one being, and now he will inflict that pain upon you. Embrace thine oblivion, as shall I.

So no, the Abyssal Serpent is certainly not peaceful nor law-abiding; Messmer has forsaken the Order, and embraced his natural state of disorder. Become wild, and free. Returned to the shadows from which he draws his true power—that which made god herself fear him.

And that begs the question—why? Why does he exist? Why did Marika birth such an accursed child, the antithesis to everything she is trying to create?

“A curse upon the strumpet’s progeny, upon Marika’s children each and all.” (Hornsent Grandam dialogue)

“The seduction, and the betrayal. An affair from which Gold arose. And so too was Shadow born.” (DLC Story Trailer narration)

The Hornsent believe Marika’s ascension a betrayal. Their suffering, alongside Marika’s own suffering at the fate of her people, both coalesced into the twisted immaculate conception of a son. Messmer, son of Marika, who carries the burden of all their curses and despair, and keeps company with the original sin. This was the Greater Will’s “gift” to Marika upon achieving godhood—and so too was Shadow born. A painful reminder of where she came from, what it took to get here—and, since with his flame he could destroy everything she built, a reminder of her place. She is, as much as Miquella would have been, a divinity caged. (Reason #326 why Marika had Messmer sealed away in the Land of Shadow…)

Definition 2: “An illness or condition that disrupts normal physical or mental functions.”

Does the Abyssal Serpent have a personality—yes, Messmer’s! But more specifically, it is the personification (snake-ification?) of Messmer’s personality disorder. Before the seal, his behavior would have certainly fallen outside the norms of his culture and caused problems, as such disorders are defined. He had strange habits, was prone to violence, and often acted upon primal instinct. His overall experience was quite different from that of everyone else. Between his own serpentine nature and the winged serpents, his senses were sharper, he felt emotions (especially negative ones) more strongly, and occasionally transformed into a gigantic viper when he got too excited. As one does. This viper’s thoughts were essentially Messmer’s without the filter—just like him, it cares about the people that care for him, and wishes to hurt those that hurt him. Sometimes towards his mother it felt both, causing friction between them.

What may have just been the growing pains of his unusual existence, Marika saw as a sickness that needed to be cured. She was of the belief that the Abyssal Serpent was not an extension of Messmer, but a parasite clinging on to and ruining her beloved son. Her efforts culminated in the seal. She implanted grace into a being inherently graceless, and like some kind of conversion therapy, suppressed his true self. But that part of him did not and cannot just go away—there it writhes, behind his blinded eye, for only him to witness. For only him to hear its screams, to feel its pain. An eternity of suffering. As it thrashes, its hatred grows, manifesting as constant intrusive thoughts and vivid nightmares—symptoms not at all helped by Messmer’s inherent PTSD (this one I will diagnose outright—in my timeline, he was enlisted as a pre-teen and then the wars kinda never stopped).

Although she sealed the Abyssal Serpent, Marika recognized that Messmer’s drive to burn consume destroy everything could not be quenched. A drive that she herself caused and cultivated, and now feared. Hence, she gave him a target, the Hornsent, and while he was not looking, abandoned him with no way to return home. (Potentially at the behest of Radagon now that he is Elden Lord, who for ages has been wanting to excise the sinful impurity that is Messmer from his Golden Order.) Can you imagine what that does to a person?

I think I will never run out of things to say about him, but that is where I will leave it for now. The whole mental deterioration of Messmer and his army after being abandoned is worthy of another post (or, I think I may write a fic about it).

I will say, if you want more of my personal characterization of Messmer and the serpent within, you may wish to check out my fic! It’s in his POV and I really try to get inside his head (it’s so interesting in there)!

- Froggo

[youthoughtiwasfeelinyou]

Redacted Headcannons Shaw pack & Solaire Clan (again)

William’s maker forced him to turn the exact same way Alexis forced Sam, except William and his maker were in bed together when that happened

Angel works as a manager of some sorts to a modeling agency

Babe inherited their biological mother’s company after her death, so babe became the CEO of the company, but they eventually stepped down to be one of the executives/managers (idk) in the company instead

Alexis’s current favorite song is “vampire empire” by Big Thief

Lovely has 6 sisters

When Marie first was befriending William, she wanted him, he was just too perfect of a man, and super kind, I like to imagine she was in the first weeks of pregnancy and William was so kind to her and such a gentleman

Alexis did everything she could to get Marie to back off of William cause she knew Marie wanted him, and Marie eventually backed off after realizing that William will only see her as a friend and he will never love her or care for her the way he does for Alexis since she is his progeny and she’s more important

Amanda was in love with David, but extremely insecure at that time, so when David first brought Angel to a pack meeting to meet the fam, Amanda got extremely jealous to the point where she judged Angel really bad

Christian was in love with Darlin. He was always trying to reach out to them but Darlin was so estranged with the pack that they didn’t bother letting him close or even having a deep conversation with him at all. He never told them he loved them though and because of the way they were so guarded, he assumed it was rejection.

Amanda knew about Christian loving Darlin and always teased him about the rejections. Christian knew about Amanda loving David and when Angel came in the picture, he teased her back about how David loves someone else. Amanda would complain about Angel to Christian like this “what do they even look like” “I bet they must be beautiful” “ but they can’t be Mr/miss universe or something�� and when she meets Angel : “ omg of course they’re blonde and pretty, ughhh what do I do now? How do I compete?” “I have to find something lacking in them so I can go warn David” “Christian, come, let’s stalk them for a bit to see what shady lies they might be making” and then Christian is like “wtf? How desperate are you? Like damn.” And that’s how they got closer and started fucking and started falling for each other while simultaneously healing each other, and the great results are that Amanda is no longer insecure.

Treasure is the eldest child

Lovely has never had a job, they always either lived under the care of their parents, ex-husband, and now Vincent

[laniemae]

Talent swap idea with Ojima as the Ultimate Affluent Progeny. This actually came from the secret logs which I’ve been thinking about a lot which it’s revealed that he’s the heir to a massive company, and which makes me wonder in an au if his parents weren’t arrested he would’ve been the ultimate affluent progeny instead of the ultimate illustrator which is something I think about a lot

[storiesundercandlelight]

Lemme seeee 👉🏻👈🏻 I’m definitely not as creative as you are but here’s a Jonathan x Reader NSFW idea 💙

How would Jonathan feel about having a student who has a crush on him? Idk maybe a medical student? Or a newly transformed progeny (not his) who he adopts?

Someone who genuinely tries to hide their crush for him out of respect but fails miserably.

Hope you’ve been well! Really missed you around Tumblr! ☺️✨

Thank you for the request! And for sticking around! I’m trying my best to post as many Vampyr fics as I can but sometimes life is… well life 🙈 I hope you enjoy!! Ps. I haven’t proof read so sorry if there’s mistakes!

Warnings: NSFW +18

The very idea was ludicrous to Jonathan. The very idea that his mind had even entertained the idea was surely a recipe for disaster.

Jonathan couldn’t help smile. He’d had his suspicions early on - the way you would without question carry out a task for him, how diligent you were with your work. The ideal student really.

He almost dismissed your subtle blushes and smiles as part of your character… almost. It was Elizabeth who had confirmed his suspicions regarding your feelings. Elizabeth’s friendship was easily mistaken for more when she had touched Jonathan’s arm, it was then he’d noticed the change, albeit subtle, on your face.

The disappointment had only lasted a few seconds at most, your professional intent quickly replacing the brief lapse in appearance. But he noticed.

He noticed because despite the fact that Jonathan too was trying to remain professional…he couldn’t help return what he hoped were feelings of more than colleagues, more than friendship.

The very idea of having any kind of relationship now - being the way he was - was something he hadn't thought about, but with a student? God above.

He had protested to no end when Edgar came to him with the notion of teaching students. "Jonathan, the hospital is understaffed, students are - and I hate to say it- cheap labour. And all too eager to please" It had made sense, Jonathan hated to admit it, but it did. He had spent days readying himself for all of the worst case scenarios, the very idea of teaching was, embarrassing to say the least.

The thought of so many young adults following Jonathan around for weeks was daunting, downright off putting. But this? These feelings he'd developed for you was something Jonathan never could have conjured up. Yet here he was - watching as you made your rounds. You were amongst the older students, old enough for it not to be out of the question, but still a good few years below Jonathan.

You were a fast learner though, always getting things right, always giving Jonathan the answers he was looking for.

It was growing closer and closer to the end of your shift, the early hours of the morning creeping in, but dawn was still a few hours away, the winter months were always easier for Jonathan, the days were thankfully longer. The sun allowing Jonathan to have a few more hours.

His feet seemed to move without him as he made his way over to you, your smaller frame shrugging on your coat as you're headed out into the front courtyard of the hospital. Jonathan reached out to grab your arm gently, a smile growing on your face as you turned to discover it was Jonathan that had stopped you.

"Doctor Reid, did you need me for something? I can come back in"

"No, no there's nothing...I was wondering if you'd like some company on your walk home?"

“Oh, I would love that - as long as it’s not getting in the way of anything you need to do” considerate as always.

“Not at all” Jonathan smiled, mindful of keeping his teeth hidden. No more wide smiles or unchecked laughter, not when one has fangs to hide. With a motion of his arm you began walking, Jonathan close by your side as you made your way over the bridge across from the hospital.

Polite chatter followed your footsteps as you discussed your day with Jonathan, he knew of course how your day went - the reports of each student were his responsibility - but he asked you anyway. God was he a fool? For listening so intently? For wanting to make you smile with funny remarks? For enjoying the soft tone of your voice?

Surely he wasn’t. He knew now your feelings must be as he suspected. His time was running out as you came to a stop in front of the building you had a rented room in. “Thank you for walking me home”

“Of course…” Jonathan trailed off as he willed his mind to conjure up some sort of excuse to keep you from going inside, some sort of way to address this… attraction.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No! Yes!…. I mean, not wrong no just…”

“Tell me”

“I’m trying to… failing rather miserably I’m afraid” Jonathan let of a deep sigh as he scanned the street, taking a moment to figure out what to say before he made a bigger fool of himself”

“If you’re looking for delicate words you know you needn’t bother with me” you smiled, lightening the mood.

“You know I’ll always try anyway…” Jonathan smiled back, now or never then. “I’ve noticed. At least I think I have anyway, the way you look at me I mean. If I’m wrong please tell me and I’ll apologise to no end, but if not… then I want you to know I feel the same way”

Well there it was, the truth of it out in the open. You watched Jonathan as he stood waiting for your answer. He was sure he’d messed up, your lack of response clearly must be a sure sine that he’d made a mistake. The apology was there on the tip of his tongue.

“Come inside”

“Are you sure?”

“Very”

The room was small but cozy, a tiny kitchenette in one corner, the door to the bathroom, the little living area adjacent to your bed. Jonathan was certain only you could create such a welcoming space. He also noted with familiarity the stacks of medical books littered across the room.

You stood for a moment unsure of yourself, unsure of your next move. Jonathan watched as you turned to him, taking a bold step closer until you were only a foot or so away from touching him. The air was thick with anticipation, you both knew what was going to happen, both wanting the same thing.

Before he could think better of it Jonathan closed the distance between you, his lips finding yours quickly. It took only seconds for you both to find the perfect rhythm, his tongue seeking out yours as your hands began to wander.

The thud of Jonathan’s coat hitting the floor did nothing to stop you as piece after piece of clothing joined the heavy fabric until you were both left exposed to the slowly warming air of the apartment. Jonathan backed you up slowly until your legs hit the side of the bed, the springs creaking only slightly as you both climbed onto the surprisingly soft mattress.

Jonathan was unsure at first, not letting his skin fully press against yours out of fear of being cold, but the winter air would be more than sufficient for an excuse. You let out a soft sigh as Jonathan positioned himself between your thighs, his lips ghosting over your skin, relishing the way you shivered beneath his soft touch.

A small huff of laughter left Jonathan as you tugged at him, clearly growing impatient. “I would have thought you’d have more patience, it’s one of your strengths at the hospital after all”

“Not when it comes to this” you muttered, pulling him again until he gave in, lowering himself down onto his elbows to kiss you before reaching between your bodies and lining himself up to your entrance.

He checked one last time before slowly pushing into you, the heat was almost too much for Jonathan. So used to the cold, no amounts of hot water could warm his skin for long but you, right now he was sure he’d never felt so hot.

The moan that slipped from your lips was more addictive than his bloodlust, with each thrust he was determined to hear more and more of them. Jonathan’s eyes roamed all over you, the peaks of your breasts, the slender line of your neck as you arched your head back, eyes closing and mouth falling open when he hit further back inside of you.

Your movements were awakening a part of Jonathan he’d almost forgotten about, the part of him that longs to be in the arms of another. The thrill of having someone pull him closer. Your breath mingled with his as your lips brushed against each others. Both of you fighting to keep what Jonathan was sure would be moans loud enough for your neighbours to hear at bay.

But his movements were becoming erratic, his hips faltering as he felt his climax drawing near. Your sudden end almost threw him over the edge but he kept his control for a few more moments before following you, his head falling against your neck as he released inside of you.

His fangs burned against his gums, begging for the blood that was pumping so close to his face, but in this moment Jonathan found it all too easy not to care. Falling beside you, pulling you into his arms was more important to him. Having a moment that seemed all too impossible both for his new life and the fact that he was technically your mentor. The thought made him chuckle.

“Something funny?” You looked up at Jonathan, your hand tracing lines below his jaw.

“Edgar would kill me if he found out about this”

The winter night outside turned to gentle snow as you both remained huddled in bed laughing quietly as what could only become a rather sensitive relationship. But one you were bother very ready to risk the lecture for.

[aphidoideart]

#000A: The First Astroclade

In the beginning, Skeemeraph only had the stars around to give them company and inspiration, so they took the Hydrogen atoms the stars were made out of and made their 1st progeny: The First Astroclade!

Swirling about through space, attracting matter, fusing atoms, giving off light, The First Astroclade went on to multiply and mutate further, filling the void with living stars of different shapes and sizes, adapted to different environments of space! These living stars would end up creating the new elements needed to create future lifeforms, as well as the light needed to keep them alive. In the present, they like observing the life their light powers, even acting as a protector, ensuring the constant welfare of the inhabited planets of their solar system, so if your planet rotates around an Astroclade make sure to say hi every now and then!

[romirola]

If you're like me, you are excitedly awaiting the arrival of the Monarchical Summit storyline! Before that storyline is officially explored in the audios, I want to offer a reminder that if the idea of the Shaw Pack and Solaire Clan enjoying a fancy gala interests you, you might enjoy my completed fic, Packed with Love, which features exactly that, along with flashback scenes, wolfpack banter, unlikely friendships, action/adventure, grocery hunts, hurt/comfort, trancey interrogations, and more! All information (including tags, word count, rating, characters, thank-you shoutouts, etc.) can be found at the AO3 link.

IN FACT, I (through Angel) even referenced Sam having the title of Duke and his being wildly embarrassed at that fact. Here's the proof, which is a passage I pulled straight from Chapter 1:

"On behalf of the RMA, thank you for your generosity," Sam acknowledged. "Obviously I can't put in anything for the raffle since it'd look fixed if I ever won.” Between my association with the RMA, and the fact that I’m William’s once-removed progeny, I’ve had to forfeit my chances.” “‘Once-removed progeny,’” Milo curiously echoed. “So if William is your clan’s king, and you’re the progeny of William's progeny, what does that make you?” “Duke?” Angel guessed. “Viscount? Earl?” “More like court jester,” Sam supplied. “William’s not one to care much about titles or bloodlines, thankfully. That kinda stuff can just get to be so silly and antiquated. But he is one to make sure that he could never be accused of nepotism or favoritism among his clan. That’s why I agreed to forgo any raffle ticketing, as did all of us who do work for the RMA during the year. Don’t get me wrong, though. If I could buy tickets, I certainly would. William let Vincent pick out the prizes this year. True to his flashy form, he really went all out." “What’s the prize?” Asher asked as he added more garlic butter to his bread. “An ultra-luxury all-expenses-paid stay at one of those big fancy spa resorts,” Babe supplied. “Everything is included for the week. Travel, lodging, gourmet food, massage services, every amenity you can possibly think of. Doesn't that sound incredible?" Babe squealed. "And the runner-up is a huge basket full of gift cards to all different businesses around Dahlia. Empowered and unempowered. You can go check out all the businesses at the raffle table.” Babe twisted their back and pointed across the room. "Max's Rustic Pizza, the Trance Bureau, Gary's Shifter Grooming Salon, that paintball place in Greenway we've always said we want to try," they listed. "The Psychokinetic Cleaning Company, the Steakhouse, and more!"