#i have so many brainworms of these two lately

[redbeantofu]

love love guilty

[apricior]

having nick x grant x terry thoughts. grerrick save me. grerrick. save me grerrick

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Hello! Could you please write a stubborn, jealous hc for Miguel o'hara? Thank you!!

I had the brainworms, so I hope this is what you were looking for! Thanks for the ask <3

Jealous!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: jealous!Miguel O'Hara x reader

summary: stubborn HCs for jealous!Miguel O'Hara. 

a/n: this was meant to be a drabble and i basically wrote a full fic. i have zero self control lmfao

warnings: smut (fingering, f receiving oral, slight brat taming, etc) right at the very end, 18+ from then onwards, the rest is more pg-13

wc: 3.5k ish

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long story short: he's a stubborn little shit.

Pig-headed as fuck and it shows up in little things. 

Let's say you first met as coworkers, and you were a lab technician at Alchemax. 

Think: unstoppable force meets immovable object. He likes his labs just so, with very specific equipment in a very specific configuration. 

It drives you crazy, regularly having tiffs outside the labs; much to the chagrin of your coworkers. 

"Jesus." Your coworker mutters, wincing at the seemingly heated argument by the water cooler. 

"Ignore it, Maeve." Another coworker rolls their eyes, nudging Mave with a snort. "They're at it again . S'pose they'll tire each other out by the end of the day."

Not that they were wrong. But this time, it wasn't your fault: dealing with O'Hara's bullshit had really taken it's toll. He was insufferable, prone to nitpicking and just plain mean. You could hardly be blamed if you gave him some of your own choice words. 

"My notes were basically paint-by-fucking-numbers!  How could you mess up a simple distillation? When I specify precision glassware , you don't think that's fucking important?" 

"Your notes ," You draw air quotes pointedly at him. "-are illegible, you fucking cretin! Maybe if you didn't write like a goddamn pre-schooler-"

"- preschooler? Oh , fuck you!" 

"Get your nose out of that highschool Chem textbook, O'Hara, this is a fucking job."

"Yeah? Stop using it to wipe your ass and you might learn a thing or two."

"Oh , so that's what we're doing?" You laugh in his face, so angry your hand curls into tight fists. You get close, staring him down as you look upwards through your lashes. His own face is contorted into a grimace; bushy eyebrows furrowed into deep shadows around his eyes. You can feel his steady breathing before he speaks, low and rumbling. 

"I could do this all day, princesa. " 

You scoff, ignoring the way his words weaken your knees. The one time you asked for a break during a long lab and he won't stop calling you a spoilt princess. His laughter then stings in your ears now, the ghost of a smirk on his face as you storm off. Miguel O'Hara: smug bastard. He would be the death of you, you're sure. 

~~~

You spend many a late night with him, unwittingly, and find out he's more than a stubborn little shit. 

You find out he's funny, and shares the same anti-Alchemax tendencies you do: both preyed upon by the company immediately after graduation, young and naive. 

He's kind, even though he'd never admit it, often finishing up the lab notes and doing more than his fair share of work so you can go home at a reasonable time. 

You both still butt heads, but it turns into a tentative friendship - coffees in the morning hidden as blaise convenience, covering for each other at work, and defending the other when office gossip goes too far. 

That's why when he comes back to work after a week-long stint away - something about a blow up with the boss, an issue described as 'miscommunication, promptly smoothed over' by anyone official - you notice… something's different about him. 

You first noticed something was off when he walked in without a snide remark. You left a mug overnight at the counter, something that would usually draw a sarcastic comment at the least , but he gives you… nothing. Blank, glassy eyes as he opens up his workstation - clicking away at the keys without so much as a glance.

"O'Hara?" You call, but he doesn't even look up. You walk to his workstation and knock at the desk. He jumps. God, he looks worse for the wear. Heavy bags under his eyes and a bruise blossoming under his collar. 

"You okay?" 

He rubs his temples, eyes flitting up at you.  "Yeah, just…. just a long week, s'all." 

You put a hand on his shoulder, and you swear he leans into your touch. "We can reschedule, tonight. The calculations can wait, Miguel."

He gives you a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. "S'okay. Need to make sure you don't fuck it up."

"Don't push your luck, O'Hara."

~~~

As you get closer, you notice just how stubborn he is to admit the growing tension between you two. 

Late nights at the lab turn into takeout at your place, morning coffee turns into a pleasant 20 minutes on the rooftop away from the hustle and bustle - just you and Miguel, talking and joking with a cup of shitty coffee in hand. 

Wholly, he seems more assertive at work, not as quick to roll over. 

It's hot, you have to admit; watching him fight with someone else other than you. 

You're at work drinks with the other technicians and engineers, nursing a watery beer when another colleague makes small talk with you at the bar.

You’ve never been that close to him, and the conversation is amicable enough, but you’re almost bowled over when you see Miguel, in the corner, staring straight at you with a stormy look.

You suppose it's a little pathetic, getting all dressed up for a casual drink. Lips shiny with gloss and gently powdered with makeup, you feel a little out of place. For all your talk at work, actually being here was another thing. Suddenly, your blouse is too tight and your skirt too short. With a manicured finger, you trace the lip of your glass filled with watery beer. You sigh. You don't want to admit it, but you were only here because of Miguel. He said he would come, and now you're sitting on a barstool counting the chips in your glass. 

It was probably for the best. You sink into the absentminded chatter of your colleagues around you, until there's a tap at your shoulder. 

"Is someone-" He clears his throat; a tall man dressed in a sharp suit nodding gracefully towards the empty chair. "-is this seat taken?" 

You shake your head, grateful for the company. He's handsome, sharp features curving into a wry grin as he calls for a drink. 

"...and something other than shitty beer for the pretty girl, too." It makes you laugh, light and lilting in the bustle of the bar. 

He stretches out his hand, and you take it. 

"Eddie Crouch. I work in marketing."

Eddie…. as in… head of the most profitable division of Alchemax? Your eyes widen involuntarily and you try to clamp down your immediate shock, somewhat unsuccessfully. He narrows his eyes as you tumble over your words. 

"Y-Yeah, same! I mean, not same , I just work in the l-labs and I thought it was just for us guys, working behind the curtain, y'know? Not that we're not thrilled to have you here, because we a-are." You spill out, wincing. "....Is this about the performance reviews? Because I know output was down this quarter but our projections are-"

"I'm not here to talk about work." He chuckles. You squint, not convinced. As if to alleviate your concerns, he loosens his tie and undoes his top buttons with a flourish. 

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leans in, and the air becomes thick with expensive perfume. He twirls the signet ring on his finger, a ring probably worth more than your monthly paycheck. 

"Your boss invited me," Discreetly, he stretches a finger at your boss; a man ruddy cheeked and red-faced with alcohol. "Guess he thought it would boost morale. He's a fucking idiot if he thinks having me, the one guy that could fire your entire department without recourse, exchange empty platitudes would boost morale. But, I digress. So here I am, dragging my feet to this bar, thinking I'm gonna get in, read the lines and get out. But then, " He pauses with dramatic effect. "I see the most beautiful person I've ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on, just sitting by the bar. Like everyone isn't already falling over themselves to talk to you."

The irony is palpable. It's sickly sweet, and a line that wouldn't usually work on you. But usually, you weren't pining over a man so prickly and stubborn, you shouldn't have feelings for. Here you were, bright cocktail in front of you and a moderately attractive man by your side. He wasn't quite Miguel, but in the words of one of the greatest thinkers of the past age: country girls make do. 

And so you make lazy conversation with the man. So lost in a tipsy haze, you barely notice Miguel walk in; dark jacket on his shoulders and deliciously loose slacks. You're drawn to him, his eyes seemingly searching the room, and you sigh into your drink. Technically, he looks like shit: eyes dark-rimmed and sunken, a cut at his brow. You think he is gorgeous, eyes tracing the slope of his nose and plush lips. Like he can sense it, he glances over in your direction and you look away hastily. He's watching , you can feel its burn as you turn, pretending to listen to the man besides you. A little cruelly, you lean into him, not breaking eye contact and curling a hand around his arm to laugh at a stupid joke. Eddie laughs with you, oblivious, as you glance behind him. 

Miguel stands with a drink thrust into his hands, looking straight through him, eyes low and gazing at you. 

~~~

He insists on walking you home, a steady hand on the small of your back as you stumble through the streets of Nueva York.

You make light conversation, tipsy and giggly from the alcohol. Miguel seems a little more put together, but his chest still creaks with rumbling laughter.

He definitely walks on the side of the pavement nearest the street, because he thinks it keeps you safer. 

He walks you up the stairs and by the door of your apartment, like a gentleman. You watch him get nervous suddenly, and he hesitates, stubbornly digging in his heels and pausing you from opening the door and coming in. 

You don't want it to end, opting to take the walk up the stairs as opposed to the lift. It's one of your more questionable decisions as you stumble up the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet. Miguel is quick to catch you even though he was just as drunk. Arm around your waist, he leaves searing touches to your hip. You giggle despite yourself, and he can't help but smile at your clumsiness. 

"If you break your legs I won't carry you, princesa ." A lie and you both know it. He would carry you to the ends of the earth like a blushing bride, if you asked him. 

You both stagger to up the stairs and through the corridor until you reach your front door. You rummage around your bag for your keycard, it's contents click-clacking in the quiet of the hallway. Miguel watches, quieter than he was in the journey. If you looked up now, you would see something else behind his eyes - a storm of apprehension and tension. 

You find your keycard, and look up to find Miguel placing a careful palm on the door. He's surprisingly still, eyes on your lips as he steps closer. You look everywhere but to meet his eyes, tracing the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his exposed forearm, and the tempting juncture of his strong jaw. You watch it tense, as he brings a gentle hand to your chin. His thumb swipes over the fat of your lip. 

"Got somethin' right… there." He mumbles, before tucking his hand away. You can barely breathe. Without thinking you take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together like a gentle hug. You bring his hand to your waist, and he squeezes, ever so gently. Your hand drops and he moves his slowly, knuckles dragging along the smooth silk of your blouse, and then sending shivers when he reaches your bare neck. 

He has to bite down the plethora of things running through his head - his drunken brain threatening to spill all his thoughts. You are so beautiful and soft it makes him short-circuit, desperate to pull you close. Instead, you do: hand inching up his chest and laying to rest on his shoulders. 

He kisses you, finally ; a little messy and impossibly soft. Like his lips on yours would shatter you both. You deepen the kiss and wrap his arm tighter around you, angling your chin to drink up even more of you. You both come up for air, panting in the heat of one another. Miguel's eyes are full of lust and blown out. 

"Do…do you want to come in?" You whisper. 

Something catches in his throat and his expression changes, like he just woke up from a dream. Do you just want to sleep with him? He's not built for one night stands, can't do just sex, especially if it's you. No matter how much he wants to, he can't, he won't, "....I shouldn't."

The disappointment on your face is palpable. You want to ask why - after he kissed you like that - why doesn't he want you? Instead you nod dejectedly. He gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead, lingering, and a shaky smile. 

You open your door with a buzz, and slam it in his face. 

~~~

It takes Miguel some time to properly put a name to what you two have: not knowing if the kiss was a drunken mistake, animal attraction or something more. 

He's not a grand gestures kind of person, he believes in action rather than words. 

Which is why it takes so long for him to admit just how in love with you he is. 

He steals glances at you all the time at the office, and tries to anticipate  all your needs. 

When you stretch and yawn in the morning, he happens to pass by your favourite coffee place and happens to buy one too many cups of your go-to order. 

So imagine his shock when he arrives from his lunch break, churros and coffee in hand, and there's one of the top brass from the night at the bar perched on your desk - 2 polystyrene cupfuls of something half drunk on the desk. 

He's never been insecure, but he can't help but feel possessive, something tense and tight growing at the base of his stomach. 

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" You step into the equipment cupboard, Miguel close behind you. You rub your temples, anticipating an argument. "O'Hara, if this is about my calibration tests this morning, I swear to God -" 

"No, no , nothing like that." He's quick to say. "They were… okay." He strains. 

You raise an eyebrow. Okay? Since when did Miguel pass up an opportunity for a mindless fight? Your mind races with his actions of the past few days. He has been different since the night at the bar, a little nicer, sure, but nothing this out of the ordinary. 

"That guy you were talking to. I saw him at the bar, and now here. Who is he?" 

Your eyebrows shoot up. "You do not have the right to ask me th-" 

"Are you fucking him?" A pause, and you study his expression, deducing that he is completely fucking serious . 

"Are you insane? You definitely don't have the right to ask me that." You make for the door, and he steps in front of it, blocking it with his body. 

"I need to know. Tell me and then I'll leave you alone, I promise." His voice is low and thick with something. 

You step closer and he wraps his hands around your waist absentmindedly. The pressure feels good, and makes your brain fog up. 

He repeats himself, softer. "Are you fucking him?" 

You look at him for a moment, before shaking your head. His facial expression  is steady, just as unreadable. 

"Do you want to?" 

You hesitate, wanting to be cruel and say yes, just to see his reaction. Perceptive, he sees your hesitance and says something that almost knocks you over. 

"I could fuck you better than he ever could," He kneads your thigh now, lips close to the shell of your ear in the tight space of the cupboard. " Princesa , look at me." 

You look at him, almost whimpering and putty in his hands. He's like a siren and you are lost in the pull of his gaze. It may be the proximity, but you swear you see a tinge of red in his eyes, like deep pools of lust. 

"Will you let me fuck you?" He pulls you closer so the meat of his thigh presses against your clothed cunt. Your stretchy pencil skirt rides up suggestively, and you rock your clit against him, searching for sweet pressure. You nod. 

Miguel titters softly, a hand on your chin pulling your lips to his. You moan into his kiss, body aching. It's hot and heavy like the kiss outside your door, but he swirls his tongue around yours and expertly nips at your lower lip. He guides your hips to rock against his thigh, tensing to make sure it's corded muscle hits the right places. He wants to break you apart, leave you so cock-drunk, you wouldn't think of even glancing at another man. 

You separate and he dips a hand under your skirt. He pulls it up and places a big palm at your pussy, with a well timed slap. You bite into his neck with the pressure. You definitely don't expect it when he rips open your stockings like they were paper. 

"Fuck, Miguel." 

"It's okay, baby, I'll get you new ones." Your eyes roll back as he slips aside the gusset to run a finger through your lower lips. Shamelessly, he slips a finger in, then two, basking in the wet squelch of your heat. You claw at his forearm, as he curls them into that sweet spot. 

You press your forehead to his shoulder, chasing his fingers with your hips. His sharp eyes watch every movement, every stutter and start that his fingers pull from you. He's practical, a man of action, and he is desperate to show you how much he cares. 

"I've thought about you… about this." He hisses as you cover your mouth to dampen your moans. 

"Wanted you for so long, princesa. Want to know how you taste, what this beautiful pussy feels like. What you look like when you cum."

His wrist aches with the back and forth motion but his pace barely faulters. 

" M-Miguel …"

He applies pressure to your clit, and watches in awe as you spasm, nails digging into his forearm. 

" Oh, there it is. Right there, hmm? Does that feel good?" 

You nod frantically with a stifled sob. 

"Not quite, baby. Need to hear you say it. Or I won't let you cum."

"...fuuck you."

" Oh, you'd like that. Still not what I want to hear. Tell me how much you like it when I fuck you with my fingers."

"F-Feels good." You stutter. He stops, wrenching his hand out of your pussy to leave you clenching around nothing.You almost scream.

"You're being a brat, not my princesa , hmm? Only good girls get to cum."

" Miguel , please. I'll do anything." He guides you along his thigh, still lodged between your legs, and licks up your wetness on his other hand. "You m-make me feel so good. So good. And I want you so much it hurts, sometimes. I just want to cum, don't even need your cock. Fuck me with something , please." 

"Miguel? Not asshole? Or fucking idiot, this time?" 

"Please, Miguel ." Your pleas go straight to his cock. He throbs with need, cock rock hard under his slacks. 

He relents, not able to bear your dopey puppy-dog eyes for much longer. He slips three fingers in, without bothering to prep you. He hisses at the tightness of your heat, pounding into you and knuckle deep with his fingers. Shamelessly, you fuck yourself back on them, hips rolling over his thigh. He can't tear himself away from the sight, palming himself through tented trousers. 

You kiss and nip at his neck, as he whispers obscenities at you under his breath. 

"Can you cum for me, princesa? Cum f'me, and I'll take care of you, I promise."

You clamp down on his fingers and moan into a kiss as you ride out your orgasm. It's intense: leg-shaking and leaves you shuddering in the aftermath. You were rusty, sure, hadn't had sex with someone in a while. But Miguel made you cum so hard you saw stars, with only his fingers. Your chest heaves with the thought. 

You thought he would leave you, torn stockings and all, in the little cupboard. But he stays, to sink down to his knees and lap at your folds. You rest a hand on a shelf for purchase, head back in bliss. You cunt is still sensitive, throbbing at the orgasm he's just given you, as you licks you clean. He's taking care of you. You card your hands into his hair, tugging gently as he moans into your pussy. 

He gives your clit a gentle kiss, and swipes up a trailing tear that rolls down your inner thigh. You watch as he pops his fingers into your mouth, cleaning off the cum. Your cum. 

Miguel gives you a lazy grin in the bare bulb of the equipment closet. He seems completely unfazed by the fact his fingers were in you not a moment ago. 

"Are you free after work?" He asks, and it takes a moment for you to process. 

"Uhhh… s-sure. Probably?" 

"Let me take you for dinner, somewhere nice."

All you can do is nod, dumbly, ripped stockings still around your ankles. 

"And then I can fuck you properly, princesa." 

_

_

_

[stardust-thief]

meet cute

an: this is not very spiderman-esque + it kinda sucks😭 but i have brainworms im thinking of so many ways the bau cld be part of this au

synopsis: your best friend, penelope garcia, gets you to meet spencer reid, who unbeknowest to you is seceretly spiderman, 1.7k words

cw: just fluffy meet cute, a little rossi slander im sorry, mentions of tobias hankel but its pre-lizard, bc tobias hankel is the lizard in this au, not proofread at all

masterlist

“Pen, are you sure this is a good idea?” Your best friend, Penelope Garcia, whom you loved with all your heart, was meddling again. She had taken notice of the fact that you are a workaholic and would prefer to spend your days researching for your newest article, than literally anything else. Deciding this was completely against the criteria to be friends with her, she has taken you to meet some of her friends. Namely, Spencer Reid. You didn’t know much about Spencer other than the fact that he was a great photographer and an even greater nerd. Said affectionately, you literally do nothing but work, how nerdier can you be.

“Are you kidding me? This is a perfect idea! Both you and Spencer are basically hermits, my thinking is that two hermits cancel out each other's hermit-ness and you’ll both bloom into beautiful social butterflies! Maybe I’ll finally get to see my best friends outside for once. Or maybe that’s too big an ask.” She grabbed your arm to make sure you couldn’t back out last minute, and all but dragged you into the little cafe you were supposed to meet this elusive Spencer at.

The cafe wasn't one you familiar with, preferring to stick with the one adjoined to the Daily Bugle building. This one had booths lining the walls, and a vast glass counter full of the most delicious pastries you’ve ever seen. The one at the Daily Bugle served only stale bagels, and made you sit in those hellish latticed garden chairs that do no good things for your comfort. 

You watch as Penelope’s hawk eyes scan the cafe, “ok so, he’s not here yet. I promise you he hates being late, just sometimes something will just come up and- he’ll show up! Go get a seat, I’ll order something for us.”

“Ok, I can do that.” You say as you turn to move towards an open booth seat. Penelope was a generally anxious person, this was something you've grown used to after knowing her for so long. But whatever that was back at the counter was a lot more anxious than strictly necessary. True, being late to a first meeting was not a good first impression. Also true that the later he is, the later you will be in getting back to the office, meaning another late night working to finish your article. But it's not the end of the world! Yet!

Penelope interrupted your doom-thinking by placing a tray full of various coffees and pastries on the table. “I got your favourite,” she says as she pushes the warm coffee towards you and sits on the opposite side of the booth, “I wasn’t sure which pastry to get so I got… many.”

“Many is a word I would use, yeah… It’s fine Pen, we can all just take some home. Have you heard anything from your friend?”

She gives her patented dramatic sigh, “Ugh, Boy Wonder says he’s on his way. Wait, forget I called him that. Spencer Reid is on his way, he says he apologises for his tardiness.”

A loud bang catches your attention as a tall man, who looks like he’s ran a marathon to get here, slams the door to the cafe open a little too hard, rattling the wall decor and capturing the attention of literally every person in the shop. You watch as his eyes sheepishly scan the room until they land on Penelope. He gives an equally sheepish wave and hurries to sit down next to Penelope.

“Spencer, what the hell was that?” Penelope mutters, and you watch as they devolve in an argument at the volume of mice. You sit there awkwardly, sipping at your coffee as you wait for them to remember you’re there.

“Ok, Spencer!” Penelope starts, “this is my friend, who has been waiting here very patiently, might I add.”

Spencer’s eyes turn to meet yours, his eyes are a warm and deep brown that reminds you of coffee. You notice the slight bloodshot twinge he has, and the dark, heavy bags that sit under them. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in at least 2 weeks, leaving strong stubble clinging to his lower face.

Out of habit, you raise your hand to shake his and introduce yourself, “Hi Spencer.” It takes a moment for him to realise you have your hand raised, and he rushes to meet it.

“Hi, I’m really so sorry for being late, that was so rude of me, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” you hear Penelope give a mocking laugh as if to say ‘you never apologise to me like this'. Ignoring her, you notice that his hands are calloused and rough, littered with small bruises and nicks that leave you questioning how they got there. Noticing this he's quick to retract his hand, “sorry, I work in a lab so I get all kinds of cuts from the machines. Um, what do you do?”

“I work as an investigative journalist for the Daily Bugle.” The Bugle has a bit of a reputation due to its owner, D. Rossi, who is known to be an avid anti-spiderman fanatic and is constantly making up theories to defraud and belittle him. But you’re too proud of your work to let something like that stop you from talking about it. At the mention of the newspaper, however, you watch as Spencer shoulders tense up and he shoots a sidelong glance at Penelope.

“The Daily Bugle! Yeah, I used to send in my photographs for them sometimes.” Spencer breathes out.

“Really? What articles were they published in, I might’ve seen them!”

“No um, Rossi kept rejecting them so I never got them published.”

Oh. Good job. “Yeah, he can be a bit tough sometimes. I’d love to have a look at your work, maybe I can try and get something published along with my articles?” You offered this as a nicety, but you’re also genuinely curious to see what kind of work he’s done.

“That would be really nice actually, I’d appreciate it. What are you working on now?”

“An article on the research Dr Hankel is doing at Oscorp, he’s taking lizard DNA and attempting to splice it with human DNA to modify our genes. He’s hoping it can help humans regenerate lost limbs the same way lizards can. It’s fascinating stuff, but I don’t think it could work.” Especially seeing as Dr Hankel seems to have about 12 screws loose, interviewing him was not one of your preferred research activities. 

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard about that. My boss at the lab says it could be amazing if it works. It just has to work first.” He chuckles and begins picking apart the pastry in front of him. “So, you don’t agree with Rossi’s whole anti-Spiderman tirade?”

You hum, “not really. I mean, I think Spiderman is doing a great thing by helping protect the people of this city, but I also think he has a lot to answer for in terms of damage to properties, and livelihoods. But I definitely don’t think he deserves the scrutiny he gets from Rossi. Without him, what would New York do?”

He visibly relaxes at that, maybe he’s just a Spiderman super fan, there are probably worse things a person could be. You all get wrapped up in conversation and fail to notice the hours passing by until a worker comes up to your table and lets you know it’s nearly closing time. 

“God, we’ve been here all day. I need to get back to work, finish my article before my deadline tomorrow.” You say, rushing to stand up and leave. Spencer rushes to stand up with you.

“You’re working overnight? Surely that can’t be safe.”

“It’ll be much less safe if I don’t hand this in to Rossi before my deadline.” You chuckle, “I’ll be fine, I’ve done the bulk of it, not much more to do now!”

“Let me walk you to your office, it’s getting dark out.” Out the corner of your eye, you see Penelope wiggle her shoulders and wink at you.

“No I can’t ask you to do that, it’s not too long of a walk.” It is such a long walk, you’re just lying. “I’ll get to the office before the moons even out, don’t worry about it. Penelope, thanks for organising this, I had a lot of fun.” She pushes out of the booth set and wraps you in a big hug.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came! It’s good to see you away from your desk for once. Don’t stay up too late, ok, go home and get some rest at an appropriate time. No later than 4am ok?” She holds you by your shoulders and looks deep into your eyes until you agree. “Good, take some of these pastries with you, you’ll need the sugar.”

“Thank you Penelope, I promise I won’t stay too late.” Pastries in hand, you turn to Spencer again. God his eyes were so deep. “It was really nice to meet you Spencer, maybe we can do this again sometime. As a group I mean, all three of us.” Real smooth! The idea of hanging out with Spencer again made you excited, but the last thing you want to do was come on to strong.

His eyes widen slightly and he rocks back and forth on his feet. “Yeah, I would love to do this again, all of us. It was lovely meeting you as well, please stay safe.”

You smile at him and turn to leave, beginning the long walk back to the offices of the Daily Bugle. The many steps in your way do nothing to stop the giddy feeling in you.

Unbeknownst to you, after Spencer walked Penelope home he slipped into a dark alley, pulled on his spider-suit, and started swinging himself across New York until he found you walking to your office. After following you from the rooftops, making sure you were safe, he noticed that you had in fact lied about how long it took you to get back to work. He made a note to ask more firmly if he could walk you back next time, especially when it was getting so late. Once you were back in the Daily Bugle, he waited and waited until you were finished with your work to escort you back home.

[storeecbrcod]

MWIII: Soap’s Nautilus Skin

Hear me out!

I’ve been told that Warzone is technically connected to the canon campaign, loosely, hence why everyone was really confused when Soap got his new Nautilus skin. He’s supposed to be dead, he shouldn’t be getting new legit-looking skins, at least not so soon after the campaign.

But, for the sake of my brainworm (that I know I share with others, shh), let’s assume Soap’s nautilus skin means he’s alive somehow. Let’s do some study (courtesy @ave661, doing god’s work for us ty):

Look at my pretty boy! Mask, gas tanks, and cool ass details, yeah? Just an awesome skin.

Let me put way too much detail and thought into this in the form of a ‘quick’ ficlet.

TW: canon-typical violence, medical settings, mentions of terrorism, mentions of torture/brainwashing. TLDR at the end :)

The 141 had been distracted as of late, chasing around a group of slippery but deadly terrorists that had made it their fucking mission to make the task force trip over them. Nobody was sure if they were intentional red herrings from Makarov, or just another rising force amongst disgruntled people that turned to violence to be heard. Either way, it was starting to really grate on everyone’s nerves, having to put the hunt for Makarov aside to deal with a new threat every other week, one too big and too elaborate for local defence departments to handle alone without the 141’s experience.

Because it was always the same elusive cunts fucking something up. Killing someone they shouldn’t have, intercepting deals and creating unrest amongst major crime rings around the world and sparking unrest through their deep, wide-spread roots. The team knew well how a small conflict could snowball into a wide-scale war, and it felt like they were preventing one every time there was a report of soldiers in black, glowing green tech with a hazy green tint to their eyes.

Price could see the way his team (3’s still a crowd, right?) was starting to grow restless with the near constant pull from their goal of finding Makarov, especially Ghost. He grew more distant by the day, getting more and more ruthless out field, reminding Price of his early days on the Task Force. Whether they liked it or not, Makarov had diminished forces right now, and he was not as much threat as—

“Fuck, Gaz, watch out!”

Another explosion went off, knocking Price and Gaz to the ground, their breath stolen as they tried to clamber back up to move out of range of fire. It felt like it was coming from everywhere, relentless, chaotic. The thudding of Price’s heart was the only thing that gave him rhythm, guidance on how to react and when and why. He pulled his sergeant to cover behind some stacked crates and dropping, continuing to heave through his strict chest.

This was the closest they’d gotten to the fuckers, never managing to see more than a glimpse of these skilled soldiers before. They gave them a run for their money, Price had admitted sourly many a time. They were legends on each base they travelled to now, infamous for how hard they were to catch, even for the equally infamous 141.

But now, they were close. It was eerie watching these people, almost robotic in their execution, unwavering, unafraid. They’d run into active fire if it meant they had a decent chance to advance and catch someone off guard. And somehow, they managed to get away, every damn time. They seemed to not register pain, either, if the way the one woman soldier continued to walk around despite her obviously broken leg was anything to go by.

They were like zombies, and it was deeply unsettling.

As far as Price could tell, there were two hostiles running around above them through the catwalks of the hangar they were currently pinned in. They were trying to pick shots, but they’d shoot their direction randomly as well, making it that much harder to predict when it was safe to poke their heads out to see if they even had a chance of running out.

“Ghost, where the fuck are you?” Price growled into his comms. The other man had been radio silent for almost half an hour now, ever since this stupid cat and mouse game started. They’d come in here to chase the bastards down, yet somehow his team were the ones being chased. It was beyond irritating, and it was also putting them in unreasonable danger.

“Cap!”

Gaz’s sudden yell had Price’s head on a swivel, following the man’s gaze to above them. Somehow, the third soldier of the little trio had managed to flank them, looking down at them from another isolated catwalk.

How Price neglected to watch their six, he didn’t know.

All he knew was there was a barrel of a rifle pointed straight at them from 10 metres up.

Within milliseconds, he knew three things; one, he wouldn’t be able to move Gaz and himself out of the firing line without making themselves vulnerable to the other hostiles. Two, any move they made now had them killed. And three…

Makarov was behind these soldiers.

Because who else would make their most deadly soldier, the most aggressive of the trio, the one that risked his life even more than his teammates, the one who seemed to hold easy leadership over the others—

Who else would shave their best soldier’s head into a mohawk, if not to taunt them?

Before he could even think to shield Gaz, pull him to his chest in a last-ditch effort to protect him in the hope that someone would get back home to tell their story, a dark blur slammed into the back of the soldier above, sending his rifle clattering to the floor. It was almost surreal, watching the mohawk’d soldier struggle against darkness, the occasional flash of stark white dancing around him.

Fists were exchanged. Bullets were sprayed towards them sporadically, but too out of range to hit accurately. The short barrier of the catwalk bit into the soldier’s lower back, starting to dangerously teeter further and further over it.

The rifle’s impact to the concrete hadn’t even finished echoing around the hangar when Price watched two figures tumble from the catwalk, grappling in the air. A sickening thud followed, the two bodies rolling with each other, parting and leaving one still on the ground while the other heaved on his hands and knees.

The moment of stunned silence seemed to hang forever, though it was only a second in reality. The gunfire had stopped, two sets of footsteps echoing down the corridors away from them. It left Price’s team, Gaz frozen and Ghost shaking with adrenaline, with an unconscious soldier.

Ghost crawled over to the body first, followed by Price standing over him. His veins were molten in rage, scorned again by the sight of his closest soldier posed over an unmoving soldier with a mohawk.

Fuck, they even got his eyebrow scar. I wonder what they did to create that?

Unlike last time, though, a muffled groan left the man on the ground, the body shifting slightly uncomfortably. His eyes (blue… what the fuck?) fluttered open, blinking away the confusion that likely fogged his mind. He breathed in, deep and full—

Even Price flinched at how fast the soldier’s hands came up to grasp at his mask, gasping, choking behind it, clawing desperately at a crack that spanned the left side of it. Blue eyes lit up with desperation, legs coming up to kick uselessly at the ground, back contracting as if in pain.

Reacting as a unit, Gaz moved forward to hold the soldier’s legs down, Price grabbing the man’s vest and forcing him down with all his might, Ghost grabbing his arms, forcing one to his side for Price to pin under his knees and holding the other one down. Even with three people on him, the soldier put up a good fight, even though it seemed like it was out of panic more than resistance.

Ghost grabbed the mask, struggling with the release catches that seemed to be stitched into the side of the man’s head, unable to get them loose. With a growl, he shuffled to force the soldier’s other arm down with his own leg, grabbing his throwing knife and carefully shucking it into the stuck lip of the release. He hit the butt of his knife, hearing the catch pop open before forcing the soldier’s head to the side and repeating the action.

The soldier only seemed to fight harder, turning his head away frantically as Ghost tried to yank the mask off. Despite having three people on him, he still managed to jostle them, pulling his hand out from under Ghost and earning himself a painful twist of the wrist.

“Ghost…”

“Stay still, fucker—”

With a final tug, the cracked mask is thrown from the soldier’s face, and it only makes the man thrash harder. His gasps for air are no longer muffled, the painful choking and heaves bouncing off the tall walls around them, surrounding them as they tried to hold him down.

It isn’t until his body tenses up completely, lips going blue that Price is finally able to get a proper look at the soldier’s face, and once again time stands still.

Those damn blue eyes stared up at Ghost, not breaking eye contact, and Price could swear he feels each of Ghost’s muscles tense up individually, his breathing stop alongside the body beneath them. The crude scar that dissected through the man’s chin was on full display, and he thinks he hears Gaz gasp beside him, his eyes glancing between the man’s face and Price’s own.

The soldier’s head was turned towards Ghost just enough to reveal the edge of the left side of his hairline, where a fading but ugly scar puckered right along his temple.

Price doesn’t stop Ghost from getting up and walking away once the man on the ground falls unconscious, his heart rate slow and his breaths returning even slower, but returning nonetheless.

Price doesn’t stop Gaz moving to take Ghost’s place, grabbing the body’s face so firmly yet so delicately, moving it back and forth as if to check he was real.

Price doesn’t react with anger when Laswell is silent on the other side of the radio, nor does he answer any questions except to insist on an emergency evac for their ‘prisoner’.

Price doesn’t do anything, except recite the paperwork they’d filed just two years ago, fixing it in his head over and over to come to terms.

John “Soap” MacTavish: KIA ALIVE

——————————————————————————

“This is fucking insane, even for Makarov.”

Nobody discounted Gaz’s observation, all just staring through the glass into the guarded hospital room holding John fucking MacTavish, lying still while tubes breathed for his sedated body. Well, all except Ghost.

They hadn’t seen Ghost in days.

Funnily enough, Nikolai had gone radio silent around the same time, too.

Hm.

Even Laswell had made her way over from her most recent post, vowing to lead the investigative efforts into Soap’s condition. The good thing was, he was relatively unscathed. Littered with new scars, sure. Aggressive and unforthcoming with even attempting to remember any of them, that too. Oh, yeah, and his body tries to shut down every time they take him off of the highest dose of anaesthetics, and nobody knows why, and he can’t tell them why.

Price has a headache.

“John.”

Price, Gaz, and the few medics with them all turned as Laswell approached, and their reaction was immediate. They all seemed to see the gravity in her features, sense the density of what she had to say on her tongue. Her frustration and worry was palpable, in her own stone-cold way.

Price hasn’t seen her like this since… well, ever. It didn’t invoke him with much confidence.

“We finally got the toxicology results back for the gas in the tanks,” she stated, though she didn’t offer the paperwork in her hands. Actually, she gripped the package with white knuckles. Another action that made Price even less confident this news was going to be anywhere near pleasant.

“And?”

“He’s developed a non-lethal strain of Nova gas.”

Silence. Pure silence. Disbelief? Bewilderment? Surprise? Who fucking knows. But they were silent.

“Nobody’s sure how it works just yet,” Laswell continues curtly, looking to Soap’s body through the window. “But it’s a pretty strong theory as to why Sergeant MacTavish was acting so…”

“Zombie-like?” Gaz offers, an interruption met with Laswell pursing her lips for a moment.

“I’d prefer another word, but if it fits.”

Quiet befalls them all again, Price scratching at his beard in an attempt to dispel the twisting mess of anger, worry and confusion. It’s been hard, trying to continue applying pressure to Makarov while they’re a Lieutenant down and distracted by an old teammate basically raised from the dead.

“We managed to extract some files from a hard drive found in one of Makarov’s bogus operation suites,” Laswell continued, looking back to John with more concern than before, really not helping on the confidence front. “I have people combing through them, though a lot of them are encrypted so thoroughly they’ll take days to decode. However, there are a few bits and pieces of jumbled reports, seemingly test experiments involving the new strain. The only new information we have at this point is how they acclimatise their patients to the gas.”

“Acclimatise?” John repeated, gruff with restrained emotion. Leadership and professionalism was always important, but right now, he couldn’t care less about seeming totally calm.

“Yes, acclimatise,” it sounded barbaric with the way she said it, like it was glimpse into what it meant. “They’d place the test subjects into gas chambers, restrained, and flood the chamber with the gas. Somehow the body adapts to rely on the gas as air after rigorous training.”

“Torture through suffocation more like,” Gaz grumbled, glancing between Price and Laswell, whose jaw ticked.

“Apparently, the gas is most effective when the patient is fully reliant,” she added, then shrugged. “Effective in what way, the team has no clue. Though they’re pretty confident it’s the efficacy to reduce cognition enough to lose the ability to do anything without outside influence.”

“Like a damn personal attack dog,” Price growled.

A beat of silence lingered, everyone in the room trying to comprehend how this would affect Soap’s recovery. If he could recover at all.

“So that’s why he acts like he’s suffocating when he’s conscious?” Gaz inquired. “Because he is?”

“We can only assume so.”

“This is so fucked up,” Gaz whispered, linking his hands behind his head and looking to Soap again. It was like some movie bullshit, the impossible becoming possible but without the safety of being in your living room. Watching a tornado head your way when you’re in the middle of a damn field. Absolutely impossible to comprehend, yet happening anyway, beyond your control.

“We’re going to see if keeping him sedated and letting his body recover from what could be years of exposure will reverse the effects of the chemical,” Laswell said slowly, but interrupted herself with a sigh, looking to Price earnestly.

Price thinks he sees his last sliver of confidence drift off in the breeze of the ventilation.

“We also have to consider his supposedly lethal GSW,” she slowly continues, shuffling where she stood. “We can only assume the parts of his brain responsible for memory, speech, thought processing was impaired with the injury.”

“There’s a chance nothing will change because his injury could have destroyed his ability to reason and remember before the gas,” a medic speaks up, putting the dots together quickly in her head and turning to Price, brow etched with concern. “There’s a very small possibility he will recover completely, or even to the point of independence.”

Price shared a look with Gaz, then the medics, and finally Laswell again. The words stuck in his chest, resistant to the idea of speaking something into being.

“We might not get Johnny back at all.”

——————————————————————————

…soooo :3

TLDR: Makarov has developed a new strain of gas, which he uses to suppress the cognitive reasoning in those that breathe it in, and allows him to train them into his cute lil super soldiers. The reason for the gas masks and everything? The soldier becomes reliant on it, their body adapting to rely on it fully like oxygen, otherwise they feel like they’re suffocating, hence needing to have it everywhere they go.

I know it’s very winter soldier, but to be honest it would make the most sense to me if Soap’s survival becomes canon. It rolls a few pre-MWIII theories into one; Soap ‘dies’ (canon), Soap is the traitor, and Soap is brainwashed by Makarov. It would be so interesting imo, and if they don’t take it I WILL RIOT—

Anywayyyy… I have vague explanations for things, i.e spreading his ashes that could totally work (with a little bit of narrative bending ✨) but I ain’t gonna go into it here and now. I could though…

Also, I know Nova gas isn’t what the gas is called, that it’s a similar thing from a grenade in the game. But fucking sue me, I’m not gonna make Laswell say “he’s developed a new strain of Unspecified Chemical Gas” like it’s some 13 year old’s Garage Band song they forgot about. Chill. It even says on the (totally very reliable) wiki that the closest thing is Nova gas, seeing as it’s the EXACT SAME except players who inhale it don’t cough. Stay back, Call Of Duty purists!! 🤺💨

[snurtsnurtcreations]

The Fisherwoman Pt 3

Call of duty pirate au outline part 3 (links: part 1, part 2, part 4)

Pirate captain Soap x Former navy officer now pirate first mate Ghost x fisherwoman reader

Welcome to my most recent brainworm :D Enjoy!

Warnings: kidnapping, getting flogged, sleazy guy, death of sleazy guy

You throw yourself fully into work, life exactly as it had been for the past ten years, and yet suddenly so much more empty. You take your mind off it by keeping busy, fishing, knitting, humming and singing when you’re alone to ward off the sickening silence.

One day you’re minding your business at the marketplace, selling your fish, when you see someone that looks like they belonged with the late Shadow crew. You subtly keep your eye on him, and whaddaya know, overhear him grumbling to his partner that “none of this would have happened if Graves had listened to me and not taken the deal with General Shepherd…”

General Shepherd! Good grief that sounds like a big wig name. You file it away for later.

“At least that damn Cap’n Soap and that Ghost of his are right on track to the trap.” His companion mumbles. Your ears perk up even more at that, heart racing and mind going off at speeds unimaginable.

“Damn right. Seems they fell for it hook line and skinker. I just wish we hadn’t lost the whole damn crew for it.” the man scoffs, “Y’think if I complain about it to Shepherd when we report in, he’ll compensate us?”

“Unlikely.”

Well. Now you’ve got a million and one thoughts occupying your mind. After a night of pondering what to do with this information, you decide it’s about time for a long overdue visit to your dear cousin

So you sell your stock, let the neighborhood know you’ll be out, leave a note on the tabe describing your whereabouts in case the two did come home before you did, put on your pretty new boots, holster the new flintlock pistol Simon got you, and hitch a ride with the traveling merchant to the big city a day’s trip out

Your cousin is a captain of his own little passenger ship, ferrying folks between France and England. He also had quite a way with words: where you were a fisherwoman by trade, he knew how to fish for information.

He eagerly welcomed you into his home, and listened intently as you explained the situation. He oohed and aahed at your ring, congratulated you, and got serious as you explained the more delicate details.

“You know what? I betcha Ms. Laswell would know more about that. Why don’t we find her at this event, I’ll introduce you to her, we’ll see what we can learn, and then we’ll go from there?”

“That sounds fantastic, thank you Leo, I knew I could count on you!”

So you go to the event, a little out of sorts but confident for the sake of your husbands. Leo introduces you to a whole selection of people, young and old, man and woman, some in military uniform, others in nobles attire. He lead you to a distinguished woman in a crisp military uniform, her stature sharp and poised.

“Ms. Laswell! How are you this fine evening? Let me introduce you to my cousin,” and so Leo goes on and on, and somehow turns the conversation toward pirates, and from there to the infamous Captain Soap

You learn a lot you hadn’t known that surely must have been known by the wider public and likely wouldnt have been news had you not been from a small town

“Mr. Connell,” Laswell narrows her eyes at Leo, “I know you well enough… what is it you’re fishing for this time?”

“Who, me? Don’t be silly,it’s my cousin who’s the fisherwoman.”

“Yes, well, it was nice to meet you, ma’am, and always good to see you Mr. Connell, but I really ought to get going.”

The event had certainly been a learning experience, as you’d learned a lot about the many different pirate crews on the seas, but most important was learning who General Shepherd was. You’d been able to catch a glimpse of him surrounded by a group of others, and even caught some of the conversation. The man was in charge of putting a stop to piracy, and hated Captain Soap specifically with a passion. He very assuredly stated that soon those pirates shall be no more

None of that helped you figure out how to help your loverboys, but it did give you a starting point on what exactly could be going on out there and the nature of the trap.

Leo suggested you tag along for his trip to France and back, see the sights, relax a little, possibly hear some gossip that might further paint the picture of what’s going on out there. You readily agree.

And as a matter of fact he turns out to be right. General Shepherd’s wife just so happened to be on board. She openly complained about how the man was married to his job and how even with her all he’d talk about was how much he hated those pirates. “But he promises soon they will be no more. He’s going to have them killed at the Cape of Good Hope, you see! Oh, it certainly gives me good hope to finally be rid of those pesky pirates.”

You feel sick to your stomach all of the sudden, and excuse yourself from the conversation by virtue of sea sickness. You don’t get far though

It turns out that being on a ship with a big wig is a horrible idea. Pirates strike at that moment, tearing through the ship, looking for one Mrs. Shepherd. You glance back at the noble and jump to cath her as she faints from the stress of the situation.

Which is how the pirates find you, cradling the limp body of their target. What looks to be their captain haughtily strides in, glares down his nose at you tow, then tells his crew, with a strange accent you don’t recognize “An attendant? Take them both.”

As you’re being taken away, you notice the pirates setting up some sort of charges all over the ship, connected by a wire. Your cousin is slumped against the mast cradling a bloody wound in his abdomen, eyes angry but body unresponsive. A pirate hands a little block to Makarov, the last pirate on the boardwalk. With a press of the button, he returns to his ship, and just as the pirate ship gets some distance from the passenger ship, a quick chain of explosions demolishes the ship and all who were left on it

Which is how you end up on a certain Captain Makarov’s ship, confined to a fairly spacious quarters above deck, but prisoners all the same. You do your best to comfort the hysterical Mrs. Shepherd, even as your own heart is aching with the loss of your cousin and the barely suppressed panic at the entire situation. To those pirates, you are no one. Mrs. Shepherd at least had a chance by virtue of being an important hostage, but you? You’re thought of as nothing more than the lady’s servant. Easily dispensable.

None of the crew care enough to pay much attention to you two though, and that is a small relief. They feed their hostages the bare minimum, then lock the door on their way out.

Well. All but one. One man keeps sending you sleazy glances, but thankfullyhe hasn’t tried anything. Yet. His gaze makes you lad the pirates hadn’t bothered patting you down for weapons. Your pistol was still in its holster, hidden under your skirts.

You and the missus play memory games to pass the time and make the fear feel less overbearing. Sometimes you sing a song to stabilize yourself. Mrs. Shepherd greatly appreciates the sound, though she comments it’s not quite in tune as this one singer she met. Mrs. Shepherd loves to talk and she easily fills the silences with tales of great shows and places she’s seen. You believe a week or so passes in this way.

You have a nightmare, once, waking with a gasp. When the sight that greets your eyes does nothing to alleviate your stress, you close your eyes, curling up with the blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders. You imagine being within Simon and Johnny’s embrace.

The days become oddly routine.

Until one evening, about an hour after you got your usual dinner, a crewman returns to the quarters. He points a stubby finger at you.

“You. Up. Let’s go.”

Stiffening, you rise and follow the man out. He grabs your upper arm to steer you where he needs you to go. A careful survey of the situation reveals that it seems the ship is partying. Half the men are drunk and the others are either on their way there or busy playing cards, chatting with each other in a foreign language, laughing rambunctiously.

The man leading you guides you right to Captain Makarov himself

“Servant girl.” The captain greets. “My crew tell me your siren song has them enchanted. You must understand, they have not been in a woman’s company in much too long, so the bar truly is very low, but they claim that you have the best singing voice they had ever heard. Sing us a song, servant girl.”

You stiffen, suddenly aware of the many eyes on you. You want to be defiant, to spit in his face and tell him you’re not a servant, least of all to him, but. But you must be cautious. You must be careful. You are dispensable here.

So you sing a song, and then another when asked, and another. Some of the pirates take out instruments and start playing along, the drunk ones warble along with you, and it seems to be quite the jolly experience for the whole crew. But you couldn’t force yourself to relax in this company even if you’d tried. You stand off to the side once no one asks for more songs, quiet as a mouse, as they continue their merry making. You don’t dare move from your spot until the captain give you a little clap, says “Very good.” like you’re a trick dog that deserves a treat, and then a crewman take you back to your prison.

Mrs. Shepherd, of course, wants to know everything that happened. After hearing the retelling, she for some reason gets it into her head that the Captain ust have liked her, and oh how scandalous! But perhaps you could use this to your advantage! And-

You listen to her prattle on late into the night, until she finally falls asleep. You can’t help but wonder if you’re even going to survive this whole ordeal. How stupid of you to have gone on this whole trip. Had you really thought you’d be able to do anything to help your lovers? Where were your boys now? Halfway to their destination? Likely within each other’s arms, Johnny’s deep voice lulling them to sleep. How you wished to have just one more night within their embrace. Would they ever know what happened to you if you died out here?

Cut to Johnny and Simon on the Stalker, yelling at their crew as they fight an oncoming storm. The ship tips dangerously to the right, the crew holding on for dear life to not topple into the waters, and then it rights itself. Waves slosh over the sides of the ship, and bucketfuls of rain hit hard, making everything slick and wet. Simon just barely saves a crewman from falling over the side of the ship, then holds on himself for dear life as the ship tilts again. A ray of moonlight breaks through the clouds. Just a little longer, Johnny thinks as he ties a rope. Knocked off his footing by a sudden wave, Simon starts sliding across the deck. Johnny catches him just in time and pushes both of them into the railing as a barrier between them and the ocean. Just a little longer.

The rain eases up and the waves settle slowly, and suddenly it is like there was no storm at all. A cheer raises up from the crew, the moonlight a gentle reminder that most folks are asleep at this hour. Soon, after checking everything over, everyone settles down for the night.

Simon drags Johnny into bed, both of them exhausted but glad that the worst of the trip is over with. They’re halfway there, and then they could make the trip back home, back into your arms.

“What d’yoo think she’s doin right noow?” Johnny asks tiredly, his eyes half closed in an attempt to stay awake.

“Probably got her guitar out. Singing a song ‘fore bed.” Simon murmurs, eyes already closed.

“Ah miss ‘er”.

“Me too.” Simon sighs, “Soon. We’ll be home soon.”

Soon.

Cut back to Makarov’s ship. The following morning is awfully quiet on deck, but the prisoners’ breakfast is served as usual. Unfortunately, it is served by the sleazy man, who has a disgusting grin on his face. He drops the breakfast off on a table and closes the door behind him as he steps closer. A pit of dread fills your stomach.

“You put on quite the show last night, little girl. Were you showing off just for me?” He closes in on you, cornering you with a hungry gaze. Mrs. Shepherd, who watches this all unfold wide eyed from her seat, starts shouting and screeching for help.

You try to unexpectedly make a run for it, but he is faster, coils an arm around your waist and throws you down onto the floor. Your ears ring for a moment, and he’s already on top of you, his hands scrambling to push you skirt up. You kick him inthe face, your own hands racing up your thigh and taking out your pistol

He only has time to widen his eyes before BANG… and he’s lying on the ground in a puddle of blood

Many feet come racing to the door, and a group of pirates stumble through the doorway, shouting, enraged when they see their fallen comrade. You hardly pay them any mind, trying hard to take deep breaths and not throw up, but your eyes are glued to the now dead man.

In walks the captain, and with one look at the scene, the trembling woman with her skirts hiked up, the gun held loosely in her hand resting on the floor, the dead man- he snarls a command, and his crew dutifully follow it.

The gun is pocketed, the dead man dragged away, and you are forced to your feet and marched out to the deck.

You’re pushed to your knees in the middle of the deck, which is unusually quiet -most men likely hungover and still asleep after the wild night they had. The few men that were up and about had all turned their attention to the current situation. The captain drags your head up by fisting a hand in your hair to meet his gaze.

“Now. I commend you for fighting back. For that, you have my respect.” The captain concedes. The men around boo and holler about injustice. The captain raises his voice. “All of my crew know that what he was trying to do contradicted with a direct order.”

The crew fell silent.

“However.” He lets your hair go. “You killed one of my men, and for that, you must be punished.” With an imperious glance, and a tilt of his head, he shrugs. “Twenty lashes.”

Your breath picks up, but you grit your teeth. You would live through twenty lashes. It would be horrible, and painful, and leave you even more scarred than you already were, but you would live.

They tie your hands to a post in front of you and tear the clothing off your back. You hold up what’s left of it against your chest, to preserve whatever little dignity you have left. You count in your mind in time with the crew.

One.

Pain, bright blinding pain as you’d never known before.

Two.

You lean forward, press your forehead against the post, gasping as the lash tears through your skin, through your muscle.

Three.

A cry of agony is ripped from your trembling form. Your whole body shakes. You would live. You would live. You would live. You repeat it like a mantra.

Four. Five. Six.

Only six! How cruel. How unimaginable. It feels like your back is torn to shreds, like all that remains is your spine and ribbons of what once was skin.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

…would you live? It feels as though there’s nothing left of your back. Nothing more to flay, and yet the lash kept coming, making you sob with each hit.

Ten.

Halfway there. Only halfway. You would not survive it, your jumbled mind pushes. It feels as though by the time they get to twenty lashes they will have carved all the way through you and have left you with a hole in place of a chest.

Eleven.

A pause. A whistle in the air. A crash as a cannonball collides with the deck, carving its way into the wood.

You can do nothing but lay there, curled up in a ball as the pirates on deck abandon you and rush to their defenses, shouting and yelling and feet pounding over the deck. They are not fast enough. Three more cannonballs have burst through the ship by the time the crew have even a semblance of defense up.

The other ship is already boarding, men dressed in Royal Navy uniforms breaching the ship. Bullets whiz by, wood splinters, the shouting continues. You watch with bleary eyes, then curl up once more, trying to even out your breaths, to sweep away the fuzziness that has overtaken your brain from the pain.

You black out.

[chthonicgodling]

hiiii quick pause from my incessant comic’ing and pending updates WITH a DIFFERENT canon line moment doodle !— from several many months ago;

…Maci is living her best life lately

fgkfkg okAY I just feel bad that in the brainworm inducing Taki Fuego dynamic, all Canon Convos and Artwork I’ve highlighted have gravitated around Loki and Tory together as just a duo, just cause it’s always Tory that gets these deep impassioned emotional conversations with him. Yes Maci appears in these upcoming comic updates but still this is fully accidentally the EeL & Tory show. The OoC reason for this is….. partially bc I write both Maci and Loki and there’s only so much talking to myself I can do lmfao, but the In Universe reason is genuinely that Maci is just NOT the person to go to to have impassioned emotional conversations with, she just is NOT. Maci is absolutely full of love and affection!! emotional maturity is not under that umbrella. But but but!!!

Like, aaahhh she’s here too don’t forget she’s here too, in fact dare I say she’s absolutely integral to the entire dynamic as the person who sHOVED THE TWO OF THEM TOGETHER IN THE FIRST PLACE, and eagerly lit the fuse that ignited all three of them BUT particularly EeL and Tory to bond. ‼️And she ABSOLUTELY is just as obsessed w EeL as Tory is and absolutely loves him as much as Tory does‼️it’s just that HER love language is more along the lines of,,

:))) weelll it’s Maci what do you expect.

(& to Loki’s absolute aghast dismay he’s as obsessed with her as he is Tory TOO. augh!)

And so this is just a friendly reminder, really.

ANYWAY the next actual Elysium drama update comic, the one that comes after this one (and this one) is 5 out of 11 pages done sooo bear with me pwtty pwease. My art radio silence was bugging me while I’ve been in the trenches so take this quick silly slutty thing in the meantime💞 hm also uh. Despite being a Canon Convo line it’s OoC - Maci would never cover herself up fggkfkg

[fuctacles]

WIP TITLE GAME

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.

Thanks @yesdangerpls for the tag. I was planning to do a wip wednesday bc I've been in a bit of a funk after finishing the bang fic so I'll treat this as an opportunity to write 😅

I'm limiting myself to the 4thewords wips bc I'm not touching the google docs pit with a ten foot pole.

stevieween 2

Just help me cum

single dad steve

brainworms

late bloomers two

bad stobin

milf 6

artur

sharing is caring

stevie week weddingg

stevie week girls night

Stevie week 2 suck

H5

?xfiles

Divine inspiration

You can send asks with just the numbers :)

Tags (sorry if you've already been tagged): @pumpkinspiceeddie @formosusiniquis @kallisto-k @penny00dreadful @emchant3d

@steddie-island @doublecherrypiediscosuperfly @wormdebut @trensu @eddiethebrave

[zemi-noelle-art]

“Two swans resting in a calm, misty heart shaped pool. Surrounded by lush, pink rose bushes.” I guess swans have just been my muse lately, (Or, when you have so many brainworms for a dress that you just start drawing fanart of it lol.) This piece is now up on my INPRNT, just in time for Valentine’s day!  https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/zemi_noelle_art/swans-on-a-rose-covered-misty-heart-lake/

[ninadove]

20 questions for fic writers 📝✨

Thank you for tagging me, @bittersweetresilience! I love talking about myself. I’m my own favourite subject.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

As of now, 13! I’m keeping a couple in store as they were written for specific events.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

62,992 let’s GO

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Miraculous Ladybug and Professor Layton! I should really get working on the latter again…

4. What are your Top 5 fics by kudos?

@paracosmicat look at our babies. They’re doing so well 💜💚

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do!!! I love exchanging with readers, especially since our little fandom niche is so comfy and warm. If you’ve ever left me a kind comment or a bunch of happy emojis, please know you made my day! 💖

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

WELL THEY ALL GET HAPPY ENDINGS

Clive isn’t doing too hot in The Lucky Ones right now, but it’s a WIP so he’ll get there. Eventually.

As for my finished fics, probably Everything I did (I did for you) pre-epilogue? I consider it to be a happy resolution, but Adrien is crying pretty hard.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

WELL THEY ALL GET HAPPY ENDINGS — Oh wait. I already mentioned that, didn’t I.

The fluffiest one (so far) is probably Avant-première!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope! People have been wonderful overall. 💖

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Oh oh, my friends. I wouldn’t even know where to start. I am a little ace dove who gets a critical case of boredom whenever movies feel the need to feature a smutty scene.

Nothing wrong with the genre itself, of course — it’s just not my cup of tea!

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

@dragongutsixofficial have discussed many crossovers over the years! Maybe one day I will commit one to paper. 🌍

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope! Hopefully this doesn’t change.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope, but that would be a good exercise! Writing in my first language (🇫🇷) actually puts a bigger pressure on my shoulders.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

ABSOLUTELY AND HERE ARE THE GOODS:

Shadow Strike with @paracosmicat

Unmasked with @paracosmicat

ephialtes / reverie with the Anarchist Gang Server (🎶 all of you, all of youuu 🎶)

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

🎶 In canon they have never met 🎶

Special mention to Feligami, because. Duh.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

LISTEN I WILL FINISH IT I JUST NEED TO FOLLOW THE BRAINWORMS WHERE THEY TAKE ME

But right now it’s probably The Lucky Ones, my role swap AU for Professor Layton. I’ve been working on it since 2019 and I know where I’m going with it — it’s just taking a while to actually get there, y’know?

16. What are your writing strengths?

Well I’m very good at making myself cry. Which hopefully means the feelings are getting across to my lovely readers too.

I do have extensive experience on writing redeemed villains struggling to build back bridges with the people they love. 12 years of obsessing over a fictional terrorist will do that to you.

Technically speaking, though, I think I’ve gotten great at deleting bits of dialogue and description I don’t need to keep only the essentials! It makes my writing lighter, while also encouraging readers to explore the metaphors for themselves.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I am paiiinfully slow and lose motivation easily when writing longer fics (see: The Lucky Ones). Shadow Strike is the exception to the rule, and what a wonderful exception it is. 💜💚

One-shots are the format for me, but I’ve been enjoying two and three-parters a lot lately!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I don’t think I’ve had to do it before (except for the occasional nickname or curse word), but I’d probably be able to!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Probably Professor Layton or Pokémon Black and White! I got into these when I was 13. Dragon Quest IX came a little bit earlier, but it took a while to finish, so my one big fic for it must have been around the same time.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

How could you make me choose (Shadow Strike)

How dare you even suggest I might like some of my babies more than the others (Shadow Strike)

Preposterous. I could never pick just one —

SHADOW STRIKE

Hmm. Yes. It is Shadow Strike indeed. @paracosmicat and I have so much fun working together and we get to be as self-indulgent as our hearts desire. Truly our masterpiece. 💜💚

From a technical perspective, I think Everything I did (I did for you) is my best work so far! I’m very proud of the metaphors carefully woven into this one. Photosynthèse was a nice training!

Everything I write for Feligami fixes something in my brain chemistry, and La nuit, tous les chats sont gris just. Makes me so happy. For so many reasons.

Tagging @dragongutsixofficial, @paracosmicat and anyone who would like to participate! 💖📝

[thelemoncoffee]

i've been playing SAR alot lately (cause i really want a specific cosmetic i have to complete a season pass to get) and i've been having brain worms for Saiouma playing it together.

please, allow me to brainrot for a post.

for ye who are unaware SAR (Super Animal Royale) is a top down battle royale with genetically engineered chibi furries in it called Super Animals. i don't normally like battle royales but this one is pretty nice with a good community, lore, and very rarely makes items unobtainable. its a good one for people who are looking for a chill battle royale, 10/10 would recommend

anywho saiouma playing SAR. i have so many brainworms- mostly to do with how they'd play the game, cosmetics they'd choose, and what game modes they'd prefer.

i can see Kokichi having been the one to have found the game, or was introduced to it by someone else, and then dragged Shuichi into it cause he wanted someone to share it with. he'd definatly into the classic royale modes (solo, duos, squads), and use to really love Mystery Mode before it was removed from the mode list (there's always mummers of it coming back, but it hasn't. he misses it so)

Shuichi on the other hand prefers the extra modes (SAW vs Rebellion, Bawking Dead) over the actual Royale, mostly cause the larger teams makes it less likely for him to die instantaneously, and in both cases death doesn't mean you are out of the game. in SVR your teams respawn but have a limited respawn count pool that's connected to how many points your team has left and the first team to 0 points loses, and in BD when you die you become a chicken zombie and get to be part of the respawning hoard attacking the remaining survivors. he doesn't like the stress being against 90% of the lobby right off the bat creates, so these two modes are all he ever plays unless Kokichi begs him to join him for a round of Duos.

weapons wise it's a bit trickier cause i'm not too familiar with all the weapons stats- hell i don't know the stats for the weapons i prefer- but fear not! i can uses the wiki to scrounge up stats and strategy information.

for these i'm formatting this a bit different cause there's two gun slots, a melee, a throwable weapon, and one power-up, so i'm going to do this but listing off the choices and explanations bullet point style. i won't list the melee options cause they are purely cosmetic, they all have the exact same stats and all choices are really just skins so it's pointless to list those off

Kokichi- Main gun: Hunting Rifle. Kokichi loves to makes this game hard on himself, so why not give him a really difficult gun to use, hell even the wiki is saying this gun is for experienced users. this thing needs to be reloaded ever shot, the reload takes longer than most guns, and it slows player movement the most out of any gun in the game (it's tied with the BCG in player speed but still). HOWEVER! despite this absolute bullshit, it's great gun in his hands cause if you know how to shoot it right you can break any level of armor in one shot and do critical damage to someone who's unarmored. Secondary gun: Thomas Gun. to combat his stubborn ass difficult main gun habits, this is his favorite late game gun. it's not too easy to find so when he can't find it he settles for anything he can get his hands on- but it's his favorite automatic cause it's great at destroying armor, doesn't slow his movements, and is designed for his preferred close range combat style. it's really good for when he get into the final 10 range and needs a quicker gun to wipe out his opponents in their now insanely smaller arena that is still rapidly closing in on them, threatening to suffocate them to death if they can't kill one another fast enough Powerup: Skunk Gas Snorkel. so the arena gets smaller via a ring of green gas called Super Skunk Gas that slowly suffocates you- there are also skunk bombs that people can throw to make smaller temporary clouds of it. this items allows you to take less damage while in the gas, and Kokichi, who loves to play games the hard way, would purposefully like to play chicken with the skunk gas and uses this to keep himself just a little safer Throwable: Banana. it's literally just a banana, you can use them to slip anyone both enemy and teammate and stun them for a few seconds. he uses these exclusively on his teammates to annoy the shit out of them.

Shuichi- Main gun: AK. imma be real i'm giving him my main guns cause i genuinely feel like my play style suits him. the AK is an automatic he picked up cause it's an automatic and that means he doesn't have to spam click, but kept it cause it works well with his tunnel vision game play style. it is one of the guns that slows you down the most when holding, and isn't the best for close combat, but put him in a small corridor with people running at him and he can plow them down with it while standing still (aha, i do that) Secondary gun: SMG. this is a lighter automatic gun that's bullet spread is pretty wide, so he uses it mostly when on the move and in wide open spaces as he moves from one cubbyhole of the map to the next. they also shoot a bit faster than the AK but that means nothing to him when half the bullets miss the target by the nature of the gun's balancing. Powerup: Ninja booties. these reduce the amount of noice your character makes while moving and increases your speed just a hair, they also hide your footprints that zombies in BD can normally see and follow. they don't actually help him out too much given he doesn't know how to stealth play to save his life, but they give him a sense of comfort to some degree and that's what matters Throwable: zipline. Shuichi- like most SAR players- cannot resist the sweet lure of a zipline to be mindlessly played on for way too long in the middle of a match, so why not be the one to deploy them and trigger the collective braincell? besides, he forgets he has the other throwables when they're needed in combat

okay, now i got that done, i know i made a post once where i assigned the V3 cast super animal skins, but that was based on which i think they'd be as characters, not as actual preferred skins. so now i present to you what i think Saiouma's main three skin choices would be

Kokichi- -his is pretty difficult for me to pick with cause there's a good few i think he'd really love. but my faves for him are the Alebrije variants of various animals due to how neon they are. there's six of them but the one i think he'd like the most is the tiger variant -for something less eyestrain tho, i also thin he'd like the pig on the principle of i hc that's his fave animal. i picked the Lunar Pig cause it's red and i also hc that's his fave color. he literally would use this just because it's two fave things in one -he'd also really like the dragons because dragons are fucking sick as hell, any skin would do but i think he'd get the Ice Wyvern first just because it's the hardest to get

Shuichi- -similar to why i picked the lunar pig, Shuichi's main is the Yellow Bearded Dragon because i hc he likes yellow and reptiles. his favorite Reptile is snakes, but there's no snakes in SAR so he went with the cutest reptile option they had instead - i cannot be convinced Shuichi didn't see the Tibetan Fox, wheeze laugh at it's stupid face for far too long, then decide to get him simply for his own amusement -the Goth Possum is his second favorite skin in the whole game honestly, he likes how it looks like it has eyebags, and it's gothic

okay i'm done now- i'd add weapon skins too but this post it too long as is, feel free to send me asks if you wanna know about those tho

[keilahseverin]

Spell your URL: keilahseverin

Spell out your URL using song titles that can describe your muse, then tag as many people as there are letters in your URL!

Tagged by @humblemooncat and @bananarose yessss 2x tags means 2x effort let's goooo

My URL = one of my WOL's name because I am so very creative haha.

This was HARD, but uhhh I made it hard on myself. I approached this a little differently from the description above and built a "soundtrack" based on Keilah's story. I had several criteria for picking songs here:

Can't pick two songs from the same band or source.

The lyrics of the song, if any, have to be relevant to Keilah's personality or life somehow.

The overall vibe of the song has to fit Keilah.

No FFXIV OST, that would be too easy (but other FF titles were fair game... even though none of them made the cut, lul).

I think the criteria worked, because I was able to fish around in my library and memory for a collection of songs that I think represents Keilah well in many different ways! (Plus, new story brainworms moved in how about that??)

If you decide to do this challenge, I encourage you to find a fun way to represent your muse that makes sense for you! Song titles, songs from OSTs only, whatever :)

---

Here is the soundtrack:

K - Kid A, Radiohead - I slip away, I slipped on a little white lie

E - E. Is Stable, Menomena - Coldness sets in like fingernails raked across the door

I - I Walked, Sufjan Stevens - I would not have run off, but I couldn't bear that it's me, it's my fault

L - La cathédrale engloutie (The Sunken Cathedral), Debussy - The slow, quiet buildup conjuring images of a drowned cathedral slowly emerging from the sea... only for the waves to roll back in, engulfing the cathedral, as they ever have. I can't help but picture Keilah's big discoveries about her own past taking place during this song. Okay and maybe I cheated a little using the French version of the name "But Keilah there is also an S in your name" Yes shhh quiet it's okay shhhhh.

A - Area Zero, multiple composers/arrangers (Pokémon Scarlet & Violet OST) [potential Pokémon SV late-game spoiler!]- The mysterious feel of this track-- like you're stumbling upon knowledge you shouldn't be witness to-- fits well with Keilah's personal journey.

H - Hand in my Pocket, Alanis Morissette - I'm sad, but I'm laughing. I'm brave, but I'm chicken shit. I'm sick, but I'm pretty, baby

S - Sacrifice, The Weeknd - Every time you try to fix me, I know you'll never find that missing piece

E - Emil (Sacrifice), Keiichi Okabe (Nier Replicant 1.22... OST) - "There are as many ways to view the world as there are people in it."

V - Valley of Calm Trees, Klaxons - While passing through the clouds of diamond dust as two mock suns arise beside our one, the sun-dogs guide the way towards the east and set behind the valley of calm trees

E - Exit This Earth's Atomosphere, Camellia - keilahbossfight.mp3

R - Recover, Chvrches - And if I recover, will you be my comfort? Or it can be over. Or we can just leave it here

I - Invincible, Muse - Don't give up the fight. You will be alright, 'cause there's no one like you in the universe

N - No One Knows, Queens of the Stone Age - I drift along the ocean, dead lifeboat in the sun, and come undone

---

Tagging 13 people here we go, 0 pressure to do this especially if it's not your thing, more of an FYI hi this might be cool if you want: @archaiclumina @miqomonkly @gobbie-boom @ravendas-xiv @ishgardmuffin @umbralaether @irisopranta @emetkoto @arinaxiv @emc2beans @protection-and-pleasure @whimsyxiv @wingedasarath and of course anyone else that stumbles upon this and wants to try!

Feel free to do this with your character's name instead, whatever floats your boat really heh heh.

[vparka]

I know i'm late and very behind, but... day 1 of trying kinktober!

Prompt: Oviposition! MIDAGUE. (Midas x Montague)

*AO3 link *

Word count: 9.5k.

Warnings: Explicit. AU! Merman! Montague, Human(?)! Midas [[THEY MAY BE A BIT OOC], Fingering, *the eggs*, slick, scents, use of the word alpha, weird mermaid biology (don't ask me, i just listened to the brainworms in my head), not beta'ed. And this probably has some errors I overlooked (english isn't my first language;u; sorry)

💛💎💛💎

Living in a yacht was a relaxing experience, truth to be told. The vista was great, the air was always fresh and clean, add to that the fact that the coast was also the Agency’s territory and it was a perfect place to live in.

Most people would stay away from that side of the beach and the boat– as they should, unless they wanted to be mistaken for an enemy and be killed. So it wasn’t only a beautiful place, but a calm one too. Most days were silent, only the sound of the waves and the fauna could be heard, but if you entered the yacht, numerous meetings were held and many plans were made. Overall, the place was quiet and excellent to unwind.

Or at least that was until a certain sea creature decided it was time to wreak havoc on board whenever he pleased.

“Where’s Midas?” A silky voice asked the first guard he came across, sharp claws digging into the yacht’s paint job; something that would definitely annoy Midas, the owner of the yach, but only if the guard or Montague himself told the owner that he was the one who damaged it. But Montague would never declare himself guilty… and every member of the crew inside the yacht knew better than to annoy the merman.

Being now kind of part of the crew had its privileges, though he sincerely didn't need them much, being a predator whose place was high on the food chain already had the landwalkers walking carefully around him, enough to not upset Montague... but nobody needed to know that Midas had forbidden Montague from eating his crew members. Land walkers still needed to know their place.

The guard who had been scouting ahead with binoculars on the deck jumped, taken aback from the sudden question.

Then he glanced below, noticing a familiar presence.

An ethereal creature that possessed the form of a man, but also fish. Half and half, an existence that was supposed to be part of a fairytale, but instead swam lazily around the yacht with uninterest on dual colored eyes.

A merman.

A very pretty one: short black hair with curtain white bangs, heterochromatic eyes, full lips surrounded by light stubble. His bare chest was impossible to ignore, being a swimming creature had toned his muscles nicely, just as the sun had kissed his skin enough for him to be tanned. He possessed a large, heavy and powerful iridescent white tail, the scales shining like diamonds with the sun, just as smooth and sharp. A deadly beauty.

A breathtaking being who had the Agency’s leader wrapped around his sharp claws.

“Sir.” The guard acknowledged the merman with a respectful nod, then proportioned the information. “Mr. Midas is currently at a meeting in his office. Would you like to be aboard? ”

Such was their closeness that Montague, a maneater predator, was trusted to be inside a vessel full of food without constant supervision.

“I think I’ll wa– ugh.” Before Montague could answer, he grimaced in pain. He bit his tongue hard enough for his fangs to puncture the organ a bit, drawing some droplets of blood. One of his hands immediately went to touch his navel, trying to soothe the area. It didn’t work. “Oui. Get me inside.” 

He hated being onboard: being limited in his movement and having to endure the stares of the crew. Don’t get him wrong, he loved having people admiring his perfect self, they should be awed whenever they saw him, but truth to be told, Montague preferred to take Midas into one of his numerous caves in his territory, just the two of them (and being able to swim freely) but in this occasion it was just impossible.

Montague had fought a lot during his lifetime, especially when he swam by himself all the way from France to the Island, fighting other mermen and sharks during his journey; he wasn’t a stranger to bruises and pain, but this time he couldn’t do it alone, he needed his mate.

The guard nodded and immediately called for others to help Montague get in.

💎💛💎💛

He ended up on Midas’ personal jacuzzi, inside his bedroom on the yacht. It was decent sized, maybe five people could fit in– or in this case, Montague and his large tail, Midas could squeeze in just fine too. In fact, they have done that before; whenever a storm hit the island and Midas couldn’t be outside the yacht, the caves being too dangerous for him in those times.

Even if he couldn’t swim at all, Montague found himself being comfy in the heated and bubbly water, it was great and never failed to make his muscles relax.

Except that this time, the jacuzzi couldn’t ease his pain. Montague’s scent screamed for comfort.

It was that excruciating time again, the dreaded three months after mating season for merpeople, the time to lay eggs so a new generation could be born. Only a mated mer could produce the eggs after mating season, though they were just duds in this case. Montague hadn’t let Midas breed him yet because he wasn’t ready to take care of an entire clutch of tiny versions of them–  and Midas already had his hands full of looking out for his own daughter Jules, a strong young woman but forever the man’s kid. Montague adored her. Still, Midas didn’t know anything about this; their biology was completely different along with the fact that the merman hadn’t bothered to tell him about it. The crime boss probably thought that Montague was like a human male, but it wasn’t like that with merpeople at all: they only had a slit that could either sprout a cock to impregnate someone else, or use the slit to be impregnated; in their relationship Montague took the later role.

This was only Montague’s second time going through this; laying eggs was a painful process if not done correctly, a pain he thought he could survive all by himself but after swimming far away from the yacht the first time he laid a clutch of empty eggs Montague felt like he would die.

Merpeople mated for life; only having one partner during all their entire lifetime, someone they deemed worthy of them, someone who was equally as strong, reliable and that loved them with every inch of themselves just as they did. A powerful connection that could only be broken by death. It was a precious and important ritual for a couple, forming a family was actually expected of a couple after their first spent together mating season.

Intercourse could be done for pleasure just like humans did, but the bite of possession, or often watered down as just the mating bite sealed the deal; a mark that other mer respected with their lives and the only thing that indicated to their body that they had some kind of stability enough to breed and continue with their species. The message was crystal clear, one being belonging to another. Maybe it sounded a bit harsh, even primitive, but mer were incredibly possesive creatures, Montague hadn’t over did it when he bit Midas hard, it was totally justified. A great mate that also turned things into gold? Mer loved being adored and collecting shiny things, he had won the moment when Midas accepted being his human.

Though Montague hadn’t actually expected Midas to bite him first with enough force to puncture Montague’s mating gland on his neck, he didn’t even know how Midas knew about the bite but apparently he did and decided to boldly claim Montague while they had sex a year ago after seeing each other for about three years. The french mer was even more surprised that it actually worked, interspecies couples were rare but it was even rarer that mating worked on them. Montague of course then bit back with ferocity, how could he not claim Midas back? He was way better than any other met Montague had met during his lifetime, though them meeting had been a pure accident.

Which was a fun memory; the yacht had been navigating the ocean three years ago during a mission and Midas had turned something into gold; he dropped it by accident on the waters and Montague mistook it for a courting attempt. Montague had been flabbergasted that a mere low life land-walker had tried to court him, a mythic and perfect creature such as himself, but revealing his presence and embarrassing himself when Midas, in awe at the merman’s presence, denied the courting attempt was a memory that never failed to make him cringe. Still, Midas joking that it was destiny that made them meet made the memory somewhat bearable. 

“Uuugh, merde. Fils de pute.” Montague groaned, closing his eyes and biting his bottom lip as he rested his head on the marble surface of the jacuzzi. Nothing could distract him enough, not even their embarrassing first meeting. The pain would decrease every now and then, turning into a dull one but then it would come back full force, very much like that time a shark bit Montague’s tail when he had been sleeping… but worse. He had never endured this kind of pain before mating Midas, so it was only fair to cuss him right now. Montague was at least owed that.

Not only was it the physical pain of the eggs inside his body that tried to get out of his small slit without succeeding, but the emotional pain as well. The feeling of hopelessness and emptiness of not having his mate at such a vulnerable moment, which became even worse when he remembered that they were unfertilized.

Laying eggs was an intimate beautiful moment for a mer couple, the impregnated mer couldn’t be alone in it, especially in the dangerous ocean waters, the mate should be there to soothe, aid and protect.

But Midas wasn’t there for him. It hurt, horribly so. The first time Montague had swam far away from the yacht, ashamed of his biology and sure that Midas would find it disgusting. He heard from other merpeople that it sucked not having his mate present but he had incredibly underestimated it, the desperation and emotional agony was something he couldn’t endure again. And his slit either, because he had to pull the eggs out one by one all by himself that time, his sharp claws hurting the small opening in the process. 

Never again.

That’s why he returned to the yacht after going missing for three months, right after mating season. Montague thought he could do it alone a second time, but the moment he felt ready the physical and emotional pain came slowly but surely, making him absolutely miserable when it reached its peak. Mindlessly, he found himself swimming towards the yacht with the plan of taking Midas into one of his caves, but he ended up in the man’s jacuzzi, waiting for him.

Hopefully, Midas wouldn’t be as disgusted by Montague as he catastrophizes in his mind.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but Montague guessed it had been a considerable one when he heard the voice of his lover. The merman hadn’t even noticed when his mate had come inside the bedroom.

“Montague?” Talking about the devil. Midas’ deep voice distracted Montague from his pain for a second, his shoes making a subtle noise as he walked towards the merman in his jacuzzi. Midas sat on the edge of the jacuzzi, a golden hand rubbing Montague’s back softly. “You finally came back, my treasure. ” he whispered, taking in the sight of the beautiful merman inside his bedroom.

Montague only groaned as he felt the golden hand touching him, one of his own clawed hands immediately covered his lower body. Montague’s stomach was slightly more round than the last time Midas had seen him, coming back full of eggs suddenly felt too embarrassing again. Full of dud eggs. Not even fertilized, full of life ones. Was it too late to act like nothing was happening and swim as far as he could?

Why was he here, again? 

“Bon après-midi.” He murmured, grimacing as his white tail spasmed of pain, but he still didn’t look at the crime boss. Montague instead opted to stare at a droplet of water that fell on the floor. He was dying to hug Midas, to kiss him and tell him that he missed him too, but the embarrassment was greater.

How would he look at his mate and tell him ‘hey, I ran away because I didn’t want you to see me laying our eggs, but I’m back and I want you to help me this time’ after he left the man for three months?

“I know that you like to travel, but I missed you a lot.” Midas confessed, eyeing the merman with great attention, trying to read his body language, to notice something different. His voice carried a calm tone, but inside himself Midas wanted to ask a lot of questions. “This is the second time you’ve left for such a long time in the same year, you never did before.” An opening so Montague could tell him, Midas desperately wanted to hear the man’s reason for leaving so suddenly, without a single word nor note, after spending such a marvelous night together during the last day of the mer’s rut. It was the second time he did it. Montague had been missing for a total of six months both times combined. It hurt.

They had a connection unlike any other, one that Midas and Montague had never shared with another being: Midas was never a very affectionate man, Montague neither, but they were on the same side, trying to overcome that coldness and stiffness to show the feelings that were already there. They loved each other so much in their own way, they were mates.

To Midas’ understanding (thanks to Jules informing him about merpeople when she found out that her dad was seeing the sea creature) being mates was something far more superior than a human marriage. He wanted that with Montague, but apparently the mer wasn’t as interested as him, if his disappearances without any explanation said something.

Montague remained silent, but Midas’ golden eye caught the sight of the merman’s white tail spasming at the same timeMontague sucked a breath in, his pretty face showing the discomfort.

Alarms rang in the man’s head.

“Are you hurt?” Midas tried to take a peek of the merman’s tail, but there wasn’t a single trace of blood or a cut as far as Midas could see. Montague’s upper body looked fine as well. “Did something happen, Montague? Talk to me.” His voice was soft, but firm.

“I’m okay. Just–” Montague’s eyebrows furrowed, his breath becoming more elaborated. He had been trying to hold it in for an hour but couldn’t do it anymore, he needed to lay his clutch but his slit was still so small. It would hurt like a bitch doing it like this and already knowing himself, he would become even more desperate trying to get thand hurt his body with his claws. He needed his mate. He needed Midas to help him with this. The crime boss couldn’t smell it because he wasn’t a merman, but Montague’s scent was incredibly sour at this moment, the smell of distress inside the room was suffocating even for himself. “Fuck no. It hurts, Midas.”

Absolute worry filled Midas’ face and his touch became even more firm, golden fingers started trying to find a bruise or cut on the merman’s skin, but it was useless. Midas’ worry would be endearing if he wasn’t so uncomfortable, Midas was more a man of action than one to express or tell his feelings, something that came with his line of work.

“What happened? Do you want me to bring a medkit?” The pale human then directed his hands to the shiny white tail, looking now for any bruise there once he noticed Montague’s upper body was fine. His fingers still caressed lovingly the sharp, iridescent scales on his way as he would often do. “Did you eat something that upset your stomach?” He asked once he noticed that Montague was rubbing his stomach insistently, trying to soothe the area.

It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened, Montague liked to show off how strong he was, though the time he ate a poisonous jellyfish had been a little too much.

His stomach was far more developed than a human’s, but still there were things that weren’t that edible even to them.

“I wish it was like that.”

That confused Midas even more.

Montague was the type to ramble on and on when he noticed that Midas was actively listening, he even stopped concealing his accent because he knew Midas liked it a lot. Him talking less than usual was a warning sign.

“Do you want me to take a look?” Midas offered, hands already trying to touch the merman’s stomach. 

Before Montague could argue against that, Midas insistent hands were already on him. In any other context, Montague would be smug about it because of course Midas couldn’t take his hands off of him, he was that captivating… but right now his ego was on vacation, maybe even destroyed. His usual confidence wasn’t accompanying him today actually.

His tail spasmed again when another wave of pain hit, this time he scratched the edge of the jacuzzi with his claws. In any other scenario Midas would frown at Montague damaging his things so carelessly but this time he didn’t, his golden hands instead rubbed soothingly Montague’s stomach as he pressed a kiss on the merman’s neck.

“Food poisoning? I didn’t want to mention it, but your stomach feels a bit more round. Was it a jellyfish again?” 

“It’s not that..” His stomach was in fact rounder, but now knowing that his lover had noticed it made him want to talk about it even less. “I prefer shark.” he bit his bottom lip, fighting the urge to whip violently his tail so he wouldn’t splash Midas with the jacuzzi’s water.

“Perhaps constipated? Last time I saw you, three months ago, “ Even when he was not facing Midas, Montague could feel the man’s icy stare on him. “You were also eating a lot of raw meat, almost no seaweed nor fruits.”

“Fuck you.” Montague’s voice was rough, but decided to fuck it. Fuck everything. They were coming, he needed to do something, he needed to get started. If he tried to hold it again, it would only be worse. Without saying anything more, the merman turned around to face his lover.

There were tears threatening to fall. “It hurts. Just… please.” 

There was no time for explanations, his insides were contracting trying to get the eggs out. Midas wanted to mate him? Well, he should’ve known better. This was part of Montague’s species and he couldn’t do anything but suck it up.

Midas sighed at being cussed at, but directed his hands towards Montague’s hair so he could pet his head; something caught Midas’ attention the moment he noticed it.

The merman’s slit. It was a place Midas knew very well like his own hands, and it was in plain view… but Montague didn’t seem aroused. Quite the contrary actually. Still, he couldn’t help it but murmur:

“Well, aren’t you a demanding pretty thing? A little bold, even… considering that you haven’t apologized yet for disappearing on me after such a special occasion. ” The crime boss continued to observe, curious about why Montague wanted Midas to touch him when he wasn’t aroused.

Montague couldn’t resist it any second more, he loved Midas’ deep voice, he really did, but this wasn’t the time to hold a conversation.

Just as another wave of pain came Montague let his own hands immediately go towards his slit, on the way scratching the sensitive skin of his tail around it. 

“They’re coming, I need them out. “ he whined, closing his eyes as he tried to insert a pair of clawed fingers inside the slit so he could pull out the eggs by himself. Not a second after, Montague hissed in even more pain as his claws poked his soft and sensitive inner-walls. He tried to suck it up and go even deeper, but his hands were removed with great speed.

Midas was looking at him with horror.

He knew Midas would find it repulsive, was what Montague thought.

Midas, on the other hand, couldn’t believe how reckless that move was, he knew first hand how sharp and deadly these claws were, and how sensitive and delicate was Montague’s slit. These two didn’t mix well.

“Montague, what are you doing? Who's coming? I don’t understand.” Midas took Montague’s hands into his own, caressing the fingers in an attempt to calm him down but his eyes remained on Montague’s slit, or more precisely, the skin and scales surrounding it and the tiny droplets of blood that were now painting the beautiful white color. “You’re hurting yourself!”

“The eggs.” Montague couldn’t fight the urge to whip his tail now, so he did it, not caring about soaking Midas. “Out. I want them out, now.”

“... Eggs?” Midas asked, now staring blankly at Montague, still holding the merman’s twitching hands.

Then the merman did something he hadn’t done since their first meetings.

He bared his fangs and hissed at Midas.

“Birth, Midas. “ 

It took the man a full minute to understand Montague’s behavior and words. 

“Mermaids give birth to eggs?” Midas asked with sincere curiosity, but the only response he got was a glare. If that was the case, then it explained Montague’s slightly round stomach and how protective he was of it, but also the pain he was in. “Okay. I have many questions, but I still need your guidance, so–”

“Stretch me, that helps.” Montague demanded as he swallowed hard, removing his hands from Midas’, now clawing on the jacuzzi once again. “It’s so small right now, it hurts.”

Midas had to agree despite the circumstances. 

Montague’s cloaca was small and exquisitely tight inside, but Midas supposed even that had its disadvantages. He couldn’t imagine the small opening giving any kind of birth, but as always, Montague was a creature full of surprises.

Still, Midas understood: there was no time for further explanations. Apparently Montague didn’t give birth like humans did, he laid eggs instead. And… birth? It shocked Midas greatly. Was Montague pregnant? Maybe that was the reason he disappeared out of nowhere. But… the merman had never allowed Midas cum inside, even in their most desperate, clingy sex they ever had.

Maybe the fact that they were different species had something to do with that, but Midas wasn’t really convinced. Their biology wasn’t that different from the little knowledge he had on mer; Montague liked to be an open book whenever he wanted or as closed as the heaven’s gates were for both of them. He had informed Midas a bit of merkind, but nothing as important as this.

Still he directed his golden hands towards Montague’s beautiful tail, the small slit five inches below the merman’s navel. With great care, Midas wiped off the blood staining the iridescent tail, scales very soft and slippery to the touch. Then he rubbed his fingers around the opening, poking softly with just the tip of his gold tainted fingers.

Montague sucked in a breath, but forced himself to relax and not whip his tail, which was larger than his upper body: the thing was pure muscle, extremely heavy, he didn’t want to knock out Midas accidentally a second time (the first time was a funny memory, though).

Midas watched attentively with his golden eye, looking for any sign of discomfort. Montague could hide his expressions very well, but his tail was something he couldn’t control fully. Even when Montague’s face was completely blank or he showed an expression that indicated he was annoyed by Midas, his pearlescent, almost see-through fins would flare and the end of his tail would wiggle a bit. When Midas swam with him around the yacht, Montague would often circle him as if he was a shark but in reality it was closer to bunny behavior. It was truly endearing. He could lie and mask all he wanted, but he didn't have full control of his body, just like Midas would turn things into gold accidentally when his emotions were too much for him to handle.

Noticing that Montague had relaxed just a bit by his touch, Midas pressed more insistently the tip of his fingers, slowly trying to make hid way in. Questions could wait.

“Oviposition then, mn? Not how I imagined us catching up after your vacation, but this certainly will make us closer, my treasure.” Midas let out a deep laugh at Montague’s look of mortification.

His fingers rubbed the slit in small circles; the tip of his fingers still slowly trying to make their way in, which seemed to get the insides slightly wetter and not with blood this time. Montague must be really sensitive right now if he was lubricating himself with the slightest touch, he thought.

“Merde.” The merman whined, biting sharply near his own shoulder. He let out another hiss when he felt Midas stopping, wanting to see if Montague had hurt himself with the bite. His fangs weren’t a joke. “Keep going, open me up.” he urged.

“I’m patching you up after this.” Midas sighed, wanting to do it now so he couldn’t see this majestic being bleeding in his jacuzzi; it still mesmerized him knowing his partner was this beautiful humanoid creature. “Relax, you’re incredibly tight.”

Midas introduced two fingers vertically in a slow pace, caressing the mer’s inner walls: up and down, feeling them up without any rush. Golden tipped fingers tapped on the walls in a playful way then caressing their way to the base of the slit, then going up to the middle and where he positioned his fingers horizontally with great care. Once he did it, Midas then started to pull his fingers out completely, then penetrated the hole again, repeating the entire process, enjoying the velvety insides and the way Montague’s tail and arm fins flared at the touch, his body shivering a bit.

Around the sixth time, Midas then started opening his two horizontally positioned fingers to start stretching him. He needed to get Montague used to the touch first before stretching him, after all. The slick that started being more produced was a nice bonus too.

It was incredibly soft and warm inside, Montague’s natural lubricant made the movements of Midas’ fingers way more easier and slicker. The feeling was pretty erotic.

Montague groaned at the feeling of being penetrated, he wasn’t as full as he would be when they had sex, obviously, but the fingers weren’t easy to ignore either, especially these; Midas was crazy good with them, his fingering technique was truly something else. They were working their way in, trying to stretch him and it just felt incredibly good, almost enough to make him ignore the pain. 

With every second that passed, Midas’ fingers slowly increased their pace, becoming faster and deeper.

“You’re getting so wet.” Midas declared, now trying to make eye contact with his mer. With the hand he wasn’t using to finger Montague, he collected a bit of the slick that gushed out with the tip of a finger: wordlessly, he licked it clean. “Delicious, as always.”

Montague didn’t need to be told, he knew. He felt it, he could now hear it. The slick and the quick pace Midas was fingering him with gave place to a lewd slapping sound they were very familiar with, though it wasn’t as loud as it usually was.

Montague moaned, both at the memory of their last time having sex and the feeling of these wonderful golden fingers working him open.

“Oh, fuck.” Mindlessly, Montague’s grip on the jacuzzi got tighter, puncturing the material and leaving small stretch marks. “Ç-ça fait du bien, baby.” It was a shame Midas would never be able to smell it, but in a few minutes, Montague’s scent had gradually changed from an acidic great distress to a sweeter arousal. 

“You like it?” Midas licked his lips, adding a third finger and repeating the initial process. He would never get tired of these warm walls hugging tightly his cock or his fingers; or when Montague decided to use his own cock, this very precious slit let him see it, touch and suck it. Midas loved whenever Montague wanted to rub their cocks together as well. 

Montague’s cock was slightly different from his actually: it was white, almost like his tail and the length had small spikes over it (they weren’t like real ones, they actually gave Midas a ticklish feeling) overall, it had a similar appearance to Midas’. The difference was incredibly erotic to the crime boss, a reminder that he was the ethereal creature’s mate.

Montague bared slightly his neck the moment a deep thrust of the golden fingers reached even more deeper, making him groan out loud… but Midas, being just a human, didn’t notice it right away as another mer could. Submission. Midas didn’t know, but he was Montague’s alpha. He surely would be one if he was a merman too, just like Montague was an alpha mer: the reason why he had been flabbergasted when he assumed a simple landwalker (Midas back then) had tried to court him with gold. The reason why Montague had an attitude whenever they had an argument: Midas liked to be right, Montague would feel as if his mate was fighting him for dominance: he already let himself be ‘bitched’ as other mer would vulgarly call it, but he wouldn’t let his mate fight him on that, he made sure of it. Montague was a prideful mer alpha.

Good thing was, despite them being hard to deal with individually, they worked well together. 

Montague bared even more his neck, moaning as now four fingers stretched him out. He hadn’t noticed when Midas had added one more, but now he felt it, he felt how Midas was scissoring his fingers inside him. 

“That’s it, yeah… look at you, so wet and open now.” Midas continued fingering him, every now and then pulling his fingers out so he could soak them with the slick that gushed out, staring at them as he separated his fingers, enjoying how strings of slick connected his golden fingers, only to press them inside Montague again, sloppily penetrating him. “Do you think you’re ready? Or just a bit more?”

“A bit more, aagh.”  The mer then tried to get close enough to circle his hands around Midas’ neck, who was still sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi.

Midas, noticing that, decided to get into the jacuzzi so the proximity would make it easier. He still needed to help Montague get the eggs out. When he pulled his fingers out and took a couple steps behind, Montague looked at him in a way Midas wasn’t prepared for. His eyes were glassy and his eyebrows almost flat, his full bottom lip trembled. Hurt.

“I’m gonna get into the jacuzzi with you, we’ll be closer.” Midas explained briefly, quickly removing his black dress pants, vest and white button-up along his gun holsters; only being left with his dark, tented boxers.

It would be a crime to not be aroused when he had been fingering his love and enjoying the sinful expressions on the man’s face. You couldn’t blame him.

“Be quick, last time there were three of them.” Montague lowered his gaze, his tail twitching in nervousness, though his scent had just gotten stronger; he still felt uncomfortable and in pain, but at least his hole was stretched; the arousal had helped in dilating his insides, almost enough to start pushing the eggs out.

Midas nodded as he entered the jacuzzi, but stopped when he heard Montague.

“Last time? This isn’t the first time you lay eggs?” Midas was surprised, when did Montague do that? And why hadn't he told him? To Midas’ understanding, Montague had to participate in something sexual to do that. Or… not? He wasn’t exactly open about mer biology. “... were they ours? Or…”

“Yeah, ours. Later.” Montague closed his eyes, his tone urgent in wanting to change the topic and continue. They were about to pull his second clutch out, but he wasn’t ready to tell Midas they were empty. There was no life inside them.

He didn’t want to admit it but that played a huge role in the emotional pain he felt. He was, in human terms, birthing but his eggs were empty, not fertilized. No mini Montagues nor mini Midas inside them. In normal mer couples, they should be. But they weren’t, he wasn’t even sure if they could be fertilized if he let Midas breed him at some point.

Empty duds were just a signal that he was a failure.

He knew that and still had taken care of his first clutch in one of his caves underwater whenever he wasn’t with Midas near or on the yacht. He knew they were empty the first time and still had grown attached, only for them to never hatch.

“Okay, let’s continue then. “ Midas sat on Montague’s tail, straddling him, sighing as he felt the heated crystal clear water of the jacuzzi relax his own muscles. The position made this way easier and intimate, being face to face so he opted to stay like that; then Midas started kissing Montague’s cheek, the stubble on the mer’s skin poking his own softly. Midas made his way to the merman’s jaw and went lower, making sure to bite and suck on his neck, leaving love bites wherever he could reach. His golden hands immediately resumed their work, four fingers slowly entering the mer’s hole and fingering it. Sweet and sensual first only to quicken the pace as the seconds passed.

Montague let out a variation of moans: tiny and barely audible ones when he felt Midas’ fingers caressing the warm and slickened walls on their way out; loud and whinier, sometimes incredibly deep ones when golden fingers penetrated the hole again and again, reaching deeper every time. 

When Midas scissored them, Montague would respond by tightening his walls and gushing out more slick.

With his other hand, Midas started touching Montague’s pecs, knowing very well that the mer loved it when he did that; he cupped and massaged a pec, groping it the exact moment his other hand went deep inside Montague, the tips of his fingers touching something very firm but very slippery.

“Oh, god. Midas, Midas.” This was it; Montague moaned loud as his lover’s fingers reached even deeper, his stomach contracting at the feeling: the movement making him feel that something inside had moved.

Midas had touched an egg.

The mer was dilated and slicked enough that he hadn’t noticed when the womb he had developed the first time he let himself be bitched had pushed out the first egg.

He hadn’t noticed it.

This was already very different from the first time, which had hurt like hell and left him incredibly swollen and bloody.

This wasn’t. It hurt at the beginning along with the contractions, but it wasn’t as bad. He hoped it stayed like that.

“It’s coming, mmgh. Continuez, s’il v-vous plaît, mon coeur.”

Midas just hummed, delighted at hearing Montague’s breathless and slightly deeper voice.

He continued gathering enough slick to push inside, scissoring the warm walls as he waited for Montague to tighten his insides so the egg was pushed out a little bit more, that way Midas could pull it out carefully with his fingers. While he waited for that to happen, Midas leaned enough to suck on the closest nipple on Montague’s chest, groping the other pec at the same time.

Midas’ tongue immediately showered with immense attention the small brown bud, sucking harshly and biting softly. After some seconds, his sucking and groping were as unforgiving as the fingering.

Montague shivered as he felt small tears drop from his dual colored eyes. All of the stimulation was too much, but too good. He had missed this terribly.

Would Midas have done this the first time?

“Of course, Montague. My precious mer...”

Montague cried out when Midas’ tongue continued its assault on his nipple, his other hand pinching the other brown bud; along with the wet and sloppy penetration, all of these combined had his mind going blank. He could only feel.

Montague’s sudden hiss made Midas pause for a second, thinking he had hurt him with how rough he was going. He couldn’t say something because Montague quickly beat him to it.

“It’s stuck.” The mer whined.

“No, my treasure, it isn’t. You already have done this, just take a deep breath in and try. ” Midas stopped his obscene touch on one of Montague’s pecs and instead lowered his hand, touching the area around his navel. “I didn’t know you could get… pregnant.” Midas murmured as he got closer to the mer’s face, pressing small, sweet kisses on his jaw. Then he started caressing the skin slowly. “But you look beautiful. You’re truly wonderful, you know that, right? Unreal. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

Montague looked at him with incredulity.

There was no way a man cold as ice as Midas was sweet-talking to him like that.

The man usually kept these thoughts to himself as far as Montague knew, often he would just demonstrate it but… it was endearing. Comforting, even, just hearing these words.

But maybe it wasn’t that difficult to believe in reality, after all. He was a great father to his daughter Jules– he still didn’t look like a poster family man, though. 

Montague’s inner alpha purred loudly at that. Maybe it also wasn’t bad being sweet-talked to like that.

“I didn’t know you could purr like that. Meowscles does that a lot when he sun bathes on the deck.” Midas added mindlessly, pressing a kiss on Montague’s navel, fingers still deep inside stretching him out.

Montague blushed and whipped his tail enough to soak Midas a little bit.

He didn’t appreciate the human mentioning others when they were doing something like this, it felt wrong.

Midas let out a deep, breathy laugh.

“Okay.” He continued pressing kisses, sucking the skin around Montague’s adonis belt, making sure to leave lasting hickeys. 

He didn’t care that the others in the yacht saw Montague shirtless when he was around, the reason being that the merman often was covered in Midas’ lovebites and at his side.

Okay, maybe he was a bit jealous when they stared a bit too much, but everyone already knew that the ethereal creature was literally Midas’ husband in human terms. “Breathe deep and try again, I think I almost have it.” 

Montague just nodded, not trusting in his voice to break.

This was supposed to be a beautiful moment, laying his eggs with his mate… but he felt a bit guilty as he found himself feeling horny thanks to the penetration and Midas’ wonderful mouth on his body.

Still, Montague did as he was told. Took a deep breath in and put pressure on his belly, whining in pain and pleasure as his lover’s fingers reached deeper again.

“Golden f-fingers, huh?” He couldn’t help but try to joke to distract himself, trying again to put pressure.

This time the first egg felt bigger than the ones from his first clutch.

Midas snorted and bit lovingly at Montague's left hip.

“Very funny.” 

Slowly but surely, the first egg touched the tips of Midas’ fingers inside Montague’s hole.

The mer was whining and moaning in an incredibly lewd way that it almost distracted Midas from the objective multiple times, only the feeling of the egg on his fingers maintaining him sane enough to focus. Midas’ erection was uncomfortable inside his tight tented boxers, he bet they weren’t only wet thanks to the jacuzzi’s water, but also pre. But it wasn’t the time to jerk off, even if he really wanted to.

Sometimes Midas refused to believe that one time where Montague told him that sirens didn’t exist and that he wasn’t one of them because they didn’t exist, duh; just a drunk sailor fairytale. Sirens in the media sang beautifully and were deadly, maneater creatures, mermaids on the other side were docile and sweet. For Midas, Montague was a siren: one that had captivated him like a siren would do to a sailor.

Montague’s already hugely inflated ego didn’t need to know that yet, though.

“That’s it. Just a bit more.” Midas informed the mer, stopping the fingering and instead placing three fingers wherever he could on the slippery egg with a firm grip. “Can you do that, love?” He stopped kissing Montague’s adonis belt and instead looked up, trying to make eye contact. “You almost have it, you’re doing so well…” another kiss was pressed on his navel.

“I’ll try.” His face contorted in pain as he did. This time the egg was definitely bigger than the first time, no doubt about that. Montague almost feared it would be too big and he wouldn’t be able to pull it out. He had heard stories about it. No, he shouldn’t think negatively. What you feared you attracted, or something like that Valeria (a fellow mer and his friend) had once told him when they were navigating Orca infested waters once.

No. Think positively.

Montague let out small gasps and continued: he had Midas, his mate, there for him. He wasn’t alone in one of his farthest caves all alone, hurting himself with his claws on cold waters, drawing blood and fearing sharks would find him in that vulnerable moment. No. This time he was on a heated jacuzzi with his mate aiding him carefully, trying to calm him down.

And Midas wasn’t disgusted by him.

With a loud cry, Montague tried again and this time his inner-walls tightened enough for the egg to be pushed out a little more: with the help of Midas’ fingers inside, he pulled the egg out slowly, trying to not hurt his mer. Finally. 

Once Midas pulled it out, he observed the egg and his mate’s gaping hole, internally awed at Montague’s excessively produced slick, which not only was delicious on his tongue, but also had helped greatly: the egg was about the same size as Midas’ hand: in normal circumstances  it should have hurt a lot more, perhaps even hurting the mer… that if Montague hadn’t lubricated himself as he did.

The egg was pearly white and had something Midas couldn’t point, but it seemed almost… iridescent? Like Montague’s tail. it was… pretty. It was really pretty.

Midas held it with great care, maybe it wasn’t like a human birth but it was one nonetheless. 

He felt a smile taking over his face.

Until he heard Montague’s panic.

“What?! Only… o-only one?” His eyes looked frantically at the egg on Midas’ hands and his belly. The slight roundness was gone and he didn’t feel as full as he had in the beginning. This may have been only his second time, but he knew the feeling of his eggs being inside him very well. He had carried them three months inside, his body forming them after all. He was empty, there weren't any other eggs inside. “Just… one.”

“You can have more?” Midad asked carefully, not knowing how Montague would react. He looked very different from just seconds ago, almost sad, angry.

Montague’s bottom lip trembled at the question. Midas didn’t know because Montague hadn’t gone into deep details about merpeople with him, it wasn’t his fault, but the question hurt him. Yes, he could have more. He should have. A healthy, fertile mer could lay up to six eggs. He had three the first time. This second time he had only one.

They were just duds, lifeless eggs… but he had three. And now he had only one.

He knew he hadn’t let Midas breed him because guppies weren’t something they had discussed yet, but knowing he wasn’t laying fertilized eggs and was having fertile problems hurt something in his more animal side. His humanoid side could understand why that was happening and that his choices were the cause of that: he hadn’t the most healthy diet even before last mating season, so maybe that was the cause, the eggs needed more nutrients; but his feral side didn’t understand that. It couldn’t reason, it just felt.  Thankfully, he could somewhat control himself, any other mer would have gone crazy and on a killing spree just out of spite and fury right now.

Montague bit his lower lip and tightly shut his eyes, not wanting to look at Midas and the egg. His mate probably thought a mer guppy would hatch off in six months or so.

He couldn’t bear Midas’ disappointment right now.

After a couple of silent minutes, the mer felt his mate sitting next to him, a tattooed arm circling around his shoulders.

“It’s very beautiful, don’t you want to hold it? I already washed the slick off of it, it should be less slippery.” Midas offered the egg to the mer, watching attentively how the mer started crying. Midas felt confused. Mer didn’t celebrate a birth like humans did? They were parents now, to Midas’ understanding. Very sudden, but they were adults already. Maybe Midas’ line of work wasn’t the ideal, but the waters were also dangerous. Montague was scary when he wanted to be and killed very easily, Midas had guns: they wouldn’t ever struggle financially with Midas’ golden touch. Maybe they needed to work more on their emotions, but they were fine. He had already raised Jules all by himself and she turned out to be a wonderful, strong woman; Midas had some parenting experience, surely their little… mer baby wouldn’t be too difficult.

“Get that thing far away from me unless you want me to break it.” Montague growled, refusing to look at them. He didn’t even want to see Midas’ soft expression as he held the empty egg. He would only yearn for the impossible, for it to be fertilized and then raise the hatchling with his mate. It would hurt even more. Just no.

Midas frowned at Montague’s defensiveness.

He didn’t… want the egg? For what reason? They were mated, Montague had bit him back so of course the merman wanted him, mer didn’t play about their mates, Montague himself had warned Midas when he asked how to court him. But why was he rejecting their egg? He didn’t want to raise a kid with him? 

“That was very rude of you, Montague. That would be… killing.” Midas’ incredulity could be heard in his voice. “Would you kill your own kid?”

“It isn’t alive, it’s not killing. Flush it down the toilet or make it an omelet… if that is even possible. I don’t care.” the mer growled again, refusing to turn. Tears started to fall down again, wetting his cheeks.

“I can’t believe what you’re saying, you–”

“It’s empty! An empty shell, it’s not alive!” Montague then turned, facing Midas, refusing to be scolded. His inner alpha wanted to cry, he was once again going through the emotional pain of not being able to take care of his clutch because they didn’t exist. “Je suis un échec! A failure! That’s what you wanted to hear, right?”

He usually was calmer and more reasonable than this. But with something so personal that hurt deeply… he wasn’t in his right mind right now. Midas shouldn’t provoke him unless he wanted to get bitten for real and the human knew that very well, Midas had seen him hunt a shark with only his fangs once.

“Empty? This one isn’t alive?” Midas looked at the pretty egg, then at his mate. Montague had never exploded like this emotionally, so his words must be true. The tears falling off his pretty eyes only confirmed it further. “Like chickens? It’s a… dud?”

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, my precious mer.” Midas unexpectedly didn’t yell at him nor reacted harshly, instead he… hugged Montague? and let Montague rest his head on the tattooed shoulders? Then he felt numerous kisses being pressed on his temple. 

Midas wanted to cuddle the merman and not let him go. To his understanding, this was the second time Montague passed through this, the first time should have left him scarred deeply enough for him to act this way and reject his egg because it pained him to look at it, which was an extremely depressing scenario to think about.

Being the mer equivalent of human pregnancy only for your creation to not be alive in the end. What an evil, sick joke. Montague had been missing for three months, so that should be the time he was gestating this egg all by himself. Where had he been when his mate had gone through this the first time? If Midas thought about it and looked for the similarities, maybe the first time had been months before the last mating season.

Montague had said he was a failure… but perhaps the failure was Midas, who hadn’t noticed his mer had been in great pain.

Of course he went crazy looking for Montague, he even bought scuba dive gear for himself and the members of the Agency so they could help him on a search party, but they had never found the sneaky merman. Every day for two and a half months, for hours, each time that the mer had disappeared, unless they had a mission they couldn’t postpone. Perhaps Montague knew Midas would go looking for him, so maybe he went deeper into the water where humans couldn’t go thanks to the pressure of the water, or maybe he even had left the island. Midas didn’t know, but didn’t doubt it, Montague was always a master of doing the unexpected just because he wanted to.

“You’re not. You didn’t know.” Montague murmured, sniffling and opening the palm of one of his hands, finally wanting to touch the egg. “I didn’t want you to know, because they’re not fertilized.”

He thought out loud, it seemed. Still, Midas continued kissing Montague’s temple, with the arm he had around the merman’s shoulders he pulled him closer: golden fingers now caressing the iridescent white scales on his shoulders. He wanted to soothe the merman, going through all of that alone… he was incredibly strong, but the weight was too heavy.

“You don’t have to go through this alone, Montague. You know you can lean on me, right? That’s what mates are for.” Midas deposited the egg on the mer’s hands, watching intently. The egg and Montague’s tail were almost the same color… if they had a mer baby, would the baby possess Montague’s diamond like tail and scales?

“I know…” Now he did. After examining the dud egg, he returned it to Midas, not wanting to get attached again. “You can do whatever you want with it.”

“You don’t want it?”

“Duds dissolve after a month in water, ” Montague sucked in a breath, not wanting to talk about how he had watched two of his first clutch dissolve right in front of him, how desperate he’d been to reunite the incredibly delicate thorn pieces… only for the pressure of the water to disappear the remainings into nothing. “and they fall apart after four months here, on the surface, so…” the remaining egg from his first time. Montague had swam all the way to an empty tiny island to get it out of the water, not wanting it to dissolve too; he kept it there well hidden and protected, often visiting it after spending his day with Midas’ only to return one time and find nothing but pieces of it on the sand. They didn’t last forever. “You can do whatever you want with it.”

Midas wanted to comfort him about that, but Montague’s glare was clear, he didn’t want Midas to mention something about it because the mer himself didn’t want to talk more about it. The human nodded and took the egg into his hands, after thinking for a couple seconds an idea came into his mind.

“Its natural course is to disappear. “ Midas nodded, keeping quiet for a bit, not knowing if what he was about to propose would be seen as incredibly inappropriate or even disrespectful, but he was desperate to help in any way he could.” … But if there was something you could do, would you take the opportunity and be selfish enough to preserve it even if its appearance changed?”

Montague thought about it mindlessly but the realization hit him instantly when he noticed how delicately Midas was holding the egg, almost as if it was a treasure.

Was he… offering to turn it into gold? 

Montague didn’t have to think about it twice.

“Do it. Turn it into gold, please.”

Anything to preserve it.

Midas stared at him, trying to find a single trace of doubt- if there was, he wouldn’t do it. It was their egg, something that was a product of their love even if it was empty inside, but he wanted Montague to be firm about his decision. If it was turned into gold… the beautiful color it was birthed by Montague would change, along with the softness and warmth: it would turn golden and heavy, cold. But forever preserved. 

“Midas, do it.”

Midas didn’t see any single trace of doubt in Montague’s fiery dual colored eyes, so he kept the eye contact and let his golden touch work, the egg slowly turning into gold. Montague’s gaze lowered, seeing his own creation become a statue like the ones Midas kept laying around the yacht. 

Once the egg was fully turned into gold, Midas offered it to Montague, who took it carefully.

Before Montague could say something, Midas hugged him tightly, not letting him go.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t reliable enough for you to come to me the first time. It hurts me deeply, but I trust you had your reasons, whatever they were. “Midas said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know what made you return, but I’m grateful about that. Please talk to me when something happens.”

“No, no. I just… I had the wrong idea.” Montague admitted, placing the golden egg on his tail and hugged back Midas. Then he tried to joke to lighten up the mood because it was extremely depressing right now. “Well, these are a lot of feelings right there. Who are you and what have you done to my stone cold Midas? Are you an impostor? perhaps a clone?” And it was depressing, he would probably spend an entire month mourning his egg, but this time he had Midas with him… and an indestructible golden egg.

Midas let out a small laugh.

Was it really that rare for him to express his sincere feelings? He knew both of them weren’t exactly the idealized couple, but they were trying.

“I’d really like for you to be more open to me.” Midas squeezed his mer reassuringly, not breaking the hug yet. “I love you, Montague.”

“Don’t say that right now, makes me want to actually try for a fertilized egg.” And it was the truth. This soft side of him was rare, but extremely welcomed- something Montague hadn’t admitted outloud yet, along with the fact that Midas hadn’t been disgusted by Montague and his egg, instead he had helped during the process and even seemed quite content with the idea of having to take care of the egg with him before Montague told him it was a dud; plus he already was a father, the man had raised his human daughter, surely he would be just as an excellent father for a pod of their own as he was with Jules.

Montague purred at the idea of them raising an entire pod. He had never considered himself a family man either, in fact, he never thought about having kids, but he knew he liked them. Well, Jules wasn’t exactly a kid, but she had been his stepdaughter the moment he mated Midas. Surely that counted, right?

“How do you fertilize an egg?” Midas asked with curiosity, smiling when he heard Montague’s purring. He had an idea, but knowing Montague as he did, it was better to never assume: Montague always found a way to surprise him anyway.

“By breeding me.” 

“Breeding…?”

“Yeah, cumming inside, especially during mating season, duh.” Montague let himself grin, noticing how Midas tensed. The man always asked to cum inside, but Montague would deny him every time, even going as far as biting him playfully to stop Midas from asking a second time. Montague wanted to, but he never really tracked the days after a full moon where the chances of fertilizing an egg would be close to zero, he was way too lazy to do that. Maybe he should start, though. Knowing what he did, he murmured. “I love you too, Midas.”

C'est tout!

The end :) 💛💎

[kroosluvr]

hihihi! don't know if you read these but i so frequently enjoy your art that it felt like i should say something about it, it's so so pretty and maybe i'm biased because i'm badly obsessed with the royal trio (like, constantly on my mind, building an ita bag about it types of obsessed) but when something you care so much about gets barely represented and you see somebody put so much time and effort and skill into it it's not just nice it's like feeling seen y'know? i appreciate the art you put out there so so much :3

especially when it's like, sumi centric seeing as i think she sometimes gets kind of lost or delegated to a third wheel to the other two when i think she deserves the world actually. :D i hope you are having such a good day

OH MY GODDD ANON THANK U SO MUCH!!! IM SO GLAD U ENJOY MY ROYAL TRIO STUFF!!!!! i totally totally understand you which is why im drawing so much of them lately!!!! i feel like although they're pretty "popular" (and each character is really popular on their own) their inbetween connections/dynamic is not that explored? which fueled my brainworms and im so glad i started sharing my ideas and drawing royaltrio lots more bc everyones been so kind and its been so fun for me!!!! and i keep getting so many kind messages LIKE FRM YOU and it makes me so unbelievably happy ///w///

(BTW ITABAG OMGFGGG ID LOVE TO SEE IT WHEN UR DONE?!??! anons can send in images so.. eheh.. only if u want ofc but. omg id die to have a royaltrio itabag but im very disorganized irl so i dont have Much merch bc i. i be losing shit)

and sumi centric FOR SURE!!! she's my favorite character :') ive said this before but i got into p5 for joker but i stayed for sumire............ idk smth abt her just pulls my heartstrings just right. i love her so much eeEEEE so im glad to give her some share of the spotlight that she deserves... //w// ive been a fan of p5 since 2018ish and royal since its release but.... my art wasn't all that back then so i (very frustratingly) wasnt able to draw the sumire/royaltrio/etc content that i wanted to see but.... now i have the time and the ability (SORTA!!!! still working on my art i know its also still not all that) to draw it so i will KEEP WORKING HARD EHEHHEHE

i think often sumire is outcasted from the other thieves which well. given that shes a dlc chara basically. makes sense but it also gives me a lot of room to think about her and spin some new ideas :3 double edged sword!!! but yeah YEAHYYEAH im really happy to hear that people like how i characterize her!!! i like to give her some edges and bitterness and frustration that canon didn't give her......

sorry i talk so much but genuinely your comments make me so happy to hear!!! ///w/// i will continue dishing out royaltrio content.... i mean it when i say i have so many ideas and i really dont know when ill run out............. infintie serotonin & inspiration works

edit: I HOPE UR HAVING A GOOD DAY/NIGHT TOO ANON!!! i just went out ot get coffee and pastries nad stuff so im straight up BALLING

[divorcingjimmatthews]

meet cute with jade + tobey (pre-fromville)

got jade brainworms. investing in some random casual fluff because the next episode will likely destroy all of us

he and tobey are going for a morning run before work. jade complained because he wants to actually use his expensive gym membership but tobey convinced him that some fresh air will do him good since he's been working way too hard lately

you're just vibing at the park, taking some really nice photos before work. you back up a little to get a better angle of some statue and accidentally get in jade's way

you crash with each other and the coffee you were holding goes straight to the ground. and so does jade

"oh my god—are you okay?" you rush to help him up, dying inside because you just knocked someone down "here, let me help you..."

jade takes your arm but just stays there, staring

...starstruck?

"my god, you're beautiful"

you think: oh no, he hit his head

you say: "i think you've hit your head"

"don't think so. that's just jade." tobey cuts in, kneeling down next to the two of with a bright smile and offering his hand. "and i'm tobey. fancy us getting you another coffee?"

he winks

jade reaches for the empty cup on the ground and scoffs at the brand

"pretty sure we can do better than this..."

offended, you stare

"yeah, that's also jade" tobey explains, standing up and taking the cup from jade's hand to throw it in the nearest trash can, then joins you in helping jade up

you're not sure if they're a package deal and at this point you're too afraid to ask

"i mean. okay. sure." you shrug and chuckle. they're too entertaining to turn down "let's go get coffee. why not?"

jade jokingly side eyes tobey like, get your own meet-cute dude. there's so many strangers he could be bumping into all on his own

later that day: "you think they're gonna call?"

"i mean"

jade's phone lights up with a text message from an unknown number

📱 "you sure you didn't hit your head?"

tobey starts laughing uncontrollably

unamused, jade shoves the phone his way

"you know what? you can have them. ive got work to do. you have fun"

after some minutes of working while tobey's constantly typing on the phone: "...what are they saying? let me see"

tobey was poorly pretending to be jade on the phone the whole time but that doesn't even faze him

you're asking if they're together

jade: "i don't know. are we?"

tobey: *shrugs* "beats me, man"

you meant together as in in the same room right now

nothing is normal about these guys

but they're cute, they're rich, and they're fun

who could say no to that?

[tiredassmage]

🖊️ for whoever you’re having the most brainworms about right now :) (-justiceforc3po from main)

Send me a “🖊+an OC“ and I will talk about that OC!

Thank you so much! Going to take this open invitation to be a little unwell about the au for Rhyst that is making the brain worms really dance and jiggle lately.

First, a brief touch on Rhyst as he is in 'canon' - my main Jedi Knight, a Shadow, someone who does not enjoy that the Republic and the Order forge him more and more into a warrior and who quickly finds some strain in seeing so first-hand several of the Republic's failures. The mantle of 'hero' hangs heavy and he never asked for it, never sought such high stakes or praise. He struggles in the end to hold fast to his own advice (to use a few lines from my ever beast under the floorboards Ziost fic that I could not top if I tried to summarize him): "...It won’t be easy. But nothing about this ever was.” He offered her a hand. “We would not be Jedi if we did not continue to try. Will you come with us?”

Rhyst tickles my brain because he struggles far more than I think he ever lets on, or even his story lets on. And part of it is his support network; the very people he relies on, that hold him up, also, unfortunately, play an unintentional hand in some of his burdens. Generally, I list these people in his main story as Kira and Savosta. To be clear, they mean perfectly well. In short, though, a lot of the people Rhyst is close to are also people that share in some level of the idolization of him as the Hero of Tython. They've seen his strengths and it's inspired them, so when they speak of that inspiration, Rhyst tends to listen and offer gentle smiles. He has a very difficult time naming that as part of what worries him and wears on him because he knows of their intentions and he values that it helped them, even if he doesn't necessarily believe as they do that all of his deeds are worthy of such praise as tends to be given to him. He is no model of the Jedi, he thinks, but so many have placed similar accolades upon his shoulders.

[This is already getting really long and there's more specific Knight spoilers I'd like to get into, so throwing in a cut here. Spoilers for mainly the transition between Chapters 2 & 3 of the Knight origin and what follows, essentially.]

Rhyst does keep fighting for the Republic and the Jedi for a very long time; he becomes... a bit resigned to this role as a warrior that isn't exactly what he wanted out of his duties, nor does he feel he is their strongest. But it's what they need him to be, where they say he can help, so he dutifully accepts their pleas for aid and their askance of him to fight among the troops. More and more does he find himself suffocated in the armor of a trooper and less and less in the robes so common among the Order - particularly their scholars, diplomats, and learners.

Which is. already a lot. I do not talk about him enough, but he's such an interesting character to me, actually. There's a lot about him that's hidden that I didn't quite notice on first pass either. I do have to thank @hyrohkaah for a lot of that, hehe, essentially my #1 fanclub member, I say, of Rhyst and Savosta, so I got to actually dig through how they tick when talking about them.

So. The AU. Shorthand SithAU, but more an exploration of like... the conceptual premise that what if the Warrior storyline as what happens to the Knight during Vitiate's control of them in Chapter Two [which, brief side note, I cannot remember for the life of me where I first encountered this idea, if it was another post or if it was trigged by just... a series of posts and discussions etc, or if it just... stumbled out of the woods of my brain one day and now I'm finally doing something with it], and then I got running with myself and it grew sort of into its own beast.

If the original events as they play out more canon to the Knight story is what it looks like when Rhyst can reconnect with and rely, somewhat, on his main support network in his crew, his former Masters Maltaf Orathuse and Satia Lerann, then the ~Sith AU is sort of... what happens when that initial reconnect, even, isn't there. Because not that Rhyst is ever given a whole lot of time to really figure himself out in the wake of everything, considering the war on and the urgency of thwarting Vitiate's plans, but... what if less of that.

Because Rhyst does have a lot of uncertainties about his place in the Order, the direction the Republic is taking given all the weapons projects he watched fail, etc... and that's always a very large part of what Vitiate uses against him there.

So, what if, eventually, Vitiate's control stuck long enough, and the Sith re-training to focus on emotions as a source of power, to moreso feed into them and stew with them rather than sit with them to understand and find new takeaways for learning stuck... And with Scourge absent, what more fun a ploy against the Jedi than to turn one of their poster Knights into his own right hand, perhaps even a new Wrath?

After a bit of a kolto soak and some... repairing of the damage from that ill-fated Strike Team visit to the Fortress, of course.

And that, in short, is the premise which we work off of! As a Sith then, Rhyst settles first as something of a hunting dog, an efficient warrior Vitiate can assign to strike against his enemies, to taunt the Republic in an idle gesture to support the Empire's war - except his latest project is and isn't ever particularly recognized as part of the Empire's forces, given Vitiate's secrecy [and, as we learn later, his interest in other projects]. Ultimately, Rhyst becomes the keeper of Vitiate's secrets - a guardian of artifacts and ritual knowledge as well as an assassin for the Emperor in seclusion.

Kira takes over the hunt for the rest of the Jedi Strike Team and a way to stop Vitiate's plans with Lord Scourge in the meantime, but, eventually, the one to strike at Vitiate is still Rhyst - with Caolan!!! Who is. a whole other ramble, blorbo from friend's brain, etc etc belonging to enabler @hyrohkaah again and simply I'm in love w/Caolan but. but. that's liable to get me off topic. But, in an attempt to keep it short, Caolan has similar 'Vitiate's project a little off the leash and slightly to the left' syndrome and they become 'do not separate' about it.

The interlude years then are spent with Caolan on the hunt for lingering specters of Vitiate's influence in the galaxy. Rhyst is... unclaimed by either major power in the aftermath. While his style is not entirely Sith, it definitely more heavily and openly relies upon dark side tendencies somewhat informed by his previous Jedi training. He'd self-identify as a Dark Side user, but not particularly affiliated with the Sith. He's still too much of an ex-Jedi to be claimed by the Empire and, of course, the suspicion that he struck at their former Emperor does little to win him potential favor (not that he seeks it) on that side of the metaphorical galactic fence.

And then his reasons for avoiding return to the Jedi Order are somewhat two-fold; Rhyst is still driven deeply by a sense of duty. Vitiate became so certain of his control over him - and, eventually, Rhyst's genuine give to servitude to this master - that he's one of the few in the galaxy to know some of the former Emperor's trickier secrets. He knows just enough to be dangerous - even if only as a nuisance in the grand scheme of matters (to speak to the retreat to Wild Space and Zakuul), enough to make Vitiate seek his other avenues as Valkorian. That sense of duty drives him to act on this knowledge. Returning to the Jedi would delay this, he thinks. They would offer something like redemption and Rhyst has... again, essentially, resigned himself to his fate, his new purpose, this new flavor of his life. He is not exactly happy with what he has become, but it is... serviceable. And eventually accepting that with Caolan, helping each other through their own struggles with Vitiate's mark upon their lives, is... its own kind of freedom. It's their truth. It's honest to who they are and who they aim to be. It... accepts what was outside of their control and is permission to continue to be - that survival has no inherent moral value. And Rhyst will not tolerate either of them to be chained to dispassionate leaders again - not Vitiate as a manipulator and crafter of tools, and not the Jedi Council and Republic Senate as even well-meaning commanders of change and bickering definitions of "justice." He cannot abide by handing them over to shackles - literal or figurative - when they have a duty to stop Vitiate in his entirety to complete.

So, in a way... he comes to a lot more of an honest conclusion of self in this whole ordeal. In fighting alongside Caolan for their own directives, without that constant need to perform to a mold or an image that weighs upon them in the Jedi, Rhyst has a far easier time determining what's important to him and carving out those boundaries of what he is and isn't fighting for, what's important to him.

Which, of course, I can't leave well enough alone, so... naturally, when Lana Beniko and Theron Shan team up to investigate the Revanites and turn to investigating Imperial and Republic ghost stories alike about potentially a fallen Jedi or rogue Sith agents when they're short on allies among their own people... the narrative just has to catch back up to them and wrest away some of that little sliver of control over their own lives, and Rhyst may just have to reckon with both sides' expectations of him again after all. :3