#i hope he continues to survive in spite of everything

[chaiaurchaandni]

4 year old Ahmad Shabat - an israeli airstrike hit him, his parents & 4 siblings; he survived, they didn't - then they hit him & his father's relatives; he survived, they didn't - then they hit him & his uncle; he survived, his uncle didn't - both of Ahmed's legs have been amputated because of injuries. He survives.

i hope Ahmad gets to live. i hope he has a beautiful and fulfilling life. i hope he finds love and safety and comfort and success. i hope he finds happiness. i hope he heals. i hope he continues to survive. in spite of the violence, in spite of the trauma, in spite of the horror. in spite of the world.

[novthirty]

OUT OF BOUNDS | you get isekai-d into the N109 zone

— pairing: sylus x non-mc! reader

— synopsis: you land in the world of love and deepspace. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of his personal secretary. wc: 3.8k

— tags: isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, pining, slice of life, birthdays, holiday season, reader is not the main character, boss/employee relationship

— a/n: i'm thinking of making a part 2, but also thinking of making it into a full-fledged fic,,, let me know if you’re interested! but for now, i’ll be working on another, more angsty non-mc fic for sylus’s bday 👀 hope you enjoy! 💕💕edit: i’ve since turned this into a multi-chapter fic! this will continue to function as a standalone one-shot, but you can find the series here.

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open!

It was just your luck to be walking home from a 7PM class on a desolate road, only for a vehicle to swerve and crash into you. The impact is like a sledgehammer to your body as you hear the crunch of glass and the snap of bones. This is it, you think, as the world around you blurs into nothingness. 

—————————————————————

You wake up in a hospital bed, where you promptly have a panic attack from the IV attached to your arm. You desperately thrash against the nurses’ hold, trying to remove the intrusive line from your body, but it’s no use as your injuries and the numerous drugs hamper your movements. You hear muffled explanations— inaudible to your clouded mind— before they decide to sedate you. You drift back to sleep. 

Sometime later, you wake up again, this time with the IV detached and a familiar face sitting by your bedside. You laugh, thinking you must be in some sort of dream or coma-induced hallucination. Because why was Sylus, a love interest from Love and Deepspace— the game you’ve been obsessed with for the past few months— sitting beside you? You say as much, and the only response he deigns you with is, “Did you sustain brain damage on top of your other injuries?”

You shake your head at the absurdity of your delusions, quickly falling back into a medically-induced sleep. Things should be back to normal when you wake up.

—————————————————————

Newsflash: they weren’t. Days passed, and you gradually had to accept that whether it was reality or not, you were gonna be stuck here until you figured out how to go back to the normal world. Sylus visits you from time to time, the strange girl who landed in his backyard and claims to be from another world. It turns out that the place you’ve woken up in is not a hospital, but Onychinus’s medical ward.

When you’ve healed enough to be discharged, you have nowhere to go. So you turn to the only person you’re familiar with in this world.  

You had been a college student, just months away from graduation before you found yourself here. It fills you with spite, how everything you’d worked hard for was taken away in the blink of an eye. But you push the bitterness aside, offering whatever skills you have to Sylus so he doesn’t kick you out. You know that this world isn’t kind, the N109 Zone one of the worst places you could have ended up. A normal civilian such as you wouldn’t survive here alone. Though you don’t have much to contribute to a criminal organization, you’re grateful when Sylus offers you the job of his personal assistant. 

Although you don’t have much work experience, your previous internships and methodical nature help you to excel at this job. Never has the leader of Onychinus been so…. organized, his colleagues around him observe the stark change in the following months. You whip him up to shape, scolding him when he arrives late to meetings, making sure he actually calls back when he says he will. His business partners now call his office to be greeted by a chirpy voice, “How may I help you? Oh, Sylus isn’t here right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

He had initially given you this job as more of a placeholder role, so you can occupy yourself with the illusion of real responsibility while he investigates his suspicions about you. Where did you come from? Who sent you? And most importantly, how did you manage to infiltrate his base right under his nose? But his investigation leads him to the simple truth: there was nothing on you. It’s as if you materialized from thin air. No records, no blood ties, no evidence of your existence before you walked into his life. 

But if reincarnation can be fact, and dragons more than legends, why deny the possibility of other realities? This, more than anything, makes him inclined to believe your claims. 

Besides, you’ve proven yourself to be… useful, he supposes. Although the fear he instilled in his business partners was enough to put them in their place, he now had you to act as a buffer to their complaints and concerns, handling matters that were beneath him. You easily adjust to his nocturnal schedule; you’re like a little crow chirping at his shoulder at all times of the day, reminding him to leave on time for meetings, to eat three meals each day (even going so far as to ask his preferred meals to inform the chefs in advance). You physically force him out of his office the moment noon hits in an attempt to prevent him from overworking, “Sun’s up, boss. It’s time to hit the sack.” 

Your office is connected to his, although it's less a room and more an alcove he cleared away when he gave you the job. You have a small desk, a fluffy pink swivel chair, and a shelf covered in the trinkets you spend your salary on. (Another thing you have in common with Mephisto, he notes to the ever-growing list.) He finds amusement to idly watch you during his downtime, twirling the strands of your hair and chewing your pen as you talk on the phone about weapons shipments and insuring someone who lost a finger in an operation. 

Contradictory to his initial expectations, you prove yourself in a professional capacity and cement your place in the ranks of Onychinus.

—————————————————————

The first surprise is truly when the clock strikes twelve on April 18, and he enters his office to find a cake on his desk. Decorated in black and maroon frosting, it’s topped with his name in crooked cursive and a crow-shaped candle to boot. Moments after, you stride in from behind with Luke and Kieran, all carrying gifts and wearing patterned party hats, singing a terribly off-key rendition of the birthday song.

“Happy birthday, Sylus! Make a wish!”

He blows the candles (and wishes for the only thing he truly desires). 

“Do you like the cake? The chefs helped me decorate it!” You say as you slice it into even triangles, giving him the largest one. Mephisto is perched on your shoulder, with his own red party hat, as you feed him small bites of your own slice. (The resemblances between the two of you are truly uncanny). The celebration is a silly endeavor that lasts no more than an hour before he kicks everyone out of his office. But try as he might, he can’t wipe the grin off his face for the rest of the day. 

When May comes, you rope him into the preparations for Luke and Kieran’s birthday. Due to your incessant nagging, he’s since discovered your shared digital calendar— complete with monthly, weekly, daily, and hourly agendas— and chosen to ignore it. “The calendar exists for you to be on time,” You seethe whenever he steps into his office late, the little shit smirking as if you didn’t just rearrange his schedule to hell and back for that one hour-long meeting he missed. However, that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from any festivities you force upon the household. 

The twins’ celebration is a significantly more chaotic affair than his, involving a two tiered cake and a booking for a laser tag arena, and ending with a trip to the medical ward. Despite the casualties, it’s the most fun Luke and Kieran have had since they joined Onychinus. (Fun that wasn’t self-orchestrated, at least). 

Your presence brings a liveliness to his found family, something that grounds you all in this high-paced line of work. A presence that, little by little, seeps into his life to the point he can no longer imagine living without it.  

—————————————————————

When he finds you on a cold midnight in November, sitting alone on the kitchen island with a puny cupcake and a candle, he asks you what the hell you think you are doing. 

“Well, it’s just a birthday. I didn't feel the need to have a lot of celebration this year." The answer is nowhere enough to appease him, especially given your grandiose efforts to celebrate literally everyone else’s birthday. So, you admit to him, “I felt a bit sad, I guess. This was my last year of college. I had so many plans for before my entry into the workforce… and now, I can't really do any of them.”

Without missing a beat, he asks, “And what were those plans?” 

You list off the various places you wanted to visit, the items you were supposed to cross from your bucket list this year. As you reminisce on old plans, you split the cupcake with him and bid him goodnight, returning to your office to catch up on work. 

When you wake up at 5 PM later that day, it’s to streamers and balloons in the living room. 

“Happy birthday!” Everyone in the house cheers as you enter the room, decked out in all sorts of party favors. Even Sylus, who was notoriously un-festive, is wearing a cone-shaped party hat striped with your favorite colors. 

What follows is an impromptu day-off for everyone in the base (you feel an oncoming migraine thinking of how you’re going to readjust Sylus’s schedule). They bring you to Linkon City, your first time visiting since your arrival, following an itinerary that matches your original plans to a T. 

Sylus is upset that you’ve kept the date to yourself for so long, but more than that, he’s angry at himself for not bothering to ask. So he does his best to make up for it in the final hours of your birthday. Throughout the evening, he drags you to every activity that had been on your wishlist, lavishing you with all sorts of presents on the way. It’s a little too much. You’re not used to being spoiled, not used to treating yourself without deserving it first, and you tell him as much. 

He tips your chin upwards with a feather-light touch, his gaze unreadable as he asks, “And who says my lovely secretary doesn’t deserve the world at her feet?” 

The atmosphere shifts, the effortless ease at which you interact with him dissipates into stutters and heated stares. You ride home on the back of his motorcycle, finding yourself flushing despite the winter chill in the air. It’s a comfortable silence, yet your heart is thumping loudly against your chest. Does he hear how he makes you feel? You wonder. 

Before he retires to his bedroom, you place a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for today,” you whisper before shutting the door behind you. 

—————————————————————

From then on, things are significantly more… tense, between the two of you. What were once casual interactions turn tense with every brush of your fingers, with every meeting of your eyes across the room. He's always lavished you with the sweetest of pet names; darling, little bird, sweet girl. You assume it’s just his speech pattern, given what you had known of him from the game. But why does it make your heart race every time he refers to you with such terms of endearment? Why does it fuel your delusions of having something more? 

—————————————————————

It comes to a head during the week of Christmas, where you once again strong-arm him into having your festive way at the Onychinus base. 

You were appalled at their lack of holiday spirit for the previous years, “How can you run an organization like this?!” So you drag your boss out to the nearest Christmas tree farm. “You’re rich enough to afford a real one,” You decide definitively. He rolls his eyes but drives you there anyway. 

Each night on the week before Christmas goes similarly. The moment your work is done for the evening, you drag the whole house into some sort of festive activity. Decorating the tree, baking a gingerbread house, making eggnog. Holiday tunes fill the Onychinus base 24/7 and for once, Sylus finds that he doesn’t mind. Not when he sees the way you dance to yourself when you think no one’s looking, the way you know the words by heart and hum them under your breath. But he doesn’t participate much, mostly checking in and making a sardonic yet supportive comment before returning to his work. 

One evening, he decides to bring his work to the living room while you’re setting up the tree. It was a great source of amusement to see you struggle on your toes to place the ornaments, hoisting yourself up on whatever surface was available to you. But even he found it a bit too pitiful to watch you struggle to place the star, too vertically challenged to place the finishing touch. Couldn’t you just get a ladder? “Let me help you,” His breath tickles your ear as he grabs your waist and lifts you up. 

You squeal, holding tight to his arms and kicking at the air beneath you, “Sylus, what the fuck! Put me down!”

“Place the star, darling. While I'm still being nice.” In the end, you call it a team effort, despite his only contribution being his role as a human ladder. 

—————————————————————

You’ve been very festive and cheery the whole week of Christmas, so it disturbs him when the eve of the 25th arrives and you’re downtrodden. A shell of your typical self. He's never seen you like this before— absentminded and listless, it takes you a whole minute to realize he’s calling your name for the grand Christmas dinner you had insisted upon. You open presents with everyone in the early morning, smiling and thanking at the right cues, but he can tell your heart’s not in it.  

After the gifts have been given and the wrapping paper cleaned up, he takes you to the rooftop to ask what’s wrong. 

And so, you bare your heart to the only person who holds enough of it to break it. 

It’s a bittersweet Christmas for you, the first one you’ve ever spent away from home. For the first time since you were whisked away to this surreal world, you speak of your original life. Your family. Your friends. Your dreams. A fragile boundary that you haven’t touched with anyone here, for it hurts too much to speak of what you left behind. Of what was taken away from you. 

And it is here, underneath the midnight sky where he tells you of his search for the other half of his soul. He speaks of a similar homesickness, resonating with how out of reach home feels for you right now, as he’s waited what seems like a millennia for the person he calls his. 

You already know, of course, that sooner or later, he will meet her. This world was once your favorite game, and you had shed tears at their loss, at their cursed fate. You stay silent, listening to the tragic tale from the man himself. The affection in his tone as he speaks of her— his sorceress, his soulmate— makes you hurt for this man, for the trials he’s endured in the name of true love. But it is also a bitter reminder that you have no place by his side. 

—————————————————————

On New Year’s Eve, he doesn’t even give you the chance to feel homesick. The moment the sun goes down, he takes you on a joyride to Linkon City, bringing you to a cafe to have dinner together and sightsee the various festivities for the holiday; making sure you don’t even have a moment to feel sad. 

He brings you to the tallest building in the city, for the best view of the sky when the fireworks show starts. Despite the chilly air, his hand is warm in yours, clutching it in a tight grip as he wades through the crowd of people who had the same idea. You find a secluded corner where the two of you sit down and sip your milk tea, talking about your new year’s resolutions. 

“I don’t do resolutions,” He waved a hand, unimpressed. “If I want to change an aspect of my life, I won't wait until the start of a new year to do so.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” You stick your tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes, but he’s internally pleased with how well he’s distracted you thus far. “My resolutions are always the same. Exercise more, eat healthy, and save money!”

“Dear, there is a private gym back home that you haven’t touched even once,” Your heart flutters at the word home. A word that brings you melancholy most of the time, but now fills your heart with a sort of domestic bliss.

“Well then, it’s perfect! I'll have no excuse not to start tomorrow.” 

He shakes his head in fond exasperation. Your eyes are glued to the magnificent colors soaring through the sky, legs bouncing in time with the countdown. But unbeknownst to you, his gaze is entirely on you. 

When the clock strikes midnight, you jump to give him a hug. “Happy New Year, Sylus!”

He cradles you in his arms, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, “Happy New Year.”

—————————————————————

As the months pass by, you grow more accustomed to the harsh edges of your new job. It's not exactly the first job you had envisioned for yourself; you had once hoped to start somewhere more in line with your aspiring career, somewhere you could make use of your degree. But plans don’t always work out. What you do is unorthodox, but it’s fulfilling and allows you to live in this dangerous world from a safe vantage point, almost like dipping your toes into a ten feet pool. 

That doesn’t mean you’re completely sheltered from all the dangers of the job, however. Given the type of clientele you handle, more often than not, you’re faced with threats of being maimed over the phone when you can’t give somebody what they want. Each time, Sylus promptly takes over and matches their energy twicefold with a more heinous, yet very real threat.

The worst days are post-missions, when you have to witness your newfound family return bloody and bruised in the name of Onychinus. You become conditioned to waiting with a first aid kit and a change of clothes for Luke and Kieran, immediately patching up their wounds. But Sylus— you almost think he’s invincible, with how he returns from even the most high-risk operations without a scratch. 

That is, until one night when he walks through the front door, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. His evol is working overtime to knit his skin back together, but the blood still pools beneath him on the marble tile. You stay by his side through the night as he recovers, listening to deluded murmurs about a time long past, and an ever-so-familiar name. 

You grip his hand in yours throughout the night. But it’s not your hand to hold. 

—————————————————————

Over the span of a year, you become one of Sylus’s closest confidants. He treats you with all the gentleness and care in the world, revealing to you a softer side of him that you knew existed in the game, but that he rarely ever showed to anyone else. You feel honored that he trusts you with these facets of himself, but you also feel guilty. 

Because what Sylus doesn’t know is that he was your favorite. You, a student facing burnout in your final year of university, began to cope with a game suggested to you, subsequently becoming engrossed with one of its newest characters. His soft treatment of the main character, juxtaposed with his violent nature, had drawn you to him. Your heart had fluttered at every tender moment, each call and text message, each appearance in the main story. You had foolishly indulged in the delusions of romance with a fictional man. 

When you landed in this world, there was a cognitive dissonance as you came to terms with the difference between the 2D character that lived on your phone screen and the living, breathing person in front of you. For a while, you were too focused on your new situation to even think of the implications of the fictional character you’d been crushing on being in close, real proximity. He had not trusted you, either. You could practically visualize his defenses in each interaction, as he contemplated what to make of you. 

At the time, you thought that by now, surely you would have woken up from this coma-induced hallucination already. Surely you would have woken back up to reality. But as you grow to accept that the situation you’re in is real, and the likelihood that you may be stuck there for the foreseeable future— before you knew it, he had crept into your heart. 

You don’t know when it started. All you know is that his presence in your life is more than the surface-level distraction it once was in your reality. No, Sylus— the living person who comforted you on the saddest birthday you’ve had, who indulged your demands for a Christmas celebration, who makes your heart race like no other— has you wrapped around his finger. He could ask anything of you, and your heart could do nothing but surrender to his whims. 

But in the back of your head, always lurking, is the distant reminder of the main character. The vivacious hunter whose life is tied to his. The other half of his soul. There’s no chance you could ever come between something destined by the universe itself, so you yield in the face of their cosmic love. You shove away your feelings and resign yourself to finding a way back home, desperately, before this world forces you to lose a love you never had a chance at. 

—————————————————————

What you don’t know is that he’s desperately blocking off every potential lead back to your world, not wanting to face a reality where you are not in his life. 

He finds himself conflicted, because his soul is tied to her. His sorcerer, his soulmate, whom he has yearned for for what feels like a millenia. But here you are, his lovely secretary, the woman who forces him into mundane festivities and stays by his side even in weakness. The two images war in his head; the dragon roaring at how distracted he’s become from searching for his mate, and the man, falling fast and hard for a woman from another world, brought to him by pure fate. A love born out of an unexpected connection. 

His search for his long-lost love continues, but alongside it are his attempts to tie you down to his world, to keep you in his grasp. Because he cannot, will not, live without you.

He will watch the world burn before he lets it take his love away again.

—————————————————————

So, the two of you continue in this cycle of push and pull, of moving closer but not close enough. You live in a limbo, desperately searching for ways to get home before the main storyline catches up to you. Haunted by the narrative, you two move in and out of each other’s orbit, just out of reach. Just out of bounds. 

—————————————————————

like and reblog if you enjoyed!

i’ve since turned this into a multi-chapter fic! this will continue to function as a standalone one-shot, but you can find the series here (comment there if you’d like to be tagged!)

[swordgrace]

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ aegon ii targaryen x wife!reader.

SYNOPSIS: in the wake of his burning, aegon’s recovery is marked by rage and insecurities. he pushes you away, but it is your comforting embrace that he desires above all else.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.

{ WORD COUNT: 7.4K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), hurt/comfort, post rook’s rest aegon, aegon isn’t a good person but he’s tormented, unstable marriage, talk of insecurities, wound/scar descriptions, p in v sex, unprotected sex, gentle sex, body worship (m & f receiving), lots of kissing & comfort/reassurance, very desperate aegon, begging, sub-ish aegon, reader is on top, riding/cowgirl, mutual orgasm, fingering (fem!rec), soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is my first time writing for Aegon, so please be gentle + any feedback/critique on his character is appreciated! He’s quite difficult to write for. Either way, I absolutely loved writing this, and I hope that you all enjoy it, too! As always, thank you for your continued love & support. ❤️

𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝, 𝐭��𝐫𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞. It spread its blazing roots to those cast within it, leaving them hideously scarred or deformed, or perhaps leaving them with nothing left at all.

Grand Maester Orwyle had said that your husband may never walk again — that he may never draw breath again.

The harrowing memory of soot-stained knights hauling your husband in on nothing more than a swath of linen tied to sticks, placing him gently onto your marital bed had haunted you for several weeks since its occurrence. You could recall the pungent scent of charred flesh, the ragged rasps of Aegon’s breathing, the labor and sweat of Maesters working tirelessly to save him.

It was the labored wheeze of his breathing that continued to linger within the recesses of your mind, a sound so hoarse and weak that you wondered if he would survive. Watching your husband become a shell of his former self was never pleasant — you wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, even your worst enemy.

Aegon showed a resilience that few thought him capable of — the will to survive, to endure and spite his brother served him well. Even if each breath made him ache and each step had rattled his bones, he continued to progress, showing an astounding level of improvement in a short amount of time.

Fire was the end of all things, but not for him.

The observant gazes of those denizens dwelling within the Red Keep often looked upon Aegon with despair, and perhaps pity — it was a pity that he despised, one that made him quiver with rage. He had been made a cripple by his brother, an undesirable.

No one would want him now — not even you, his resplendent wife, a dutiful creature who had solemnly stood by his side, even after his numerous sins he committed against you. He was burnt and ugly, half of his face marred by a web of scars, ear twisted, silvery hair missing on part of his skull.

It was contempt that fueled him now, and he continued to play the part of a wounded, forgetful dog whenever Aemond was near, but in the sanctity of his chambers, he cursed his brother to whatever Gods would hear him.

If they heard him at all.

With each passing day, Aegon regained strength, yet he used a cane to aid in his unsteady gait. He rarely emerged from his chambers, not wanting to be looked upon as if he were some wounded animal in-need of coddling. Wallowing within his own misfortune became commonplace.

You visited him each day when he was still unconscious, sitting by his bedside, holding his hand within yours, yet Aegon had convinced himself that you no longer loved him. What woman would sensibly love him, after everything he’d done? If you were intelligent, you would dissolve your marriage and find a new lover, cast him into the shadows where he belonged.

Aegon had forbidden you to see him for weeks now, likely out of his own fear of rejection, or seeing the horrified look on your face with his own eyes. Orwyle spoke of your tenderness, how you never left his side when he lay bedridden — he could scarcely fathom it, if he were honest with himself.

The evening was a dour one in King’s Landing, marked by the encroaching threat of war, and supposed riots that had broken out across the city. Aegon sometimes laughed to himself — Aemond never cared about the smallfolk nor their desires, and his former hand had discouraged him from catering to those less fortunate.

It gave him some twinge of satisfaction, knowing that he wasn’t that stupid — not as dull and thick-headed as so many believed him to be. The burden of being King had been forced upon him, even when he never wanted it, and so he had no choice but to simply adapt.

He molded himself to a role that never belonged to him anyway, attempting to fit himself into a puzzle that he was never in to begin with.

Acceptance — he had come to realize that perhaps, unseen forces had tarried and toiled to put him on a Throne that wasn’t his birthright. Even then, Aegon was still the King — but a broken one. Who would ever look to a shattered King for guidance, or to lead them?

Dusk blanketed the city, casting its shadow over the Red Keep, a starless sky — it was instead marked by the black haze of clouds that concealed all, even the moonlight. The Keep itself seemed wrought with tension, one that threatened to snap at any moment.

With Aemond on some warpath, the smallfolk calling for blood, and his own mother dismissed from the Small Council, part of him simply thrived within the chaos, the mess made by his younger brother. It was satisfying to know that even he was not fit to rule — not like he imagined himself to be.

His walk around the corridors had been cut short when he caught a glimpse of Aemond, with Orwyle taking him back to his chambers. Aegon could walk without assistance, yet the distance was never one of any merit.

Much of his unoccupied moments were spent drowning in Dornish Red, or perhaps the most surprising thing of all, reading. He was never the studious child — he preferred merriment and whoremongering over the study of High Valyrian and the histories. Being gnarled like this had forced his hand — perhaps he could still become a learned man.

The Kingsguard he had appointed were gone, sent to join the Night’s Watch or beheaded for insubordination — he had no friends here, nothing left except himself and his mind, still perfectly intact. Now, Aegon intended to sharpen what was left of it, if he could in such a short amount of time.

He spent many of his days in fear — fear of Aemond poisoning his drink or slithering into his chambers like the fanged viper that he was to torment him, or perhaps stick Aegon’s Dagger into his chest. There was time left still for his mad cunt of a brother to finish what he’d started.

As the doors to his chambers rattled, Aegon immediately grabbed the shortsword he kept alongside his cane, breathing becoming strained and heavy. “Who is it?” He barked, palm planted against the sturdy mahogany of his large table.

“The Queen, your Grace.” Ser Belgrave, one of the last decent Kingsguard left in the Red Keep, opened the door just enough for you to see your husband, alive and conscious. He stood watch for a beat, and then closed the doors behind him, leaving you alone with Aegon.

Aegon didn’t know what to say — he was rageful and bitter, and having you here to gawk at him did nothing to quell those feelings. He did admire you from across the room, taking in the plane of cerulean silk you wore, shrouded by a pale robe. Your eyes were indiscernible — he could not tell how you felt from where he sat.

You were, perhaps, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon — and he had seen so many. He recalled when he first saw you in the Grand Sept in your wedding gowns, so shy and saccharine, like the first warmth of springtime. It wasn’t a union he cared for or desired, but duty demanded that he wed you, and you would give him heirs.

So much of his time was wasted in the arms of whores who cared for nothing save the size of his coin purse, when it all should’ve been dedicated to you — the last person who truly cared for him.

“Aegon,” There was not an ounce of reproach within your voice, and instead, it was all a breathy sigh of relief. You had only seen him in-passing, walking alongside Grand Maester Orwyle or Lord Larys Strong. He had not allowed you to see him fully, until now. “I …”

“Save your pity,” Aegon quipped, turning away from you as he turned inward upon his books, instead. Gods, he felt wretched for constantly causing you such agony, but he could not endure the sight of you seeing him. “Have you come to see the withered King?” He mumbled, voice riddled with disdain.

Aegon was not an easy husband — and your union had been fraught with strife, hallmarked by his love of whores and wine, his absence felt by you each and every moment. You had passed this off as reality — this was what marriage was, and you had no choice but to accept it or crack beneath the pressure.

Even now, you were willing to forgive him.

Instead, you gathered your skirts and inched closer, longing to look upon him again with your own eyes. He had always been a beautiful man, so handsome with those regal Targaryen features that it often stole your breath away — and that hadn’t changed.

“I missed you,” You confessed, and it made Aegon’s throat become unbearably thick. Tears stung his eyes, tears born of frustration, an inner hatred and disgust, a disbelief that you truly meant any of this. “I thought that I could stay with you this evening.”

“No,” Aegon retorted, voice trembling at the bottom of his throat as he shook his head. “I do not want you here. I forbid you from seeing me. What part of that do you not understand?” His rage swelled — but not at you. He was so angry with himself that it began to manifest in uncouth ways.

It stung you, but not as much as you thought. Aegon kept you away, pushed you out to arm’s length because he feared what you might think of him. Being beloved and liked by those around him, the desire for attention and adoration, was perhaps one of his greatest flaws. When he could not find validation, it was easy to find it with a whore instead, or in the simpleminded lickspittles.

If Dornish Red could talk, perhaps he would find whatever comfort he sought there, too.

He reached for his goblet of wine, hand unsteady as he held it to his lips, and even then, he looked absolutely pathetic when taking a swig. “I cannot even drink without looking fucking pathetic,” Aegon snarled, letting out a bark of humorless laughter. “I cannot walk without being gazed upon like a wounded animal.”

At last, you began to understand where this anguish came from, where it all manifested. As much as you pitied your husband for the tragedy that had befallen him, you admired his resilience, his desire to endure and push on, even if it was most unpleasant.

“Aegon …” As your soft palm reached to rest against his shoulder, he violently jerked away, recoiling as if it were you that had burned him. “I am here for you. We are still married — allow me to continue to be your wife.” You whispered, flinching when he let out a sardonic laugh.

The scars were everywhere, enveloping half of his body, still aching with a dull pain that he muddied with poultices and Orwyle’s draughts. Aegon refused to take Milk of the Poppy, enduring his agony in different ways, ones that many would consider to be harder.

“Gods, how cunning you are — you play the role of naivety so well,” Aegon hissed, attempting to pull himself up from his table, hand reaching for his cane. “I am burnt, I am disgusting, and I am a cripple. You are not here for me — I do not want your pity!” He growled, voice raising to a tempestuous level.

You did not press him further, but you could see the tears glistening within his lilac hues, spilling down his cheeks as he began to laugh. The sound was grating and hollow, devoid of any amusement — just emptiness. He used what momentum he had to stand, grip ironclad and white-knuckled around his wooden beam of support.

“Why must you continue to push me away, Aegon? Have you not done it enough?” You questioned, voice sharp and wrought with emotion, sentiments that you had been repressing for so long, for the entirety of your marriage. “Must I always justify why I want to be your wife? We are married — I love you.”

Aegon froze, tears spilling over his face, countenance one of complete and utter bewilderment. He could not discern if you were genuine or simply conniving, or if you were being true. You had told him that you loved him before, and he always cast it aside — maybe you had truly meant it all this time, and he was too indifferent to realize it.

His back was partially turned to you, as if warding you away from seeing him. Aegon had been made to think that he was a failure all his life, that he was insignificant, made to do nothing instead of act. Whenever he did act, it was impulsive and reckless, branded acts of stupidity.

Maybe the one thing he could do right was you — mend the divide, mend the bridge that had kept you distanced for so long.

That cold, bitter laughter soon dissipated into what were choked sobs, ones of despair — he had been holding himself together for so long, for the sake of the realm, for the sake of a family that cared so little for him. His body ached and trembled, and as much as he attempted to move away from you, he couldn’t.

The nearest settee happened to be where he fell, landing against the velveteen cushions, head hung in despair, body wracked with sobs. He was undesirable, undeserving of you and your love. He was some withered husk, a shell, a monster still dressing in the clothing of a King — he was nothing.

Yet, you made him feel like something.

Silently, you crossed the cold stone to join him on the settee, sitting at his side as you gingerly let your palm settle against his back. “You underestimate how much I still care for you, husband.” You whispered, caressing along his spine with a feather-light touch.

Aegon felt drawn to you, pulled into the warmth of your comforting fire, knowing that if there was still one person left in this world who cared enough, it was you. Tears stained his visage, leaving behind streaks of red, eyes wet with many left unshed.

“Why should you?” Aegon questioned, his voice beginning to lose the fury and rage it held before, and it was melancholy. Anyone would’ve asked themselves such a question, but you didn’t — you remained steadfast. “I have brought nothing but misery upon you.”

It was complex, his statement — you had been miserable for some time, but this tragedy that afflicted you both was something worth overcoming. You were beginning to see the true Aegon, the one buried beneath the weight of the crown, the weight of inferiority.

“There is still time for forgiveness.” Your words were poignant and soft, and they were enough to move Aegon to tears again. He sat there beside you, crying to himself, breaking down completely. You had never seen him like this before — and perhaps, it was long overdue.

The comfort you provided was one he so desperately sought, even if he felt so guilty. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this, to deserve you — and yet he welcomed the grace of your palm, the sound of your songbird’s voice, soothing him with your gentle smile.

He was ashamed for you to see him this way, a man lacking the strength of physicality, the strength to hold a shortsword. It often wavered within his grasp — he would never be able to protect you. His beloved dragon was left in ruins, recovering in the Dragonpit — everything he had that made him strong had been taken.

Aegon was terrified to look upon you in such close quarters, afraid to feel the bitter jab of rejection, the horror and abhorrence within your gaze as you found his scars. He dared not turn, only keeping the intact side bared to you, still perfectly handsome.

Orwyle had harkened this to some miraculous recovery, a sign that the Gods favored him — Aegon did not feel favored, nor did he feel that he deserved it. Whatever he used to think, that his father wheezed his last breath desiring him on the Iron Throne, was nothing more than a twist of words.

There was nothing miraculous or prophetic about him — he was a sad, drunken cripple left to rot.

As much as he commiserated over his woes and the foul hand dealt to him by his brother, Larys had convinced him to live out of spite — and you convinced him that being alive, even in this wretched state, was a reality that was worth seeking.

He nearly crawled away at the sensation of your fingertips brushing along his jaw, unmarred and unscathed by the garish tangle of scars. Aegon shivered at your embrace — he had gone so terribly long without it, wondering if he would ever feel it again.

“I remember when I saw you for the first time, in the Grand Sept — I thought that you were the most resplendent man that I had ever seen,” You crooned, feeling him nudge his cheek into your palm. You gently swiped away a stray tear beneath his eye. “You still are.”

Aegon scoffed — a bitter, vitriolic sound that made his breath turn hoarse for a moment. He found it incredibly difficult to believe you, to find any merit in what you said given the circumstances. Even if you still loved him, that did not include his horrific appearance.

Tears trickled down his face, ones that you collected with your thumb before he shook his head. “Do not patronize me,” He murmured, visage furrowing together. “You cannot mean any of that. Look at me,” Aegon hissed, only slightly turning towards you. “I am a loathsome creature.”

His misery was an understatement when it came to his appearance — he looked like some monster, gnarled and withered beyond recognition. Whenever he looked into the mirror, he screamed and raged until he fell, or perhaps lost his voice.

Any Targaryen was often regarded as beautiful — pale, platinum tresses and lilac hues, a countenance as regal and as beautiful as a god. He was nothing more than a cockroach, now. He couldn’t fathom that you still desired him in a conventional way.

With a soft, tender touch, your hand then moved to rest against his shoulder. “If there is a loathsome creature here, I do not see it,” You murmured, head canting to one side. “What must I do to convince you, Aegon? Do you not believe me?”

Aegon’s trust had worn so thin that it threatened to snap, threadbare and nonexistent. He could only allow himself to trust so much — everyone he thought he could confide in or rely on had now turned against him, or attempted to slaughter him.

“It is hard to believe anyone anymore.” He murmured, staring down at his hands — one trembled, wreathed in burn scars, and the other clenched into a tight first.

He was made to believe that he was the rightful heir over Rhaenyra, when that was never the case. He was made to believe that he was a good ruler, when his Small Council plotted behind his back without his knowledge. He believed that Aemond was loyal to him, that he loved him as a brother would.

Lilac hues flickered from the void of his chambers to you, peering at you from beneath the curtain of pale tresses that still clung to his head. Despite the accusations of disloyalty he had hurled at you, his mistrust and doubt of your true intentions, you still maintained an amiable gaze.

You stared at him as if he had moved mountains, pulled the stars from the heavens for you — and he realized that no one, besides you, had looked at him in such a way before. It was profound and affectionate, wrought with a palpable adoration that came from a deep-rooted place of good.

Aegon’s throat grew tight, thick with emotion as he drank you in, tracing over the delicate plane of your features, the spark of warmth that brightened your eyes. Such divine beauty that he had robbed himself of for so long — he only felt like a fool, the greatest fool there was.

With an unsteady, quivering hand, he hesitantly reached out to you, unburnt fingertips tracing the curve of your jaw. He sucked in a sharp breath whenever you shuddered, face turning inward to press a kiss against his palm.

“I want to see you, husband.” You whispered, grasping his hand with both of yours, digits oozing with the radiance of heat that blossomed from you. The burn scars were carefully concealed behind silken garments, hidden from sight. Aegon grit his teeth together, not wanting you to see how disfigured he’d become.

“No,” Aegon quipped, shifting away from you with a scornful, wary expression. Whatever handsomeness he possessed before, it had all been burned away, turned to ash — and it left him, this husk of himself, with a physique that was repulsing to behold. “There is nothing pleasant about it — it is rotten.”

Rotten was perhaps a vast exaggeration for his wounds and scars, something that you found to be perplexing. Scars did not bother you, and you wouldn’t let your husband’s insecurities dissuade him from your comfort and care. Still holding his hand, you moved closer, pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

Aegon shivered beneath the chaste kiss, wanting nothing more than to collect you into his arms. The gnawing fear of your potential repulsion made him hesitate, and the bitter stab of rejection seemed to dig into him more than anything else.

“What woman would want this?”

Aegon’s forlorn, despondent inquiry hung above the both of you like some dour cloud. His grim outlook was something that you could sympathize with, given that his appearance had been torn apart within an instant. He swallowed the sob building within his chest, violet hues glistening with wet tears.

At last, he looked at you fully, exposing the marred, scarred side of his visage, tangled with a web of textured burns. His eye was sunken in, vessels having broken the white around his iris, ear nearly missing entirely, countenance partially mottled.

It was the same with his body, nearly half of it covered in the same fleshy web, scars spreading out like the roots of a tree. Aegon looked to you with a shattered expression, one that possessed a vehement swell of rage and frustration, yet still retained a sense of desperation. He was desperate to have your approval, for you to tell him that he was still perfect, regardless of his disfigurement.

Without a word, you moved your hand toward the maimed side of his face, expecting him to rip away or recoil entirely. Instead, he stayed there, rooted in-place, shuddering when the softness of your palm cupped his jaw. The pad of your thumb gingerly raked over his cheek, feeling along every scar and rough surface.

“I want you, Aegon,” The soft, silky resonance of your voice had brought him to heel, gaining his subservience, despite his inner battle with his insecurities. He feared being ugly in your eyes, as if his heart weren’t black and decayed enough. “I want you still.” Your lips twitched into an amiable smile.

For a moment, his eyes had fluttered shut, and he soaked in the sensation of your touch, warm and real against his cheek. It felt incredible, something he had craved for so long — it had left a gaping hole within his chest. Any tears that fell, you collected them with your fingertips, swiping them away.

Again, you inched closer, leg-to-leg with him, gaze drifting towards his lips. Aegon did not dissuade you from it, breathing becoming somewhat laborious as you pressed forward, mouth molding against his. It had been a long time since you had kissed him — truly kissed him.

A low, stirring groan reverberated within the depths of his throat, and at last, he reciprocated. Aegon’s kiss was done in a flurry of passion, realizing what he hadn’t had for so long. You tasted saccharine, warm and soft against him, mouth pliant and willing.

Gods, how blind he was — foolish, fragile, moronic.

He had abandoned you for unattainable things, for insignificant people that cared little about his wellbeing. Aegon had you — you, so devoted and loyal and forgiving, even when he deserved none of it. He very nearly sobbed again, knowing what error and sin he’d committed against you, but he shoved it down.

His insecurities seemed so small, as if they were wiped away by the curve of your mouth that so desperately kissed him. Aegon moved his good arm, bringing it to the swell of your hips, feeling your supple physique through the thin silk of your nightgown.

A sweet, simpering moan bubbled within your throat, a sound that so clearly vocalized your desperation for him, your repression and longstanding suffering. “Aegon,” You whispered, sending tremors down his spine as he kissed your jaw. “We don’t have to, we — you’re in pain.” You didn’t want to subject your husband to such agony.

Aegon shook his head, willing to push through the dull aching if it meant that he could have you again. Despite his fractured confidence, you made him feel so strong again, as if he still looked as he had before the burning. “Fuck agony,” He panted, hot breath fanning across your flesh. “I need you.”

That was enough to send a surge of molten heat throughout your belly, thighs rubbing together to alleviate some of your mounting arousal. “To bed, then.” You whispered, and Aegon swore that he moved quicker than normal, as if you had rejuvenated in some mystical way through words alone.

Using his cane to support most of his weight, he sluggishly walked toward your marital bed, feeling you hover around his side. You did not help him, and he didn’t want it, anyway. He was growing stronger by the day, capable of making it to his bed without support.

Fresh linens, silks, and feathered pillows had replaced ones used yesterday. It was all clean, smelling of lavender and honey. As he sat along the edge of the bed, he nearly chuckled at all of this — finally laying with you out of desire, and not duty, looking positively abhorrent.

If only it hadn’t taken him so long to get here.

“Are you certain, Aegon? I do not wish to hurt you, I —” Before you could prattle on about your concerns, Aegon silenced you with a kiss, coaxing you down by his side. His lips remained unblemished and unburnt, the taste of Dornish Red and sugar permeating his tongue.

“You won’t,” Aegon uttered, lilac hues raking over you, hungry and rapturous. “And if you do, you will not stop until I tell you to.” His tone retained a sternness to it, one that pleaded with you to allow him to drown in your affections, just like he always wanted.

With a gentle nod of your head, Aegon pushed your tresses away from your neck, thumb caressing along the column of your throat before he pressed a kiss there. You scarcely recalled the last time he’d done something like this, but you weren’t about to protest.

He wanted to hear your sighs and sweet whimpers, the sound of his name, breathy from your tongue. Aegon did not have the stamina he used to, but he would rather damn himself instead of stopping so quickly. He kissed and bit at your neck, soothing each mark with the languid lap of his tongue.

Gods, that sound — Aegon delighted in listening to your soft, wanton moan, pearlescent teeth nipping at your sensitive skin, kissing wherever he could reach. His burnt hand trembled, the flesh tender and still pulsating with a dull ache, but he elected to ignore it as best as he could.

Your hand pressed against his unmarred thigh, gripping into the flesh there as he groaned against you. He had finally gotten rid of that horrid, lengthy nightshirt, back to linen trousers and a silken, emerald tunic. His growing erection wasn’t subtle in the slightest.

“Let me see you.” Aegon murmured, wanting to look upon you with renewed eyes. You had always been beautiful to him, but now, you were captivating — a goddess incarnate, come to grace him with your presence. He watched as you stood, unraveling your robe as you draped it across the foot of the bed.

His mouth became dry, desire swelling within him like the urgent crash of a tidal wave. Aegon’s violet gaze remained transfixed, unable to tear themselves away from you and your perfection.

You stood in between his legs, shedding the thin, sheer gossamer of your nightgown, allowing it to pool around your feet before you nudged it aside. The last time you had undressed for Aegon, he was drunk and needy, several months ago.

His intoxication was of a different sort now, drunk upon your resplendence, your beauty, living and breathing before him. Aegon gripped your hip with his good hand, learning forward to press kisses all along your abdomen and stomach.

The sensation of your hand, so gentle and sweet, slipped against his marred cheek, gingerly caressing over his uneven web of scars, encapsulating over half of his skull. Aegon nearly groaned at your heavenly touch, the touch of a wife who loved her husband, scars and all.

He did not feel so monstrous anymore.

Aegon turned to press a kiss against the inside of your wrist, savoring the feeling of your fingertips roving across his scars. It was only when you moved to kiss the top of his head that he nearly faltered, breath warbled and wavering, surprise settling into his features.

He moved back, countenance twitching with pain for a fleeting moment, finding comfort within the silken duvet and soft sheets of your shared bed. You nearly moved to sit beside him again, but he stopped you, swallowing the growing lump within his throat.

“No,” Aegon whispered, tone a low, husky resonance, strung out with desire as he coaxed you into his lap with certainty. “Come here.” Those lilac hues were blown-out with lust and bewilderment, enthralled by you as he felt you settle down against him, thighs firmly caging him in on either side.

A grunt stirred within his chest, a dull throbbing pulsating throughout his body, but he persisted, feeling your plush form sit right in his lap. His good arm stroked along your spine and hip, faces mere breaths apart, and he kissed you with a blinding fervor.

Aegon never kissed you like this — not until now.

Whatever sentiments you felt for him, the ones that drove you to complete devotion, began to resurface — you still loved him fiercely, despite everything. “Will you allow me to see you, too?” You whispered against his mouth, digits dancing toward the hem of his tunic.

A beat of hesitation passed through your husband, who almost seemed to revert to his reclusive state. His jaw became tense, an inner war raging within him as he contemplated letting you disrobe him. Aegon looked at you, torn yet wanting, tugging you closer.

You gave him time to deliberate, not wanting to push him into something that he wasn’t prepared for. As if to soothe him, your fingertips traced along his brow line, and into the tangle of scars. “If you do not, I will understand, husband. It will not make me love you any less.”

That alone made him want to remove his tunic.

Aegon tilted forward, burying his face against your collarbone, mottled flesh textured against your own skin. He felt your palm glide against the nape of his neck, carding your digits through his wisps of pale hair. “It is hideous,” He uttered, insecurities bubbling to the surface. “I wouldn’t dare subject you to it.”

“Aegon,” The tenderness of your tone seemed to grab his attention rather swiftly, lilac hues drifting up toward your visage, perfect and comely. “It is all you — every scar and every imperfection, and I will love it all the same. My desires haven’t changed.”

His breath hitched within his throat, eyes swimming with an amalgamation of emotions, some of them too overwhelming to fully comprehend. He had sorely missed your embrace, and to further deprive himself of it seemed like an unimaginable torture.

You wanted him to take his time, neck craning as you peppered your lips against his throat — the burnt side, flesh marred and uneven, the sensation akin to a leathery surface. Aegon exhaled, gripping you tighter as he reveled in the feeling of your mouth.

It was he who initiated the removal of his tunic, attempting to pry it away and over his head, but he struggled, a low groan escaping him. Aegon wanted to feel independent, to do something himself, but he relented, accepting your assistance.

Removing the garment felt like an eternity, born out of his own nervousness and crippling insecurity of you seeing him this way, marred and mottled. Only half of him was covered in that tangled, leathery web of scars, spiraling down his entire physique.

Hovering your palm above his chest, Aegon’s lilac gaze silently pleaded with you to touch him, grace him with the touch of your resplendence. The scars were rough and uneven, innumerable and etched into his flesh like a blanket of leather.

Yet, you did not recoil or shy away, tracing patterns over his skin, pressing your sweet kisses wherever you could reach. Aegon felt his cock twitch and throb with desperation, longing to be inside of you. The tender care you showed him meant more to him than any crass or lewd act did.

You kissed his scarred shoulder, a gesture so comforting and kind that Aegon shuddered from exhilaration. That pattern of soft worship continued, as you kissed his scars again and again, reverence seeping into each grace of your mouth.

“Gods, how divine you are,” Aegon exhaled, quivering hand finally extending just enough to knead against your thigh. The palm that held your hip traced towards the warmth between your legs, and he shivered at the slick arousal there. “What a pleasant surprise.”

You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. Aegon was swift to reward your kindness with quick strokes of his fingers, tracing along your slit before caressing your clit, toying with the sensitive pearl.

The game of waiting was an agonizing one, as he longed to be inside of you, let you feel him again with renewed vigor, drown himself within your love. Aegon groaned when your lips met his, connecting with a thinly-veiled ardor, passionate yet tender.

Agony and pain became a thing of the past — even if his body ached and contorted with a continuous sting, he didn’t care. He wanted to endure for you, savoring each moment, digits greedily stroking away at your cunt in order to warm you up.

Desire made him dizzy, head beginning to spin in a delirium, induced by the growing haze of lust. He couldn’t recall the last time he laid with a woman and truly enjoyed it — but he was enjoying this — he loved your body, and above all else, he loved you.

“I want you inside of me,” You panted, hot breath fanning across the shell of his ear. A shiver cascaded along his spine, prompting him to slow the steady strokes of his digits. “Aegon, please.” With a pleading tone that brought Aegon to heel, he nodded, letting out a grunt of discomfort.

He gently removed you from his lap, but only to readjust, moving himself back against the mound of feathered pillows and cushions. Those violet hues silently observed you, rapturous and starving, like a hound preparing to devour its meal as you clamored forward again.

Your hands moved to the leather ties of his breeches, loosening them up enough to free his cock from its confines, flushed head oozing with tendrils of precum. Aegon wasn’t shy about how aroused he was, how desperately he needed you.

“Sit,” Aegon groaned, hand kneading against your hip, attempting to coax you onto his hardened length. “Please, I — I need you.” You hadn’t heard him beg before, but the sound was husky, timbre strung-out with desire as you crawled back into his lap.

As you gently lowered yourself onto his cock, Aegon nearly moaned at the sensation, head rolling back against the pillows as you sank down completely. He couldn’t move like he used to, guide you along or assist, but he did squeeze your hip, caressing all along your side.

Depriving himself of you for so long was perhaps one of the greatest faults he’d ever made, filling him with a wave of guilt. He could not make up for it anymore, properly ravage you in the way that you deserved, but he hoped that this was a start.

Everything began to ache with more of an intensity, a dull throbbing sinking into his bones, but he relented. Aegon would not deny himself, and he would not deny you, above all else. A myriad of throaty groans escaped him as you began to move, hips rocking forward, disarmingly gentle and sluggish.

You did not go quickly at all, each movement slow and steady, thighs stinging from exertion. Slowly, you reached for his hand, the one that had stayed closer to his chest, longing to hold it, if he was able. Aegon’s breath hitched when you did, gently twining his fingers with your own as you rode him.

His cock filled you perfectly, filling a void within you that had been left half-empty for so long. At last, you had your husband again — the one that you yearned for since your wedding day. With gentle gyrations, you moved yourself up and down along his length, continuing your sluggish rhythm.

The palm that cupped your hip and thigh soon slithered toward the apex of between your legs, hoping to stimulate you just as you did him. Your moans, breathy and high-pitched, filled your chambers, noises that he had been longing to hear.

The full, lovely swell of your breasts bounced gently atop your chest as you continued your ministrations, repeating the monotonous motion of rocking along his cock. Your stomach sloshed with molten heat, and it quickly spread to your loins when Aegon’s thumb caressed the pearl of your cunt.

He wasn’t going to last much longer in this state, cock throbbing with tendrils of precum that released themselves inside of you. The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

Your cunt clenched pathetically, snug around his length as you continued to ride him, his cock bottoming out within you. It was a perfect storm of sensations, between the fervent circles he traced into your clit coupled with the feeling of him inside of you, you knew that your release was near and inevitable.

A breathy sigh of ‘fuck’ emerged from Aegon’s mouth, countenance contorted into a look of complete and utter ecstasy. “Gods, do not stop,” Aegon commanded through wanton groans, hips desperately wanting to buck up inside of you, but the pain was becoming too great. “Please.” He pleaded.

Everything felt so raw and sensitive, nerves set ablaze, arousal gripping him tightly as you continued to ride his cock, ensuring that you were still incredibly gentle. He thoroughly enjoyed watching you move, cautious and mindful of him, lips agape and visage one of sheer bliss.

The delight you felt was immense, holding onto Aegon’s hand, wanting to grind yourself into his thumb. “Aegon,” You moaned, looking down upon him with reverence and awe, no inkling of disgust to be found — it was ardor and want, all tangled into one. “I—I’m close!” Your whine made him want to tear you apart.

It only took one more roll of your hips for him to fall apart, in shambles beneath you, hot ropes of virile seed filling your womb with desperation. Aegon saw stars from the intensity of his release, nearly collapsing in the aftermath of it all.

His breathing quickened, hoarse and labored as you tilted your hips forward, finding a much-needed friction as he caressed your clit even still. Watching you reach your release with his own eyes was a captivating sight, mesmerizing to behold as you shuddered, trembling and aching with relief.

He huffed, attempting to recuperate as you stayed in his lap for a moment longer, slick with your nectar and his own spent, its sheen coating the inside of your thighs. You removed yourself from him to give him some reprieve, stepping away to clean yourself up and retrieve your nightgown.

Aegon’s visage became one of immediate concern as he watched you move away, worried that he had offended you. “Where — Are you not staying?” He questioned, hastily maneuvering his breeches up around his hips again, doing his best to lace up the leather ties.

Surprised, you stopped near the basin of water sitting along the vanity, head canting to one side. “I intended on staying with you, unless you do not want me to.” You replied, sliding the silken garment back on after having taken a swatch of cloth to the warmth between your thighs.

“I want you,” Aegon’s tone had become a rather desperate resonance, as if imploring you to stay even when there wasn’t a need for him to do so. “I want you to stay.” He uttered, lilac hues somewhat shrewd as you approached, helping him put his tunic back on.

“Of course.” With a soothing voice, you pressed a kiss against the scarred side of his scalp, and then to his forehead, helping to ease him back down into bed. The draught left behind by Maester Orwyle assisted with the pain — not nearly as strong as Milk of the Poppy, but it was the best choice.

Taking a swig, Aegon sighed, feeling you climb into bed, curled against the good side of his body. He immediately collected you into his arm, feeling your cheek press into his shoulder. It was the most satisfying feeling in the world, having you by his side again.

“If you are agreeable to it,” Aegon began, tracing patterns into the small of your back, “I wish for you to stay here again, and share my bed.” He didn’t demand anything, nor did he use his title and power to force you into sharing your chambers again.

He would’ve understood if you declined, given everything that had happened between the both of you.

Aegon loathed the thought of being alone again, to return to his reclusive existence of self-deprecation and endless misery when you were still here, living perfection — his beloved wife. He turned his head just enough to kiss your crown, briefly inhaling your floral scent, one that he sorely missed.

“I would like that,” You hummed, comfortable by his side. It was the first time in many moons that Aegon felt almost entirely comfortable again, scars and all. “Know that I love you, Aegon — until my last days.” With a gentle touch, you reached for his marred hand, holding it delicately within your own.

Tears swam within his lilac hues, and he had to squeeze them shut just to alleviate that feeling of sobbing. To hear you say with certainty that you loved him — he knew that he no longer needed to fear the idea of living, not when he had you.

“I love you.” Aegon whispered, barely above a whisper. He held you tightly, cradling you close, grasp innately protective even when danger didn’t hang over your heads.

Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he was finally being transparent with himself — with his inner turmoil, with his very existence, and that he loved you too.

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my work onto other platforms.

[ghcstao3]

I hope your day is as amazing as you.

What would happen is soap was Makarov's son who run away to live with his Scottish Aunt? He knows Russian and how Makarov operates and wants to stop it, that is why he joined up. What would happen with the team and Makarov finding out?

Have a lovely rest of the year. I hope it is restful and relaxing

i actually love this prompt so much !! thank you, and i hope you are doing well :)

-

The first thought in Soap’s head upon being passed a photo of his father isn’t of revenge or abhorrence like he thought it might be—it’s wondering if Ghost notices the tremble in his hand as he’s given the picture.

His second thought is that he must have, because Ghost isn’t even looking at the photo pinched between his fingers.

He’s looking right at Soap.

“Makarov,” Price supplies, though Soap needs no introduction. He’s more familiar with the task force’s newest target than he’d like to be.

But he’d been waiting for this. Soap had been surviving out of spite and the hope that maybe one day he might finally reach this point. That maybe he could be the one to put a bullet in his father's skull for all he's done.

Ghost’s eyes continue to bore into the side of his face up until a passive dismissal from Price, and even then there’s a second set of footsteps behind Soap as he leaves the bar.

His shadow only lets him get as far as the elevator of the run-down hotel they're posted up in for the time being, before the emergency stop toggle is pulled just as the doors slide shut and the car moves upward.

Soap is suddenly shoved up against a wall, Ghost's forearm pressed to his throat while a handlerail digs into his spine. He could fight the lieutenant off, he could—but Soap’s senses tell him it'd be futile. That whatever it is Ghost wants from him would be inescapable, inevitable, no matter how hard he tries.

"You know something," Ghost says, barely loud enough to be heard over the blaring elevator alarm. His eyes are intense, dark—and for a moment Soap is in full understanding of the fear Ghost's enemies carry for him.

"Not sure what you mean, sir," Soap replies. And maybe a part of him knows exactly what it is Ghost is talking about, but a louder majority is panicked. Confused.

Soap's throat is squeezed tighter. A threat, from his own lieutenant.

"About Makarov," Ghost grunts. "I saw your face when you looked at that photo. There's something you're not saying, MacTavish, and I reckon you'd spit it out before I make you."

Soap's eyes go wide, never having even thought of Ghost picking up on his expression. Never having even thought there was an expression. He feels his heartbeat jump pace, thumping in his throat as he struggles to swallow. This isn't how he'd imagine telling anyone his place in this. Who he really is.

In all honesty, he hadn't imagined it happening at all, mostly because he wished for it to never have to come up.

But perhaps Soap should've known that Ghost is too smart for that to be possible.

"Don't think you'd believe me if I told you," Soap rasps. He knows it's the wrong answer for Ghost, but he's not quite sure what else he could say.

Thankfully, Ghost doesn't suffocate Soap further, though he doesn't budge his hold yet, either. Not as he hisses, "Try me."

Soap screws his eyes shut, huffing air through his nose to brace himself for whatever reaction he'll receive. For whatever reaction he doesn't want to wait on.

"I'm—" Soap sighs his uncertainty, his voice quivering, "Makarov is my father."

Though Ghost scoffs, Soap can feel some of the pressure on his windpipe mercifully lift. "Bullshit he is. Why would you be hunting him?"

Soap finally begins to scrabble at the thick forearm at his throat. "I ran away when I was old enough. He... he made me do awful things for him, LT, and I—can you please just let me go?" Tears sting the corners of Soap's eyes. "I'll explain everything, I just—"

Ghost suddenly frees him, and Soap doubles over, heaving in gasping breaths as he rubs at his neck and collarbone. The alarm stops ringing as Ghost pushes the emergency toggle back in place, and the car begins moving again.

It's a blur, being led to Ghost's hotel room, but he's appreciative to not have to think about his steps as Ghost drags him along and seats him on the foot of the made bed.

Soap opens his mouth to let his explanation begin tumbling out, but Ghost shushes him before he gets the chance.

"I'm getting Price, Gaz, and Laswell before you say anything," Ghost tells him. "Whether you like it or not, I'm not keeping this secret from the team if it'll help us take down your f—Makarov's operation."

Soap understands, he does—but that doesn't mean it hurts any less to hear the distrust in Ghost's voice that Soap had only recently managed to work away.

Ghost pauses in the doorway, and for a hopeful second Soap thinks he's changed his mind.

"I'm sorry," he says instead, before turning and heading back into the hallway.

The door clicks loudly shut, the electronic lock mechanism resetting. Soap sighs, feeling his shoulders slump uncomfortably low as he waits. He suspects he has a night of storytelling ahead of him, now.

If only he'd been more careful.

*

The team takes in the new information better than Soap had anticipated.

Ghost says nothing the entire time. Asks no questions and offers nothing more than a grunt or huff to acknowledge what's being said. Soap only hopes his walls haven't been permanently rebuilt.

Price takes the information in stride, just as Laswell does. They both ask questions that pertain more so to their current mission, poking and prodding to see if any of Soap's personal intel could help them find more and easier success in the near future.

Gaz sits with him and tells Soap it changes nothing about who he is. That because he's still fighting for the right cause, nothing else matters—not his past nor paternity.

Soap is just grateful that beyond his confrontation with Ghost in the elevator, no rash decisions have been made otherwise in the face of this revelation.

But after everything—Soap just wants to sleep. He just wants space.

It takes longer than Soap would’ve liked for it to happen, but it does eventually. He’s finally allowed to leave the room and shuffle to his own, though not before Price catches his arm in the hallway, once Gaz and Laswell have both disappeared, Ghost’s door having long since been shut.

“This isn’t to say I don’t trust you to do it,” Price says, “but if it comes down to it, Soap—you can’t hesitate.”

Can’t hesitate to kill Makarov, Price means.

“Of course, sir.” Soap nods. In no world does he need to be told to take action. “I understand. No second-guesses.”

Price hums. “Good,” he says, and pats Soap’s shoulder. “Now rest up, sergeant. Lots of work still to do.”

Soap nods again and bids Price goodnight before finally slipping into his own room. He barely takes the time to toe off his shoes and shed his jacket before collapsing onto the bed, more than ready to curl up and sleep for an eternity.

But alas, as Price had said—there’s still plenty left to do.

[anya-nya-nya]

SFW, GN! reader, yandere, manipulation, use of Harmony

P.S. The lack of information about Sunday's Harmony ability in Wiki and absolutely small presentation of this skill in the game itself wasn't enough for me to understand it fully so please bear with me and the way I described Harmony here.

“People's need for a savior went back centuries. It's engraved in them from the very childhood: kids tend to seek parents' protection from scary monsters under their bed, teenagers love comics about heroes who're saving a world in crisis, someone just marries a healthy person to care for their needs, but most adults pray for Aeons’ blessing, praying to find a rest in religion..“ - Bright sky with yellow overlay seems to attract the attention of the speaker more successfully than your figure behind his back did. Or maybe Sunday just wasn't ready to face you and find none of the changes he hoped his words would make in your mind.

“And who am I to tear apart this basic need? To push them from the inborn behavior of the protégé?” - His voice continued to torture you by pouring another sliver of his ideology in your already aching minds.

The position Sunday drove you in both by endless lectures and his Harmony ability was rather unpleasant, to say the least: maybe no physical chains hurt your body, but the colorful clouds in your head were enough to prevent you from even getting up from the chair he put you in. More than that: every mental resistance felt like a whole workout, wearing down any attempts to not believe this Halovian.

“The savior, the hero, the chosen one, the parent or patron: it's the same role with different fonts, so I'm ready to bear them all and let people of Penacony live their dreams..”

“The chosen one? Are you sure they would even choose a psycho like you?” - The spiteful bite was the only parry you could think of, with the angle Sunday decided to use for his arguments. What else can you say when in the global meaning his words are nor devoid of truth, but the ill intentions he's pushing through it are too blurry to point them directly..? Yet your words laid at least some effect on him, enough to drag him away from the window to shift the perceiving gaze on your sweaty face.

“And tell me exactly at least one moment in human history, when the choices they made were hundred percent successful? Tell me at least one century when humanity wasn't in distress by one, if not a few, problems?” - Soft rug muffled the motion of his legs and chair’s creak, but even with your head down you could sense how the oppressive feeling of Harmony increased due to his approach. Gloved hand moved to yours, a gentle, caring move that didn't really match the mental pressure.

“And YOU tell me at least one moment when humans’ bad choices made the whole world crump? If humanity were so doomed in your eyes, then we two wouldn't be sitting here right now: our ancestors would be too stupid to survive without a savior, huh?” - The way Sunday used abstract words and didn't count himself as another human pissed you off. The way your hands gained the weight of a whole planet and you can't pull away from Sunday's touch pissed you off. The way malaise provoked by Harmony slowly breaks your mind pissed you off. Everything was so overwhelming that somewhere in the back of your head a tired voice of your mind whispered to give up.. Or did Harmony creep inside you so deep to gain such disguise?

“It seems you didn't learn enough about the historical geography of our universe, as I can give you a whole list of abandoned, defunct planets whose history of success wasn't that long. I will add a few books for your morning routine, it would help you adapt and understand my ideology a little quicker.” - He didn't even try to hide irritated disappointment in the ring of his voice before standing up again. The veil of pain didn't blind you enough to not realize now something was wrong: all Sunday’s actions suddenly become more measured, as if images of subsequent events amuse his imagination for many times already.

“The fuck you mean under that? Neither I will read any books recommended by you nor even give you permission to choose the way I would spend my mornings!” - Your words didn't possess a real bite, being just a vessel for increasing anxiety and fear. But even this zeal teetered down when you felt the familiar feeling of his glove on your neck from behind, a touch rather possessive for someone who's bandy about words of religion and hope and saviors so much. Any of your protests died in your throat as soon as the whisper of Halovian made your heart plummet somewhere in your guts.

“Oh, Triple Faced-Soul, please sear their mind with a hot iron, so that they will not be tempted by any sins or blasphemous ideas. Please sear their eyes with a hot iron, so that they will not be tempted by the view of iniquity and will only see the right. Please sear their..”

Would true need in a savior not appear in people's mind but be brokered by pain you just bear? It's a little bit late to ask, with your body going limp in Sunday's arms as he slowly caresses the trembling flesh with care unnatural for his previous actions.

Kids would stop asking their parents to check the wardrobe. Teenagers would stop reading their comics if heroes don't match their worldviews. Gold diggers would drop their man if he's too bossy and seeks for unhealthy control. Believers would open their eyes and stop praying for the cult.

Everyone would make a mistake and choose another opinion.

Everyone, except you.

[ghostofthefourthtemple]

Hi ! I'm so happy to find a blog about Saint Seiya ! Can you make headcanons of Ikki x a female reader ? They were friends when they were childrens but she see him again, after becoming a saint, at the galaxian wars ? And she does everithing she can to stop him t'il he recognize her.

MC reunites with Ikki after becoming a saint:

Hi!

Here's the headcanon you requested. I haven't had much time to write this month, so it's coming out later than I originally wanted. I hope you enjoy it in spite of everything.

Take care of yourself and have a nice day.

You were among the first to arrive in Japan, your hopes of reuniting with your old friends were high, but all the rich kid did was announce a tournament with a smile you wished you'd ripped off her face. On the day of the tournament, there were huge crowds both in the streets and in the hotels, and you couldn't deny that it was a little unhealthy, especially knowing that you had no real choice but to take part.

You looked around the arena for your friends, but although Shun was there, there was not the slightest trace of Ikki. Of course, you were relieved to find his brother - Ikki would be devastated if Shun died - but when you asked Shun about Ikki, he told you he hadn't heard from him in 6 years.

You continued to search for him with growing concern. Ikki wasn't just anyone, he was a brave, stubborn boy and he'd promised to come back alive, he couldn't betray his promise, he wasn't that kind of person. You were supposed to find yourself in Japan, if you were lucky enough to survive your training, and you did. It wasn't easy, but the idea of being able to find him one day kept you going.

Days went by without a trace of him, and doubt slowly crept into your mind. Perhaps he had succumbed… No matter how much you glanced at Shun, hope seemed to have given way to dull fear and anxiety, and you wondered if the same fear wasn't reflected in your eyes. Ikki was alive, right? He couldn't have died when you survived, not him… Ikki couldn't have died when he was already the strongest of you all.

The day of the fight between Shun and Jabu, you'd almost given up hope. Anxiety gnawed at your stomach and you felt like you were lost in a fog. It had been 5 days since the start of the competition. The idea that Ikki might have succumbed to his training on the island of the Death Queen seemed increasingly plausible to you. Hadn't Tatsumi said back then that this place was hell on earth? That no one could come back alive?

You were so worried that you didn't notice the first worrying signs. And you only turned your attention back to the fight when Shun's chains began to behave strangely. Ikki's entrance into the arena was spectacular to say the least, his cosmos burning with hatred and rage was suffocating, overwhelming.

You watched him attack his precious little brother as if he'd been a common mosquito in his path, and it was as if the ground slipped out from under your feet. Why? Nobody can change their personality so drastically for no reason. Ikki was a cheeky boy, which always got him into trouble, but above all he was protective. He was kind, and he was keen to protect those weaker than himself. He would never hurt his little brother.

You didn't have time to react; he disappeared just a few minutes after arriving, and with the armor to boot. If you don't give a damn about that piece of junk, that's not the case with the arrogant rich girl who complains and moans about it. You may feel a sense of anger towards this girl who is responsible for his suffering, but it's almost entirely overshadowed by your concern for Ikki.

But, You can't let Ikki go ahead with his plans without trying to stop him, you have to try and reason with him somehow. You leave the recovery of the armor pieces to the others and set off in search of the Phoenix.

But by the time you find him, it's already too late. You don't even know if he remembers you or recognizes you, so blinded is he by his anger. All he can talk about is revenge, and apart from the fact that he keeps telling you he's been through hell, you can't find out any more. You hear him talk about Esmeralda, who died, and his master, who didn't seem to be a child at heart. But telling you about them only seems to deepen his hatred.

You speak without being heard, as if your every word were passing through a distorting mirror. Ikki only understands what he wants to understand, or only what he can understand. He repeats that he's been through hell as if it were the only thing he knew. He attacks you as he attacked Shun, but for fear of hurting him, you don't really dare retaliate and keep trying to talk to him, sometimes a flash of lucidity seems to cross his eyes, but it's immediately replaced by a new wave of rage.

Little by little, you come to understand what he went through during his six years on the island of the Death Queen. And you better understand his reaction: no one can emerge from such an ordeal without consequences. His eyes are haunted by the violence he experienced on that island. Despite everything, your words still don't reach him. He continues to attack you, but you are saved in extremis by the intervention of the other Bronze Knights who have finished fighting the Black Knights.

With Shun's help, you continue to try to reason with Ikki, without the slightest success, and by the end of the fight you're the last one standing with Seiya and Ikki. However, you barely have time to chat with Ikki when new enemies attack and force you to separate. Between the battle against the Silver Knights and the battle against the sanctuary, you haven't managed to have a single moment to talk with Ikki.

It's not until the battle for the sanctuary is over that you finally manage to get together for a chat. At first, the situation is a little awkward. There aren't many pleasant memories of your time at the orphanage, so you don't talk about them much, or only about the few really positive ones.

You also avoid talking about what happened just after the Galaxian War, both because Ikki is still angry at himself for trying to kill you all and because you still don't know how to react to it.

Then, Ikki tells you in much greater detail about everything he's been through over the past six years, in a much more calm and collected way. You learn more about his master's violence, but also about the young Esmeralda he befriended, who died shortly before the Galaxian War. His description of his training really gives you the impression that he's been through hell on earth, even though he now sounds quite detached when he recounts it, a bit as if it wasn't him who had been through it but someone else.

He also asks you questions about everything that's happened to you in the six years you've been apart, and he listens attentively to your answers, although he looks worried when you start talking about your master.

Gradually, the atmosphere becomes more pleasant, and you stop talking about your training sessions to joke a little about the battles that have just taken place and, above all, to rave about each other's fighting techniques. You spend a long moment discussing his fight against Shaka, another listening to him talk with pride about the brave man his little brother has become, before talking about the battles you've fought.

Now you're just hoping to create new good memories together, things that will be nice to talk about years from now when you're old and don't have the energy to fight.

[amesachi]

|| > > > >

An object in motion,

my two legs are broken

but look at me dance.

An object in motion,

don’t ask where I’m going,

‘cause where I am going

is right where I am.

Shen Jiu was an object in motion.

Since the day he burned down the walls that held him captive, the day he smothered the deceitful whispers of hope he had forged ahead and had never looked back. He dyed his hands in red, and his heart in black. He shed his bruised and battered skin, spitting and trampling it beneath his feet. Never again will he let others treat him like a plaything. Never again will he be that weak, pathetic, naive, little street rat. No. He’s bigger now. Older. Powerful. A goddamn peak lord is what he is!

He is Shen Qingqiu— not Shen Jiu.

***

There was a boy kneeling in front of him. The new disciple he had went out of his way to steal from that warfreak Liu Qingge.

The boy smiled at him.

Shen Qingqiu’s insides turned, like snakes writhing inside his gut. It was so visceral that if Shen Qingqiu had been any less used to keeping a placid expression, he would have gagged and doubled over. But as it was, his lips curled south a hairsbreadth for a split second, disappearing just as quickly.

Shen Qingqiu had never liked kids to begin with, had never felt like a kid but Luo Binghe, oh, that little beast— had managed to stir something within.

Things he swore he had buried alive long ago. The way it tries to claw out of its grave frightens him. No. It maddens him.

Was it the blinding light he unapologetically shone? Shen Qingqiu stopped there. He did not dare venture too deep into his own mind. Whatever it was couldn’t possibly matter. Not at the expense of the patchwork hc called a soul. To acknowledge it would be to acknowledge the wreckage churning amid his sinews and bones. Things that keep him awake, tossing and turning at night. It was akin to unraveling. Suicide.

Shen Qingqiu does not go there. No— he would sooner raze this beloved sect to the ground than lift a finger to end his life. It was not worth it. It never was. He will continue this charade for as long as it takes Yue Qi to come back to him. Shen Qingqiu never did learn how to give up on the things he wanted. And he won't start now. Not when it had gotten him this far. He was a machine perpetually fuelled by spite and rage and jealousy and everything he ever needed to survive, he had neither the ability nor inclination to pull the plug. What else would be left of him then?

Shen Qingqiu isn’t sure what made his skin crawl, but there is one thing he was sure of: he hates the boy. Could not stand the mere sight of him.

[lemon-natalia]

Nona the Ninth Reaction - Chapter 32

ngl i thought Crux was a total goner at the beginning of last chapter, but he’s still kicking somehow. he's probably fuelled by pure spite at this point

‘the Reverend Daughter has no cavalier living’ just imagine having to walk around with the knowledge that you are literally dead. like not just that you came back to life or anything, but that your body and you are literally still dead. that's just insane. also what the fuck must Aiglamene be thinking right now, given she has no idea about how Gideon ended up like this

FUCKING IANTHE IS BACK. i fully thought she had finished her ominous appearances in this book, how the hell did she get here so quickly 

i love that she’s apparently adopted Augustine’s smoking habit. it really adds to her James-Bond-Villain flair for the dramatic, which is coming out in full force here 

speaking of the fact that what’s happened to Pyrrha - namely, surviving - isn’t normal, and none of the other Lyctors’ cavaliers nor Naberius survived in a similar way. it might be unlikely given that G1deon is dead and can’t exactly say anything about what went differently during his ascension, but i hope we eventually get more information about how exactly that happened at some point 

yeah the fuck is up with Ianthe, actually. there are so many descriptions of Ianthe looking horrifically pale, and the specific mention here that she looks almost dead and pretty close to Kiriona, who is actually dead, it makes me wonder if there’s something genuinely weird going on with her?

‘Are you ever too late to come into my life and say that’ ooof the relationship between Pyrrha and Gideon is just so painful on both sides

oh for fuck’s sake Kiriona, i can’t believe she’s friends with Ianthe of all people. like they even have a secret handshake, i would kill to know how that relationship developed. these two actually getting along might be the creepiest moment so far actually 

okay, so there’s some interesting insight into Kiriona’s motivations here - if we take her at her word here, she’s got a new primary goal of wanting to be John’s cavalier. again i’m really curious as to how Kiriona and John’s relationship developed to the point that this is something she seems to genuinely want. although it could also be less that its something she really wants and more that she literally has nothing else going for her right now

and more importantly for the overall plot of the series, John is the one who told her to open the tomb and kill Alecto, two things that seem pretty opposed to his motivations earlier in the series. he’s told Kiriona that only she can do it, but given Alecto’s not so much a person as she is a Resurrection Beast in a human body, could anyone even kill her? so if John has the ulterior motive of unlocking the tomb, that makes me very concerned as to the reason why 

and once again like the end of HtN, if Ianthe is openly horrified by something it seems pretty damn dangerous. she seems to know what will happen if Alecto is released and be genuinely terrified of it, which given the look at how powerful John can get when working with Alecto (see: literally killing the entire solar system), I can see why she seems so afraid. plus i might be reading too much into this, but Ianthe’s (most obvious) major goal, becoming a Lyctor, was achieved all the way back in GtN - from the fact that she wants to keep John ‘nothing’, she seems to be pretty desperate to hold onto that status as his only Lyctor 

‘Nona unravelled’ oh no i am not even close to being emotionally prepared for this, even though i knew it was coming 

John really went all out on the religious imagery with the whole tomb thing, like he even sealed it with a rock for pete’s sake 

Palamedes complimenting (presumably) young!Harrow’s efforts at disabling the traps leading to the tomb is everything to me 

also absolutely killing me this chapter are the little hints at Gideon’s continued devotion to Harrow after everything; Gideon begging Harrow, even though she doesn’t know where she is, to ‘keep it together’, the fact that she is so willing to give up all of her blood and die for Harrow a second time. i am so obsessed with these two 

wow I cannot believe that Crux of all people is coming in clutch at the climax of this book

oh wtf Gideon DID end up killing Crux, fucking hell!! rip Crux you died as you lived: being a complete hater. he really made sure his last words were to emotionally destroy Gideon as much as possible huh 

these whole couple of pages are like a microcosm of all of Gideon’s biggest emotional hang ups really. her projecting pretty hard onto Crux about how he ‘could have lived’ for Harrow but can only die for her, her whole moment of boasting to someone who treated her awfully her whole life about how she actually is someone important. and then ending with killing Crux, which of course doesn’t 'feel good' - killing him doesn’t give her any of the parental love that she missed as a child, or remove the emotional abuse she suffered from him, or actually solve any of her emotional issues 

the running narrative in the background about Alecto remembering John leading her to the tomb is pretty disturbing i won’t lie. it's just so creepy to read about him reassuring Alecto as he leads her to essentially what is a jail cell

also i am fully aware that there’s a subplot about Anastasia and Alecto’s relationship in this last chapter, its just that there’s been so much else going on that i honestly just have not been paying attention to it at all

‘Well, happy birthday to me’ oh poor Nona, her wishing herself a happy birthday before she dies just … hurts so bad. she started out genuinely happy and optimistic, and i knew full well it wasn’t going to last, but it still hurts

[sky-fire-forever]

DADWC time :D How does ❛  i know things aren't easy right now, but i want to remain a fixture in your life. after all, you're one in mine.  ❜ for Rook/Lucanis sound?? Obsessed about this pairing rn!

Thank you for the prompt! I tried something new with this, with it being from the point of view of someone outside of the pairing I’m writing it for. You can be the judge of how it turned out.

For @dadrunkwriting - Dragon Age: The Veilguard Spoilers

My Rook in this is Voltah de Riva, who uses they/them pronouns.

Caterina does not believe herself to be an unkind woman. Strict, perhaps, but it’s out of necessity. Everything she’s done has been for the good of her family, for the betterment of those who have survived. She’s lost too much to go soft now and lose it all. 

Part of wanting the best for her family is wanting the best partners for those who remain. Lucanis is the First Talon now and if he is to wed, he deserves the best, someone who will support him and who can fend for themselves if things turn sour. He deserves someone who will protect their standing and can provide heirs to house Dellamorte. 

What he doesn’t need is a Crow from another house grasping at power and encouraging dangerous ideas. 

“I fail to see the problem,” Lucanis says, his voice tight with irritation he can hardly contain. “Rook has done more than prove themself. They not only saved the world, but they helped put an end to Ilario’s misdeeds, they helped save you and they stopped a ravaging dragon from destroying Treviso. What more could you ask from them?” 

Caterina leans against her cane, a frown upon her lips. “Surely you can not be so blind, Lucanis.” It hurts her to break her grandson’s heart this way, but it’s far better than the alternative. “The de Rivas want the title of First Talon. You are standing in the way of that. All it would take would be your death and then–”

“Rook would never.” Lucanis sounds offended by the very idea. “They could not care less about my title. Their interest in me long predated my appointment as First Talon and I have no doubt that they would continue to love me if I were to lose that title entirely.” 

“You must be practical,” Caterina insists. “This is Viago’s protege. Do you not think he has trained them well? To manipulate and deceive?” 

“No more than any other Crow.” 

“But they are a Crow,” Caterina reminds him. “A Crow of a lesser standing who stands to win much by building a relationship with you. That is not even to speak of the way they encourage that thing inside of you.”

“Don’t bring Spite into this,” Lucanis warns.

“It is a demon, Lucanis. One that we should be focused on removing as soon as possible.” 

“As I have told you before, there is no separating us now.”

“Do you know that? Or are you simply unwilling to try?” She presses. “Because Rook told you not to bother trying?”

The idea of a demon remaining permanently within her grandson is terrifying in its possibility. It’s even more frightening that Lucanis doesn’t seem the least bit concerned with removing the foul creature inside of him. All because a pretty face told him to accept the demon as part of him. 

Caterina knows better. She knows her grandson is no demon. 

“Rook did not–”

“Would you give up your entire life for them? Throw away all we have worked for? For an upstart and a demon?” 

“That’s enough!” Lucanis snaps and Caterina is caught off guard enough to fall silent. “Enough. Please.” His voice turns from harsh to soft in a moment, guilt bleeding into his tone. 

She grips her cane tightly. “These are the questions you must ask yourself, Lucanis,” she says. “You can not run from them forever.” 

She leaves him to ponder her words, but doesn’t stray far, listening in to see how he reacts to what she has to say. She hopes he’ll listen, prays that he’ll see sense and abandon this childish romance of his. She wants nothing more than his happiness, save for his survival. 

She hears him sigh and she hesitates only a moment before following him out of the room. She sticks to the shadows, knowing from years of training how to follow even the most perceptive men without being spotted. She uses her old tricks now, trailing her grandson as he leaves the estate and climbs to the rooftops. 

She spots who he’s meeting right away, Rook’s face lit by moonlight as they pace back and forth on the ledge. 

They look up as Lucanis approaches, their face breaking into a grin. “So, how’d it go?” When Lucanis doesn’t respond, they whistle. “That bad, huh?” 

“I don’t understand it,” Lucanis says. “I thought she would see reason, but it’s like she’s incapable of believing our love is for love’s sake. Everything appears as a bid for power to her.” 

“Guess I am the power-hungry type,” Rook jokes. “I mean, it’s always been my dream to take over the world!” 

“Rook, please. Be serious.” 

Rook’s smile falls and they sit on the edge of the roof, their legs dangling off the side. “What do you want me to say, Lucanis?” They ask. “Your grandmother isn’t going to change her mind about me no matter what I do. She isn’t that kind of woman.” 

Lucanis sits beside them. “I know.”

“Then what do you want to do?” 

He sighs, considering. “I know things aren’t easy right now, but I want to remain a fixture in your life,” he says. “After all, you’re one in mine.”

Rook studies his face in the moonlight. “Good,” they say eventually. “I’m not letting you go that easily, Dellamorte.” 

“I would hope not.” 

The way Lucanis looks at his lover in what is believed to be a private moment gives Caterina a moment of hesitation. There’s love there, genuine and passionate. It’s more affection than she’s ever seen on her grandson’s face before. 

She hopes that love doesn’t get him killed.

[orphiclovers]

It took me reading it like 4 times but I finally figured out what An Exile Among Humanity's is trying to say. considering the last word of the novel is "hope". it really is a "hopeful" story even if it's not about success or improvement.

I reread this one line the protagonist thought. "humanity’s ability to adapt is quite powerful. Even if you have to live in mud, you’ll find a way to live in mud." and that's at the crux of it.

The world outside is a radioactive wasteland and yet humanity has still survived and adapted. Our protagonist is beaten down, poor, abused, his spirit and mind broken and yet he still struggles to live every day for no purpose other than that a human can adapt to even the worst circumstances.

At the end, Yasha draws a vision of the future and it's neither the worst nor the best scenario. None of this dystopian society's many many problems get addressed or fixed, the world outside is still a wasteland, the dictator still rules and yet it's also not so bad. People will surely continue to live and survive. It's a story about quiet perseverance in spite of everything. the unstoppable human capability to live and adapt.

I don't know, I think that's quite a beautiful thing to write about

[shining-gem34]

🌕 for rook.

Memory Lane || Accepting @cloudhymn

TW: Implied Character Death (Temporary)

Record XERRORERRORERROR: DEAD END

Whenever something happens, he always will strive to rise above it somehow.

Whenever a situation turns south, he always will survive one way or another.

Whenever death comes knocking at his door, he always find a way to live another day.

Rook knew his luck will run out one day. With it, he will finally pay the price of his hubris.

"It's just..." He struggles to raise his head before a series of coughing seizes his throat. His vision blurs looking away from the blood pooling on the ground (his blood is black as death).

At the horizon, space and time has splintered forming a crack in the skies. The air around it distorts sucking everything in within it's grasp. Beyond the cracks in space lies his goal, the beautiful blue jewel of his home world: Earth.

He can go home. They, he and Dr. Drake, can go home now.

Except what stands between them and the exit is an indomitable foe and their army.

This planet guardian whose body and mind became corrupted by the cancer (Stellaron). They siphon the lifeforce they're tasked to protect as fuel for their ever-burning body. A flame that burns as bright as the stars nearly blinding him with their light.

"It just had to be right at the finish line." Rook head throbs at the tantalizing whispers echoing in his head. The whispers of the Stellaron resonating with the fragments eroding his body.

Nearby, Dr. Drake stirs awake and shifts to lift her head. Her glasses lost amidst the chaos of the first wave of attacks. The pristine white coat dirtied with dust and blood.

"Hah. Rise and shine, sunshine. You got any bright ideas how to get us out of this and straight home?" Rook asks, standing up on shaky legs.

"If I could, then we wouldn't be in this mess already! Besides, isn't this your field of work, soldier?!" Dr. Drake snarks, but her face turns serious as she examines him. Her brows pinch in worry, "Hey, your body..."

The fragments he picked up long ago are finally picking up their dues. A dark-violet armor made from remnants of Destruction melds into his skin and turn it into hardened scales of armor. It doesn't stop there for it intends to consume him entirely. Already, the parasite is moving past his shoulder. The golden lines injected into his veins burns to the point he feels faint.

Somehow, it's a miracle Rook is barely clinging onto his consciousness by sheer spite and willpower.

"You idiot! Didn't I tell you to let that thing go?!" Dr. Drake shrieks, clutching to her bleeding side as she rises up.

"Yeah. About that, I think it's too late for me now." Rook wheeze finding it difficult to breathe.

"Shut it. We can still fix this once we're back on Earth." The doctor snaps, but she cannot continue denying the inevitable by the gray parlor of Rook skin.

Rook strains a smile at her knowing they both know he's dying at this point. What did it matter if he transforms into a monster? It will no longer be 'Rook'- Just a violent monster following their instinct to kill.

"Chin up, Dr. Drake. There's still hope."

"Really? I don't see the probability of us getting out of this. Not with that alien and their army in the way." Dr. Drake said bluntly, gesturing to the said army encroaching upon them. But she realizes shortly what he was planning, "Wait, you're not...!"

"Chit-chat over, Doctor. Hold on tight and don't let go!"

Nimble hands transformed into claws plucks the doctor by her waist. He digs his heels into the ground before he starts a run. Ignoring the pain shooting up to his head, Rook dashes forward straight into the enemy army. His other hand gripping his sword-whip tightly.

With a battle cry, he leaps into the fray delivering a swift kick to one of the soldiers head. So brittle they break under his heels, but the numbers are nothing to scoff at. Not when the trickier ones are in hiding waiting to explode once they're close enough.

In his arm, Dr. Drake protests went silent and clings to him tightly. Her heart not ready for Rook suicidal mission, but it was too late now. Even as she witnesses her bodyguard transformation picking up rapidly. The erosion of his human flesh replaced by the cursed armor covering more than half of his body.

Rook doesn't stop. He grits his teeth and continues moving forward swinging his sword. The blade stretched in an arch and slicing the next wave of soldiers. Tearing apart his enemies standing in his way unable to feel the pain lancing throughout his body. The adrenaline pumping into his veins forcing him to move his legs.

"Clench your teeth and don't bite your tongue, Doctor!" Rook rasps, unable to recognize his own voice with how distorted it sounds.

"What the hell are you-?!"

A burst of quantum power explodes underneath his feet. Farther than ever before, Rook jumps through the air and high into the sky. Yet his human body has reached its limits and his power starts to dissipate.

Before its fully gone, he lifts Dr. Drake in his arms and throws her high into the air. The said doctor shrieks in surprise, but her eyes widen seeing Rook starting to fall below her. Her world shifts, swallowed up by the quantum power briefly and spat out even farther away from her bodyguard.

Instead of descending to her doom, Dr. Drake is being lifted higher. She lifts her head up to see she's under the rift to Earth. Turning back to Rook, the doctor reaches a hand out to him. A meaningless effort for how far away they are now.

"Rook...!" Dr. Drake calls out in frustration.

For Rook, who can relax knowing the doctor made it out safe and sound, lets himself fall. He finds it strange how he's feel at peace for once. Smiling, he sees Dr. Drake lithe figure passing through the rift as the cracks in the sky mend itself.

The golden lines reaching his face burns. His vision growing heavy, feeling the crunch of a helmet forming around his head. The visor finishes, burning away the remaining pieces of his humanity like the giant star- a flaming fist dives right for his meager flesh and armor.

As long as someone makes it home, that's enough for me.

A strangled scream rips out of his throat.

Rooks shoots up instantly on his bed. Cold sweat soaking his shirt and unruly hair. His eyes wide trying to process his surroundings. He takes deeps to calm the rapid beating of his heart. Almost choking a few times caused him to be nauseous leading for Rook to go straight to the bathroom to throw up.

After washing his face and hands, he sits on the tile floors trying to stop his hands from shaking.

“Shit me a ton of fucking bricks, what the fuck was up with that dream?” Rook mutters, resting his forehead on his hands.

Then a thought occurred to him and he lifted his head, “Wait. Was it the SoulGlad I had before bed that caused it? Lords, I hope it didn't expire. I didn't read the labels either and I drank a whole three bottles of that stuff. I heard that stuff has memoria in it.”

After tonight, Rook vowed to avoid drinking SoulGlad for a while and try to start having good sleeping habits in order to avoid another nightmare like that.

...

>🌕 ― a vivid memory.

>Inspiration Song

[melishade]

I have several questions on mind. Trial of Eren could be seen as sequel to Attack on Prime (or spin-off)? I see Lara somehow ending up with Megatron, in their new lives given Lara is reforged by Solus and Megatron will come back to Cybetron after all Survery Corps members die, which is around century given what Primus said. And I imagine someone saying "Megatronus needs his Solus" given Megatronus and Solus were spark mates in aligned continuity. I see Eren going to same conclusion like Megatron, Rumbling would happen at some point or another, maybe not by Eren but trigger needs to be pulled, like Megatron did with Civil War. In "Trial of Eren", I imagine Eren will do the trials to spite Primus and 13th Primes, until he enters ome of the peaceful timelines, especially one with him and Mikasa abandoning the Paradise and Marley and war between them (I see Vector's trials being that he will send Eren to timelines and he needs to change their fate in good way while avoiding use of The Rumbling). Like, I imagine Eren breaking down in front of that Mikasa and possibly showing her what he has done, his memories, feeling, just everything. And to his and Primes surprise (because I imagine them watching the clusterfuck they expect), Mikasa hugs Eren and says sadly how much he suffered and how he was hopeless. That is like...basic explanation what I had in mind, basically Mikasa would reignite hope in Eren, so that he could see Mikasa, Armin, Optimus, Survery Corps, even fricking Megatron, to see them once again. Maybe you have different idea for "Trial of Eren" but wanted to say my piece.

Sorry for rambling but this let's me says my piece and get those ideas from my head, because I will be honest, your story made me stuck on Attack on Titan.

So Eren's Trials is considered more of a sequel than a spin off because it takes place after the events of Attack on Prime.

Lara plays little to no significance in the trials, and her feelings for Megatron were simply one-sided. She merely makes an appearance when Solus is crafting her a new body, and she's not even speaking.

In regards to Eren going through his trials, there are certain themes that play out based on each of the Primes. The Vector one is pretty much correct, Vector forces Eren in certain moments in time to give himself the opportunity to tell others about the Rumbling. The lesson being Eren understanding that he had every opportunity to tell his friends about the Rumbling.

And Eren would do the trials out of anger and survival because if he doesn't do the trials he will be barred from reincarnation. He definitely has attitude during Prima and Vector's trials, but both Primes quickly straighten him out so he doesn't pull anything else as he continues his trials.

In regards to Armin, Mikasa, and Co., they do show up in the trials, but it's not really them. They're all simulations and/or memories created by the Primes to test Eren. The way that Eren's Trials even starts is actually during the 💧 : A sad headcanon. When Megatron finds Old Armin and Mikasa by the tree, the two of them went up there in the night to discuss burning the letter Primus gave them in order to see Eren again. Seeing Eren again, thus kickstarting Eren's trials, is Armin's dying wish. But Eren himself will never get to see them again until he passes all the trials. That's part of his punishment.

I'd say more, but in the event I do pursue the trials in the future, I don't want to give too much away.

[sleepyfan-blog]

Day One

Author’s Note: Hagiel’s No Good, Terrible Mission part 1. Next

Playlist for this fic series: Spotify Youtube

Tagged: @undeaddream , @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @whorety-k @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

Warnings: canon-typical violence

Summary: Hagiel talks to some nobles, helps begin repairs to one of the damaged hospitals, and is invited to a fancy dinner.

word count: 3,278

The battles had been long, brutal and back to back. By the time that Hagiel and the small patrol of Brothers he’d been assigned to had finally killed and burned the last of the orcs off of this world, the planetary governor had informed them that a Drukhari raiding vessel had been barrelling towards the planet. They’d scrambled into their barely-functioning Battle Barge, leading what was left of the planetary defense forces in a pitched and desperate fight against the cruel, chaos-tainted Aeldari. When it became clear to the capricious near-immortals that whatever they’d been gunning for wasn’t worth the effort, they’d left, but not before crippling The Resolve’s primary engines out of spite.

It had killed all of the serfs and tech priests on board as the radiation and promethium leak killed them. It had killed half of his remaining brothers as they stopped the leak and repaired the engines to the point that The Resolve was able to move again… And teh radiation had rendered their gene-seed unsalvageable. Once The Resolve was safe enough to land, Hagiel’s superior ordered them to do so… Just in time for a small fleet of fucking Tyranids to arrive and attempt to consume everything in their path.

Hagiel had tried to keep positive, or at least hope that reinforcements would arrive before the system was overrun. The surviving planetary defense force had helped them hold the line as the civilians evacuated in as orderly a fashion as possible. The tyranids had managed to land on Karsos three. The primary world in the solar system and had caused a tremendous amount of destruction to the principle hive city.

The tyranids had been killed, and the surviving civilian ships returned. Hagiel had spent the last three days collecting his dead brothers’ corpses, retrieving their geneseed and other vital organs if they were still useable and storing them properly on the Resolve, and burning their bodies, as was custom for his chapter. Hagiel didn’t know why he was the sole surviving member of his patrol… But the god emperor had him spared the oblivion of death so he would continue to serve faithfully. 

General Wuelt - the leader of the local astartes who had recently taken over as the interim commander in chief of the remaining Planetary defense forces after Admiral Rufus had sacrificed himself and his badly damaged command ship to destroy the primary Tyranid control vessel. He approached Hagiel in the half-destroyed space port that the Resolve was docked at. 

Behind the General was Lord Shyrc - the Governor of Karsus three, who had stayed behind until either the last of their people were evacuated…. Or Hagiel and the mortal defensive forces managed to save the day. They were speaking in low tones with their vice governor, LadySablescar.

“You called for a meeting, Lord Angel?” Lord Shyrc asked as soon as they were within conversation distance.

“Yes. I have news and I have bad news. Which do you want first?” Hagiel asked, tension boiling in the pit his stomach had become.

“Bad news first. More xenos trying to kill or enslave us?” General Quelt guessed, weariness exuding from the human “I’ll really my forces… My condolences on your loss, Lord Angel.” 

“Nothing immediately life-threatening like that…However the relief aid that was supposed to arrive today? It has been delayed indefinitely. We have seven solar days until a group of Ultramarines lead by one of their company captains comes to inspect this city and take the Imperial Tithe and exacta required of the worlds in this system.” Hagiel explained, trying to keep his emotions out of his voice "They are being sent here on the orders of the Imperial Regent himself.”

“... Well… Fuck. That’s some shit news alright.” Lord Shyrc groaned. They pulled out a silver hip flask and drank deeply from it before offering the flask to General Quelt, who took it silently and drank deeply from it as well. The planetary governor heaved a sigh and said “I’m guessing that the Ultramarines are expecting to see a functioning capital city instead of… This.” They gestured to the still smoking half-destroyed wreck of a hive city that the spaceport gave them all a stark overview of.

“You are correct.” Hagiel confirmed with a nod, anxiety-induced nausea clawing at his stomach. “Despite the lack of relief aid, we need to try and get this city ready for inspection. Ultramarines are , as you all are doubtlessly already aware of, well known for their attention to detail and protocol.”

“I’ll contact my underlings and have them round up everyone who is able bodied and non-medical to immediately begin unfucking the city.” The general rumbled,already typing away on his fox communicator.

“Lady Sablescar and I will rally the remaining nobles and merchant clans, to get the material stockpiled for such disastrous times to the places they are needed most… May I inquire as to what you plan on doing, lord Angel?” Lord Shyrc asked, gray eyes looking him over assessingly.

“I do have some experience and training in both structural repair, as well as search and rescue. I plan on aiding in the reconstruction of the major hospitals in this city, before aiding in finding any civilians trapped under the destroyed parts of the city who may still yet live.” Hagiel explains. 

The mortals nod and each head off to go wrangle their people into getting this city ready for inspection. With any luck, they should be able to get the city ready for a glancing inspection in time… Or so Hagiel hopes. 

~

There used to be seven large, fully-staffed and stocked hospitals in the hive city. Between the Tyranids, the orcs and especially the Drukhari, five of them were utterly destroyed, along with all of the infrastructure in the immediate area within a quarter-mile radius. Arbites had been deployed in those areas, not only to search for survivors and bring any usable medical supplies to the two only partially destroyed large hospitals… And to discourage attempts at looting in these utterly destroyed areas. 

Hagiel went to the less-destroyed hospital in the northern sector of the half-destroyed hive city, moving carefully through the densely packed streets, occasionally stopping when a baseline human called out, asking for his assistance with something or another, aiding them however he could. When he was asked if he knew where any loved ones were, Hagiel shook his head and suggested that they speak with one of the Arbites patrols about reuniting with loved ones, as that was not something he was in charge of. 

He could see that the baselines were already starting to patch up their homes and businesses with whatever they had to hand, which was heartening to see. Sometimes the despair and cruelties inflicted upon them caused the baselines to go into a state of numb catatonia and they needed to be prodded into movement, and continuing on with their lives. Or at least.. Most of them were. There were more than a couple of times where Hagiel had to step in as a group of desperate frightened humans would try and coerce and threaten a lone or pair of humans for whatever they had on them. Hagiel would not allow such cruelties to happen when he could stop it, firmly scolding the would-be thieves while protecting the victim until the Arbites arrived and processed the desperate criminals.

It took him several hours to get to the northern hospital due to the aid that the baselines had needed that he couldn’t help but give them, and he arrived just in time to help lift a large piece of collapsed wall where several heat signatures could be detected in his visor. Before the first aid staff could rush in he held up a hand, curling it into a fist, which they knew meant stop.

Yes,amongst the rubble and debris there were a half-dozen semi-conscious medical staff each in varying states of injury, but there was also a mid-sized Orcish bomb buried in the rubble as well. It hadn’t gone off, but it still had explosives haphazardly and quite dangerously shoved inside of the crude metal casing. Some of the liquid explosives had leaked out of the rusted metal and dripped onto the floor in a thick, viscous puddle of danger. “I will remove the injured one at a time. I need the rest of you to evacuate the surrounding rooms, on this floor as well as any higher and lower floors. Orcish ordinance is notoriously difficult to disarm.” Mostly because it shouldn’t actually work and should explode the moment it was touched or moved. Especially once outside of the WAAAGH! Field of an Orc Warboss. 

“Yes, lord Angel!” the leader of the repair team of baselines called out, immediately barking orders and ensuring that their people were moving in as efficient a manner as possible “Is there anything we can do to reduce the likelihood of this thing going off before we can get everyone clear?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know of any sanctioned psykers trained in telekinetic manipulation who are on planet and in a fit state to use their emperor-blessed abilities, would you?” Hagiel responded with a sigh. Drukhari bombs were difficult and deadly to try and diffuse, but it was in fact possible to do so. Tyranid didn’t do bombs like this, prefering to use psykery to stun or disable an opponent before consuming everything in their path. 

“... No sir, but I’ll ask around.” The repair team leader answered, shaking their head a little.

Hagiel sincerely doubted that one would be found in time - if there were any such trained psykers left alive in the system. The trained psykers who had been present before the battles either died fighting bravely against the waves of enemies, or were critically exhausted and unable to serve safely - and the last thing any of them needed was a daemon possessing an exhausted and desperate to serve psyker because their attention wavered at the wrong time. He carefully picked up the nearest injured baseline, having knelt down and slowly pulled them out from under the desk they’d wedged themself under, before walking over and handing them off to the nearby emergency medical team, two of whom whisked them off on a stretcher.

The next four injured humans were just as easy to pull free of the remaining wreckage of what remained of the large room that had  been mostly destroyed. The final baseline woke as soon as Hagiel touched their shoulders, a low, pained whine leaving them as they jerked in surprise “Who…Who are you?” The human slurred, squinting up at him, pupils different sizes.

“I am Brother Hagiel of the Lamenters third company. I am pulling you free of the wreckage of this room and putting you in the hands of those who can patch you up.” Hagiel responds, deciding to forgo telling them about the unexploded orc bomb in the remains of the room. It would only cause upset.

“But… But I… Need to finish my shift… There’s… So much left to do… We’re over capacity with the damn xenos trying to kill us all…” The baseline slurred, shifting weakly in his arms.

Hagiel’s voice was firm, and brooked no argument “You have a concussion and are badly injured-” His gaze quickly swept over the other’s uniform “-Medicae Smith. You need to be tended to first, before you can care for anyone else. “

The civilian medicae grumbled in his arms, but didn’t try to leave them again, which made Hagiel’s job easier. He also made sure that the civilian didn’t see the large, still-dripping bomb in the middle of the room, not wanting to deal with the potential emotional fall out of that. He gently placed the other down on the waiting stretcher and pulled the other baseline humans who were working on trying to repair the hospital away.

Just in time too, as Hagiel saw a crumbling bit of wall fall from a higher floor of the hospital and land directly on top of the Orcish bomb, causing it to immediately explode in a bright, fiery explosion. Hagiel threw his arms wide and stood between the baselines and the explosion, knowing that his armor could take the heat and shrapnel without difficulty.

Once the after-images of the explosion was blinked out of everyone’s eyes, Hagiel noted grimly that despite the fact that there was now more structural damage done to the hospital… The explosion had cleared several large debris piles that would have taken hours to clear with the tools that the baselines and he had in time.

The Lamenter hadn’t thought that he would be grateful for the years he had spent stuck on Terra, working and training alongside Imperial Fists, but the training that they’d given him on how to build and reinforce all kinds of buildings was incredibly helpful to him as he helped to guide the search and repair efforts of the northern hospital.

By the time it was sunset and the baseline humans were being relieved of their duties in order to eat and rest, with Hagiel’s assistance, the hospital had been fully cleared of debris and into a semi-working order. 

~

Hagiel intended on working for several more hours in the evening before finding a spot to sleep for a small handful of hours in order to recharge. The finely dressed baseline human picking their way through the hospital’s hallways from the click-clack of the heels they were wearing and the quiet, respectful-anxious murmurs of the other baselines as whoever it was walking towards where Hagiel was currently holding in place a large metal pipe as the baselines swiftly put it into place as he easily held it up while they did so. It would take heavy machinery or a half-dozen baselines (or a couple of Ogryn) to do what he was doing by himself, and they needed all the human-power that could be spared getting both semi-functional hospitals up to basic standards in order to help the injured.

“Excuse me, Lord Angel Hagiel?” A voice in slightly accented High Gothic called out as the click-clack of heels came up behind him.

Hagiel shifted a little, making sure that the pipe stayed exactly where it was supposed to as the baselines continued to nail it in place to the freshly reconstructed inner wall. “Yes, Zie…?” He asked as he looked over one shoulder at the sharply dressed baseline standing in the dusty hallway.

Their hair was tightly curly, and was kept in place by dozens if not hundreds of very tight small braids. Gold and platinum bands caught the dying sunlight, as did the golden star sapphire necklace and earring combo they were wearing. They were in shimmering, brightly dyed silks that flowed like water in the slight breeze. He could scent light perfume or cologne clinging to their skin, reminding him of water lilies. “I am Brady Flint, and the Lord Governor asked me to track you down and extend to you an invitation to take your evening meal with him and the other surviving nobles of our fair city - and the greater system. He says that your presence at the dinner would be greatly and deeply appreciated in this.. Fraught times.”

Dealing with whiny nobles bitching at him for not being able to save their worlds fast enough to prevent damage while he could be out doing useful things - or sleeping and recovering his energy and from the injuries he’d sustained in the weeks of non-stop fighting did not appeal to Hagiel in the slightest. Normally when a request like this came to Hagiel and his squad, they would draw lots to see which two of them would have to suffer through that sort of nonsense…

But none of his brothers had survived the battles. They were all in the radiant light of the emperor, serving alongside Lord Sanguinius. His hearts clenched painfully as he said “I will be there if I can make it, when does the dinner start? I am in the middle of helping put this hospital back together.” He pointed out, as the other working baselines kept attaching the huge pipe he was holding to the wall. They were roughly three quarters done with the task. He’d hoped to help them finish getting the central sewer pipes to and from this hospital in proper working order before going to sleep tonight, but alas, that was no longer in the cards. 

“You have an hour and a half to prepare for the dinner. The Lord Governor is extending the use of his home to you to use, in order to clean up, as he’s aware of the relentless battles and clean-up that you’ve nobly thrown yourself into since they called out for Astartes assistance. The dress code is black-tie and he strongly suggests that you allow your power armor to recharge while attending the dinner, if at all possible. Again, the Lord Governor’s mansion is completely functional and able to recharge several Astartes’ power armor, and their retinue of servants are willing and able to clean and service your armor - and weapons while you are out of it, my lord.”  Flint explains, giving him a sharp smile as they spoke. 

HIs armor was in need of cleaning and repair - he’d done what he could between retrieving his brother’s corpses and salvaging what he could of their gear and weapons, placing them on The Resolve… And his weapons weren’t in much better state. He’d done what he could to tend to them, but he was no Tech Marine. While he did not want to be out of armor just yet… He could not refuse the Governor’s generous offers without insulting them and he could not afford to alienate such a powerful political figure in the local star system. “Very well. I think I shall take up the Governor’s generous offer… Although I don’t have much in the way of black-tie clothing, other than my dress uniform, which is on The Resolve.”

“The Governor does have a small selection of Black Tie worthy clothes that are sized to fit most astartes to choose from. However if you’d rather be in your dress uniform, I can have a couple of serfs sent over to the Resolve to fetch if for you, if you wish.” The baseline human offered.

Hagiel had no idea what sort of clothes would be available for him to wear… And given that this system was technically on the far eastern edge of Ultramar, they likely had formal wear for Ultramarines. Which was… Fine… He guessed. He really didn’t want any of these strange baselines on The Resolve without him there to monitor what the fuck they were doing. “I would be grateful for whatever appropriate clothes the Governor feels fit to allow me to borrow for this event. The Resolve is on the far side of the city from his manor, after all, and the city’s roads and infrastructure are in ruins and it might take them quite a bit of time to get to The Resolve.”

“As you wish, Lord Angel.” Flint responds with a small nod “If you would follow me? I will guide you to their mansion.”

“We are finished bolting the sewer pipe in place, lord angel.” One of the baselines on the hospital’s repair crew speak up, dark eyes wide and full of awe, despite the fact that Hagiel has been working with them for several hours. At least the transhuman dread has worn off.

Hagiel nods and says “As you say.” He responds, letting go of the sewer pipe and following the sharply dressed baseline out of the damaged hospital.

[merbear25]

Mousefood

If given the choice, would you rather risk everything to save your community or just watch it burn? A horrendous outbreak quickly claimed the lives of many, but you were one of the few who stuck around in hopes of finding a cure. You knew of another, a scientist by the name of Caesar, who chose to stay and even offered his assistance. Although he didn't exactly come across as the trustworthy type, you were in desperate need of his help. However, his intentions weren't what they seemed.

CW: Plague AU, mentions of infections, some gore, death, fem!reader (envisioned to be late 20s+)

a/n: I just really wanted to write something for myself after the last follower event! Of course, it's got to be with Caesar. I'd like to thank @escenariosinfumables and @lady-of-endless for helping aid my obsession with him and @bby-deerling for wanting to be tagged in whatever this is. I poured my heart and soul into this, and it is by far my favorite thing I’ve written.

Curiosity drew many to its flame. However, most were engulfed by the intensity it came with, becoming nothing more than ash. With its light leading the way, the shadows danced upon the holder of the candle, calling out to what lurked in the dark. In spite of the threat of the unknown closing in, it was here that the surface of understanding our world was scratched.

Embracing the threat this reality had to offer was what led to great discoveries, for those mysteries which were just out of reach would eventually be unearthed by those most deserving. When those dark corners drew nearer and nearer, a whetted appetite opened a can of an array of worms ready to burrow into the crevices below.

The deeper they went, the more disarray was left spreading through the soil and infecting the roots of once healthy plants. Although it was a shame to watch such beauty in the world wilt away, success could never be accomplished without noble sacrifices.

There was still so much to uncover in our world, most of which was in plain sight. However, inquisitiveness could be a dangerous trait, especially when paired with an overactive imagination. 

It began with a few questions he asked himself, “How much would the human body be able to endure?”, “Is such a rise in temperature enough for the disease to survive?”, “How long could it live on surfaces?” 

A new world was flourishing in the petri dish on his desk; aeromonas hydrophila had earned a special place in his heart, as it had the most promising future amongst the others. In spite of the potential for such a calamitous future to unfold, there were countless efforts still to be made: trial and error was always a must no matter how promising something appeared to be.

Ordering one of his many lackeys to fetch something from off of his desk, he should have known they’d be negligent enough to disturb the slumbering plague. An important life lesson was about to go underway: the henchman chose to enter his master’s lab without any protective gear, knowing full well the dangers that came with it.

To make matters worse for himself, he had various hangnails. Other than those stinging for some time, they also left him vulnerable to infection, to which he would only have himself to blame.

While sorting through the scattered papers, he failed to catch a glimpse of the terror waiting to be uncaged, knocking into it ever so slightly. Despite the fact that the lid was on, a small droplet seeped through the crack when his hand collided with it. The splash of strange substance caused him little to no worry, simply brushing it off on his shirt while also spreading it across his open-sore hand.

Shortly after retrieving what Caesar had asked for, the lackey continued his streak of recklessness, unknowingly allowing the bacteria free realestate to other vacant lots on his person: rubbing his eyes, eating with his hands, and picking his nose when he thought no one was looking.

With the bacteria being spoiled for choice, it took full advantage of its new residence, burrowing its way deeper within the tissue, spreading misery to all the corners of the host. It wasn’t long before the worker started complaining: feeling hot and feverish were coupled with beads of sweat over his body. Irritation was left unconcealed as he berated his goon for everything under the sun before begrudgingly letting him go just to rid himself of the constant belly aching.

With annoyance still fresh, he took to sorting out some paperwork. What little decrease in anger was disregarded when faced with many of his notes scattered about his desk. Through the fits of cursing, his hands frantically collected his work. When uncovering the little friend he’d been growing, he was intrigued.

Having a closer look at his workstation, he noticed the lid on the petri dish was slightly ajar. Upon further examination, he saw that the contents within it had been disturbed. Putting two and two together wasn't difficult. It was obvious that the buffoon who'd just left was the cause of this. Despite his persistent irritation, perhaps this was one of life's happy accidents. Instead of hauling that henchman back, he thought it'd be better to see how his modifications played out when given free reign on that lamb―raising it for slaughter.

Putting on his face before leaving the room, the painted smile greeted the acquired host. “How are you feeling?”

His golden eyes scanned the subject, noting the obvious sickly complexion. “Just really hot…like I'm burning alive.” Sweat had been beading on his brow, now trickling down his clammy skin.

“Anything else?”

“No, just nauseous I guess.”

Guessing the disease was spreading much more quickly than originally anticipated, he hummed to himself to portray a sense of thoughtful consideration. “It's such a pity to have to ask this of you and the others, but seeing as supplies are low and there aren't many hands to even gather them, you'll have to journey into town.”

Faith in their master and trust in the process had become second nature to his men, making them malleable to his liking. They hung on each of his words as though they were holy scripture, sacrificing themselves by falling in line with his agenda.

“Now, be sure you don't come back until you've got everything on this list, all right? We can't afford to waste time on nonsensical runs.”

Wishing them luck while they disappeared behind the thick trees, an eye roll queued behind an exasperated groan. “What have I done to be cursed with the presence of such idiocy?”

Stumbling into the town below, the faint glow of the pharmacy’s sign led them there with ease. Upon entry, however, the sight of the ill one was cause for alarm. Gasping at the state of him, they were bombarded with questions, none of which they had the answers to.

“Well, can you at least tell us where you came from?”

“Just up the hill. We were low on supplies and were sent for them.”

“He shouldn't be traveling anywhere. He needs to see a doctor. Come, we'll help you bring him there.”

Laying down on the cot brought no relief to the increasing pain. The doctors who were called to tend to him were baffled when their hypotheses failed again and again.

Since this illness was proving to be unruly, they were left no choice but to quarantine the others, for they too were showing questionable symptoms.

After an agonizing night, the morning fared no better. Rivers of crimson secreted, staining their faces, sweat that soaked through any and all fabric and was hot to the touch: the medical professionals were regrettably repulsed by them.

However, once members of the staff complained about feeling unwell, repulsion shifted into panic. Having sent the unknowing hosts to town, the residents fell victim to their naivety in their master.

It wasn't long before the medicine they had ran out. Even if the treatment only worked to dull the intensity of the pain, it did nothing in terms of curing them. 

Patient zero started suffering from convulsions, brain swelling, and eventually organ failure—that was what they told the townsfolk to stifle any more chaos. In reality, his and the others’ bodies were deteriorating, earning the disease the name the Grim Death.

Without so much as a goodbye, those who only bore the title of doctor but lacked the compassion fled to save their own hide.

However, there was one who, against the odds, chose to stay in hopes of curing those suffering. With a sizable amount of knowledge, you persevered, in spite of knowing your own limitations. You needed someone to help you. Asking around, there was talk of a scientist who was thought to be mad.

Not being spoiled for choice, you ventured up the hill to him. Through all the weeds out front and the branches hanging overhead, a sinister aura loomed. Even with suspicions and doubts nagging at you to turn back, you were determined to see this through.

Dropping the heavy door knocker on the wooden surface, the echos sounding from within could be heard from the other side, leaving goosebumps along your skin.

The door suddenly cracked open, leaving a mere sliver for you to meet the man who'd built an unfavorable reputation for himself.

"Who are you?" His tone was flat as he stared you down.

"(Y/n). I'm from town, a doctor just trying to make sense of all this." When he didn't say anything, you continued, "I was told that you may have the resources and expertise to help me put an end to this." With a hopeful look in your eyes, you awaited his confirmation.

Huffing slightly at the inconvenience of you being there, he was still an opportunist; desperation encompassed you, practically offering yourself up on a silver platter. He would be able to ring you dry of all your potential.

"I have my ways." Looking you up and down, as if sizing up your worth, he stated, "Come in, and we can start chipping away at this iceberg of a predicament."

Jarring the door enough for you to slip through, he then promptly slammed it shut. Finding yourself in the center of the front entry, the surroundings lurched out at you: grand staircases on either side, a chandelier with candles that had been waned to near stubs, and vines that crept along the walls, entangling with some fresh cobwebs. It was blatantly obvious that he was living alone and by the looks of it he had been for a long time.

When you turned to face him, his eyes were fixated on you, trying to sort out if that sap story about wanting to save the town was just some ploy.

Being the one to break the silence, you asked what news of what was happening in town managed to reach him. Not wanting to assume he didn't know anything or barely anything, you trusted your question was inviting enough.

Tilting his head up slightly, his gaze followed down his nose, "But of course I know of the happenings shaking up that town. News of such horrors travels quickly as I'm sure you could guess."

Just as your train of thought was leaving the station, he stopped you, "Before you start sharing your experience, why don't we take it to the next room. I'm sure such riveting stories are ones I ought to be sitting down for."

He led you into the parlor, offering you a seat on the sofa near the dying embers in the fireplace. The armchair adjacent to you was occupied by him. "Go on now, my dear." He gestured with a smile upon his pale face.

"Well, if you've heard of the matters, then I'm sure you can understand the severity." He nodded, showing his acknowledgement. "Whatever medicine we had only just hardly helped the symptoms and quickly ran out. I'm sure it's possible to find a cure—in fact I know it is—though I can't create it on my own." Owning up to your own limitations fileted you, displaying all your vulnerabilities to this man you'd just met.

Waving his hand as if to fan off the doubts swarming the room, his voice was gentle, "Rest assured, my dear, for there is no illness out there that can best me."

"S-so does that mean you'll help? Or rather I'll help you?" You instantly humbled yourself, since you could feel you were in the presence of genius.

Grinning at your faux pas, he confirmed, "Yes, it does."

While relief casted itself on your expression, he was quick to clip the wings carrying optimism, "However, there are some rules you must abide by if we're going to be tackling this outbreak together."

When you voiced your compliance, he listed off the rules, "Firstly, whatever work we do must be kept confidential. Secondly, any..." he carefully crafted his next demands, "requests I make must not be met with resistance. Have faith and trust the process. Thirdly, seeing as conditions in town are worsening, I think it's best for you to stay here." Getting up from his chair, he motioned towards the fireplace, the logs wearing a faint glow.

Not wanting to rock the boat, you couldn't exactly let your surprise at the last rule slip, "I hope I don't come across as ungrateful saying this, but would it really be necessary to have me stay here?"

"Hm? So you'd prefer to be surrounded by the sick, risking infection yourself?" Your eyes falling to your hands said it all. "Believe me, dear, you'll be able to do more for them helping me here than you ever would stuck there with them."

Not having much grounds to argue with the conditions, you threw caution to the wind in dreaming of a future for those being affected. "I'm willing to do what it takes to help those in need."

Looking up at him, the sly grin stretching across his wasn't even attempted to be concealed. "Excellent. Such a noble display of self-sacrifice will not go unnoticed, I can assure you."

There was a clear shift in your demeanor; acting quickly, he impaled a pitchfork in your stream of consciousness, giving you the illusion of being able to see beyond all the while still placing you behind bars.

"Please," his voice soft and welcoming, "consider this arrangement as simply temporary and me as your guide to end all of this mess."

Fragmented skepticism was still scattered throughout your mind, yet the glimmers of hope shined through. The shadows of doubt were overlooked by your want to reinstate normalcy, leading you astray from sound judgment. With your confidence in this alliance still shaky, you were given no choice but to put your faith in this man.

Your submission was clear. As he leaned down to your eye level, he cocked his head in interest. "Shall I show you around then?" While being led out of the room, the slight glow from under the wood finally died out.

Listening to him share the history of his home was awe-inspiring. Each story that passed his lips was captivating, and each room appeared to come alive as he spoke about them. There was a question itching at you, though. With him rambling on about how vast and rich everything about this place was, you attempted a polite interruption.

"This is quite an impressive home with an undeniably spellbounding past, but if you don't mind me asking, where exactly do you work?"

“Ah, let me show you.”

Making your way out back and ducking under the overgrown tree limbs, he brought you to the bottom of a cliff. Grinning at your lingering disorientated state from the twists and turns he’d been throwing at you, he patted the tall wall of earth.

“This leads to a world many other scientists and doctors could only dream of.” With a devilish glint in his eyes, he kept them locked on you while the PIN pad appeared. Such a subtlety of awe shown on your gentle face caused a few soft chuckles to escape him. You were, after all, just moments away from laying eyes on the most astounding lab known to man.

The earth parted, allowing the both of you access to a world beyond your wildest dreams. A spiraling staircase led to the cluttered, yet organized workspace. Bookcases lined the tall walls, filled with knowledge ranging from a multitude of scientific subjects to history. With ceilings climbing high, the feeling of being a mere insect was hard to shake.

Throwing his hands in the air, he gave an enthusiastic spin, “This is where all of the world’s greatest mysteries are unveiled.” Leering over his shoulder, he leaned down, his voice husky from the thrill of sharing his brilliance with someone. “The whispers in the dark are brought to light in this very room.”

Shuddering from the overly familiar closeness, his words were laced in a toxin, alluding to the lengths at which he went to obtain such intelligence. 

“This, however, is simply my study.” Stretching back to his full height, he offered to show you his lab. “Surely you didn’t come all this way just to see this. Let’s continue the grand tour.”

The elongated corridor gave the illusion of stretching further and further. Once finally reaching the end, he flung open the door. “Ladies first,” he grinned.

When entering, he slapped his open palm against the switch on the wall, causing you to jump as the lights above illuminated the laboratory. A laugh rose from him, which left butterflies swarming in the pit of your stomach.

Brushing past you, he gestured to the vials of various substances, beakers, and the well-sorted notes and binders, all of which kept his brilliance cataloged. “This is where the magic happens, my dear.”

Fidgeting with your loose fabric, assuming that you were granted permission to look around seemed foolish, so instead, you peered around the room from your personal bubble.

Eyeing you, he saw you as a rather curious thing, something for him to pick apart. “Tell me, what do you specialize in?”

“Immunology,” holding your head high and your stare firm.

“Oh? Well, how lucky I am to have such gifted hands to aid me.” Humming at the sight of confidence radiating through you, he questioned further, “And how long have you had to wield such expertise?”

“I’ve only just finished medical school.” Despite knowing how that sounded—a rookie with only the theories but none of the practice—you refused to allow the self-assurance in your capabilities to budge.

“Then what a great learning experience this will be for you.”

Suspecting a mocking tone, deflection came to your defense, “Yes, it’ll look great on my resume.”

What seemed like a spec of genuineness was layered in his laughter. “That’s the spirit!”

A slight tug at the corner of your mouth was shown, giving your nerves a bit of a break. Looking around the room once more, your eagerness to have a glimpse into his mind made it hard to stay still. Risking a glance, your curiosity couldn’t be held back, “May I have a look around?”

He cocked an eyebrow and smirked, “Sure, after all we’ll be spending many moons in here together.”

Nodding at his statement, you were mindful of your step and distance from his work, not even daring to breathe on them in the wrong way.

Pride bubbled inside him, while he watched you soaking in many of his past feats. Perhaps your lack of experience wouldn’t hinder you from appreciating some of the finer tastes life had to offer—or rather, he had to offer.

“What condition were the first patients in when you left?”

“Oh, they— ” nightmarish images of their decaying bodies flashed in your mind, “their conditions were critical. Their organs were…deteriorating, as if acid had been poured on them.” Choking back the tears from the horrors you witnessed, you would never be able to forget their pain filled screams for help.

In spite of the fact he was elated at the progress the creature was making in such a short amount of time, such celebration wouldn’t fare well for him in the long run. “How awful! Those poor souls.” Placing a hand on his chest, he signaled his condolences for the terror you must’ve been subjected to.

Seeing the grief on your face made you easy pickings. “Well, don’t you worry, we’ll start our practices first thing in the morning.”

“In the morning? Why not now?” There was a clear sense of urgency in what you’d just told him, so you couldn’t wrap your head around why anyone would choose to wait.

“Now, now, calm yourself. It’s already nightfall and we’ll need our strength if we’re to be of any use to them. Plus, there are a few plants in the area we can test with, and I’m sure you’ll agree that they’ll be much easier to find in broad daylight. Hm?”

His words flowed like cream and his tone felt like velvet, yet there was just something off about him that you just couldn’t put your finger on. However, you were in no position to question his advice. He was, of course, much more experienced than you, but you began to wonder that with experience came a lack of empathy.

“You’re right,” you admitted.

“Oh, darling, of course I am! Don’t get carried away by the excitement.” He moved to your side, his presence exuding every ounce of authority over you. Placing his hand gently on your shoulder, he leaned down, popping your personal bubble. “Trust me when I say you’ll only get burned.”

A deep red burned your ears, when he pulled away. As you hesitantly looked up at him, his unnerving grin and piercing dead eyes aroused a fear in you that hadn’t yet been realized. An involuntary nod was all you could muster in that moment.

Sucking in a sharp inhale, he tilted his head while making a suggestion, “Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to have a quick read, though.”

Watching the color reappear on your face gave him more satisfaction than it should have. “Oh, that would be nice! I mean, I just want to feel like I’m doing something,” you reigned back on your joy at him changing his mind.

Sighing at your display, he covered the drop of irritation skillfully, “Completely understandable. And well, you are a doctor, aren’t you?”

Being reminded of all those who were too cowardly to stay and help, you thought it’d be best that you not unleash all of your broodiness. Shaking off the ones who’d failed those folk, you were open to whatever knowledge you may gain from Caesar. 

Having followed him back to the library, you observed as his finger traced along the spines. Lightly tapping one, he glanced back at you, “This one. It'll be a good start in finding which plants will be most suitable.”

You gladly took the book he offered you, mesmerized by the delicate pages which showed its age. Mindfully thumbing through the pages, there were a few that called out to you.

The enthusiasm radiating off of you came with warmth he hadn't felt in quite some time. Being surrounded by people who lacked any luster, any spark of light had taken a toll on his own pleasure in what he did. As you combed through each of the pages you bookmarked, he had a hunch you were going to be a rather entertaining guest.

Deciding you had your fill for the night, he guided you to the room you'd be staying in. Wishing you sweet dreams, the comfort of the pillow quickly pulled you into a deep slumber. While you slept heavily and went in and out of dreams that stirred the dread swirling in your heart, you were met with twinges of pain but still you did not awake till morning.

Jolting up in bed, you triggered the room to spin and your head to pound. Looking about the room, you'd hoped the last few days were just nightmares, weaving into what could be mistaken for reality, but to your dismay, you could never wake up from this.

Creaking the door open, you were given a dimly lit view down the corridor. Concentrating on each faint sound in the distance, you cautiously made your way down the stairs. Even though you two spent some time getting to know each other last night, he was still a stranger and you were under his roof, abiding by his rules. Crossing any boundaries would not be taken lightly, that much you could gather from him.

Peeping around the corner, the muffins plated on the kitchen counter caught your eye. With the strong winds of the outbreak pulling you every which way, the last meal you had felt like a distant memory. You drummed your fingers next to the aesthetically pleasing morsels, wishing that he'd come by so you could properly ask permission.

With the minutes ticking away, your thoughts wandered, leaving you to ponder his whereabouts. The muffins taunted you, but your hunger was off set by the discomfort of stuffing your face with treats that may or may not have been for you.

In a slight huff of annoyance, you got up to search for him, but before you could cross the threshold, he appeared at the end of the adjoining hall.

“Have to eat and run?” His playful tone carried over to you.

“N-no, actually, just run I suppose.”

While entering the room, his gaze immediately casted from you to the plated baked goods. “You're allowed to have one. If you'd like of course.”

There was something in the way he offered that churned your stomach, causing you to lose your appetite. “No, thank you. Maybe the current events have affected my hunger.”

Shrugging off your refusal, he added, “Later then. You'll have to eat at some point.”

“It's not that I don't appreciate the offer! It's just…,” you did your best to mask any unease, “I’d feel so much better if we made progress with our research. Could we please get started on it soon?”

Muffled giggles trailed out of him, “I don't mean to laugh, but have they any idea how lucky they are to have someone as determined as you fighting for them?”

The slight shift in your eyes was very telling. “They don't truly appreciate you, do they?” The rhetorical question pierced you deeper than you would've ever guessed.

“I'm willing to bet they never have,” lining his observations with incitement, he inched closer as if inviting you to bear your hatred for them.

“It doesn't matter whether they cared about me or not,” your vocal cords were already swelling from the anticipation of heartache, “What matters is doing the right thing.”

Snorting at your noble display, each moment with you was becoming more glaring that you were going to be tougher to sink his claws into. “Oh, I never tire of selflessness…comradery is truly endearing.” He didn't bother hiding his eye roll and sarcasm.

Disgust at his disinterest in the lives that were being lost boiled within. How can such a person exist?

He was clamping down on a nerve without an ounce of care. However, you couldn't let him get to you. You had to push through these ‘temporary conditions’, then afterwards you'd rid yourself of him. 

“I think it'd be best if we focus on the task at hand.” Keeping your eyes locked on his, your perseverance remained unwavering.

Tilting his head from side to side, he hummed in agreement, “What a great idea.”

Gathering the notes the two of you compiled last night, the plants for which you'd forage had been decided on. Venturing outside to collect them, the peace and quiet found in nature could never be matched. 

Distancing yourself from Caesar gave you time to reflect; going back to your repulsions, there must be a deeper issue at hand, one of which you were not equipped to deal with. In spite of all this, a shred of pity for the man crawled out from behind the corners of your mind. Being alone for who knew how long must carry a lot of weight. Then posed the question as to why he was alone: by choice or chased away? 

Even if there was evil displayed in this world, you held out hope that most people had good in them—including him. When you returned with the ingredients, you challenged yourself to look at him through a new lens and wanted to give him the chance that perhaps many others hadn't.

“Would you care to observe, (y/n)?”

“Yes, I would.” Taking your place next to him, you mentally took note of each movement he made, soaking in the valuable skills he willingly shared with you.

At one point when you needed to make one of your runs to his library to double check something, you caught yourself; you were thoroughly enjoying this time with him, to which shame and guilt were dragged behind. What gull you had to be having fun in the midst of a new plague.

Unbeknownst to you, the aura you carried was thick with self-loathing. Pushing through the tasks at hand, those intrusive thoughts twisted their persistence, whispering in your ear: how wretched you are, how lowly of a doctor you must be to find pleasure in this. Can't you hear their cries? They're voices are being carried to you on the back of the wind that's rustling those leaves. 

You caught stray glares here and there. “Pull yourself together,” you scrutinized yourself. The inner monologue, however, was snowballing into a one-sided argument, leaving you in an echo chamber.

Stretching back in his chair, he sighed, “What's happened?”

Rapid blinks and a puzzled look coupled as you stared at him. A faint ‘Hm?’ was all that followed.

His golden eyes squinted at you, observing you just as he was doing with the samples. Pointing out the error you were about to make, he reiterated, this time in an irked tone.

“Nothing.” Your voice was dismissive.

“You know, most people are such dreadful liars and you're no exception.”

Unwilling to hold your tongue, you informed him of the joy you felt in pushing forth towards a discovery.

“So then why are you sulking?”

“Because I can't help but feel bad for enjoying the process of finding a cure.”

Rubbing his eyes, there was little patience he had for your endless amount of compassion. “The world doesn't stop just because there's a new disease. Life goes on, so why let it stop you from enjoying it?”

Crossing your arms at his advice, deep down you knew he was right and you hated it.

“If you became a doctor to save everyone, then you're in for a rude awakening, my dear.”

“I know I can't save everyone!”

“Then stop acting like you can! I mean, you've wasted so much time fretting over how sorry you feel about everything and anything and for what? Hm? Many have died and many more will quickly follow, so stop letting that bleeding heart of yours get in the way of progress.”

A loathing festered inside you towards him but more yourself. Regaining your composure and any shred of dignity, you excused yourself to bury your nose in research.

Cracking open a few books and setting them around you, the urge to wallow in your own self pity was warded off. Despite the vile coating still lingering in your mouth, his view on the world draped over you. 

Harsh words gnawing at your conscience, seeping through the newly formed cracks. Self loathing swelled in knowing he was right.

Carrying out further experiments on the plants you'd collected in silence was becoming more and more unpleasant. However, there was nothing you felt like you could say. Keeping your nose to the grindstone would be the simplest way to convey where your heart lay.

As the day drew to a close and the dread from earlier still hanging over you, going to bed without supper was an easy decision. Yet even with the exhaustion of the day weighing you down, rest served as no aid: tossing and turning, whining from pain, eyes that fluttered open but never pulling you awake. 

Waking to the dull gray that clouded your room, your rigid form staggered across your host's line of vision.

His legs carried him fast, circling around you like a vulture.

“Despite looking it, I'm not dead,” you croaked.

Chuckling at your spunk, he offered a solution, “I believe I may have something for you.”

Following him into the kitchen, you already assumed what he had planned. “It'd have to be one strong cup of coffee to liven me up.”

“No, no, none of that!” Clanking jars trying to reach for something, an ‘Ah-ha!’ sounded before showing you a small glass bottle with a few stray pills.

Displaying them proudly, he instructed you to take a blue one now and a yellow one before bed. “They'll help keep your mind in check.”

With a searing glare, it shifted from the bottle to him.

“Tsk, you know, you're really going to have to learn to trust me at some point.”

A swirl of guilt stirred in you.

“We are partners, aren’t we?” His grin was crooked while he jostled the pills, nabbing your attention in hopes of taking them.

“Yes…you're right.”

“Ah, those words are music to my ears.”

Huffing a half-hearted laugh, you popped the first pill.

“It shouldn't be long before you feel the effects. But, uh, please tell me when you feel better.” He turned to place some of the other containers up right.

“What's the rush? Are the plants going to disappear soon?”

Humming in slight amusement, he answered, “No, but I managed to come up with our first beta sample for a cure.” He glanced over his shoulder to witness the astonishment that would undoubtedly play on your face, keeping his gaze firm and analytical.

To no surprise, you were rattled with eagerness to put such a thing into action. “Really? That quickly? There's no way!”

“Oh, my dear, you have such little faith, but I can assure you that you're working with one of a kind.”

Stood there in awe, you couldn't believe he'd managed to create the first beta sample as quickly as he did. Your beams of gratitude fueled him in ways you'd only regret.

“Wait, so are you saying we can start testing it?”

“Well, it's not ideal to immediately start testing on patients, yet I'm afraid we have no other options.”

“That's true…they could have severe side effects.” When you hung your head at the thought, you missed his lips twisting into a grin.

He regained his composure before playing on your heart strings. “Oh, now don't you start worrying about that.” Cocking his head to the side, his intonation rose, “Aren't you hungry?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You haven't eaten since you got here. I'm starting to think you're snubbing my cooking,” he teased.

After finishing the meal, it dawned on you how your fatigue had completely disappeared. Clearing your throat caught his attention.

“Thank you very much for the meal, and I just noticed I'm feeling much better now.”

Clasping his hands together, he gave you a warm-hearted response, “That's wonderful! We need you to be in tip top shape if you're going into town.”

The assumption that you'd be the one carrying out the injections was obvious, but you would never protest anyway. Nodding at him, you confidently notified him that you were ready.

Talking through the correct dosage, you set out feeling sure in your abilities.

In spite of the fact it'd only been a day since you left, a few more people had fallen ill, and those you had fallen prior to it were in critical condition—the first unlucky few having already been pronounced dead.

Looking around, you saw a few nurses who'd stuck around, which brought you some relief. Informing the staff that you and Caesar were working to find an end to this, they felt as if they had no other option; they placed their faith in you.

Finding your way over to some cots, you did your best to soothe his cries before allowing him to be the first to test out this substance. You wished you could've done more, though it was morally questionable enough using one person as a guinea pig, let alone a fourth of the town.

Sticking around for an hour was more than long enough: the patient's heart rate spiked and his temperature climbed to life-threatening heights before convulsions ensued. Within the span of five minutes his body gave way, unable to fight any longer.

Even though you knew that the first sample wouldn't be the last, you'd still held out for something better. Trekking back up the hill, you gave Caesar the results.

He leaned back in his chair, mulling over what you'd bestowed on him and was then motivated with a new course of action.

Whatever doubt was circling around you was cleared once you saw that spark ignite. With new flares of motivation coursing through you, your hope remained unwavering.

“Oh, how careless of me. I nearly forgot to ask: do you feel…unwell at all?”

Reflecting on the lack of precautions you took in town, you had yet to feel any sign of illness creeping up. “I feel surprisingly fine, actually.”

He was seemingly pleased by your resilient immune system, leading the two of you to set forth on tweaking the faulty product.

With the moon high and the night still, your dark silhouettes trailed behind as you passed the entry’s threshold. Keeping to Caesar’s instructions, you swallowed the yellow pill before retiring to your room.

A faint ‘sweet dreams’ drifted after you while you were heading towards the staircase. Looking back to return his kindness, you wondered from where exactly he’d called out to you. Placing your hand on the railing, you called back to him but only deafness filled the rooms.

Not being keen on the idea of sticking around until he popped around a corner, you hurriedly got to your room. Laying in bed, praying that the pill he gave you would kick in soon, creaks seemed to sound off downstairs, in the rooms next to yours, at the foot of your bed, yet there was no one there to greet you when you shot up.

With sweat tickling your skin, you talked yourself down from the ledge; paranoia was sinking in, that’s all. There was nothing lurking in the corners of this house that you hadn’t already encountered. Laying your head back down on the pillow, the effects of the drug blanketed you in the warmth of its duvet.

Your eyes didn’t flutter open until the sun peeked from behind the clouds, leading a stray ray of light to cast on your sleeping form. Stirring under the sheets, a twinge of pain pricked at your shoulder. Rubbing it appeared to grace you with some ounce of relief, yet you had just about had it with these sleepless nights.

Thrashing the sheets off of your entangled legs, you found yourself downstairs without any true sense of purpose.

“Where are you off to in such a frenzy?”

Shooting your focus in the direction of the parlor, your host was relaxing on the sofa, wondering if you were showing some new kind of symptom for the plague.

“I don’t know what it is about this place, but I haven’t been able to have a proper night’s sleep since getting here.”

Frowning subtly, he asked, “Did the pill not help?”

“Well, no. I mean, it did but I woke up with this pain in my shoulder and—”

“It just sounds like you slept on it wrong,” he propped his arm against the arm rest to lean his cheek against it, smirking at you with complacency.

It was clear that you were finding it difficult to come up with a retort, which left yourself open to him.

“I think you’re going just a bit mad from everything that’s been happening.” His devilish grin danced upon his pale complexion.

“That’s not true! I just…I think I just need to feel like I’m contributing more? Maybe?” 

His lips fell into a mocking pout, queuing an eye roll from you. “Well, if you want to contribute a little more, why don’t you assist me in making more…unconventional changes to the samples.”

The perplexing connotation of what he meant by ‘unconventional’ made you involuntarily shake your head in an attempt to rid of any strife that could follow. “What do you mean by ‘unconventional’?”

“Well, you saw with your own eyes that the plague is still spreading with many dying such horrific deaths, right? If we’re to save as many as possible, risks must be taken.”

Placing your face in your palms, you sought for ways of self-soothing. You couldn’t think of a good enough argument against taking such measures. With that being said, your voice shook with doubt, “I don’t know. We could end up killing more people than if we stick to our current method.”

“Perhaps,” he tilted his head from side to side to rattle your concerns around, “or perhaps not and the risks could save many more lives than originally anticipated.” Leaning forward, his smug smile tore down the assurance you were clinging to, “That’s why they’re called risks, (y/n).”

With fragments of humiliation biting at your cheeks, you felt inclined to agree with him, “F-fine, we’ll do it your way.”

“Excellent! Let’s get started then, shall we?”

Sunlight was now transitioning into dusk and with the day being laid to rest, you had a new version of yesterday’s sample. Being fed words of affirmation on your irreplaceable addition to these experiments, you ventured down into town again with his promises of this being the end of it ringing loudly in your ears.

Finding out many more in town had started falling ill, you regrettably had to pass over some who were beyond saving; there was only so much power you had and repairing organs was not within it.

The effects this time were nearly immediate; the patient’s veins in their arm ran with a deep purple and began bulging through the skin. What was in the injected arm rushed throughout the rest of the body before giving you a chance to process what was unfolding.

Within moments of it spreading, sizzling could be heard emerging from the seizing test subject. As a nurse rushed to support the ill-fated soul, he pulled back in agony. The sweat accumulating at the base of her head was deteriorating the fabric.

What lasted mere moments would forever be etched into your mind, making sure to slash away beliefs you’d become anything more than an assistant in genocide.

Breaking your way into Caesar’s, you were overcome with fits of rage and sorrow. Searching high and low for him, you set your rampage on his lab. Choking out his name in a pained yelp, you marched down the hall to find an empty room. Disbelief clouded your better judgment as you charged into the room.

You jolted out of your skin upon the sound of the slamming door ricocheting against the four walls. Leering down at his prey, he promptly shoved you back in a chair. His grim appearance didn’t falter while his piercing eyes burrowed their way to your core, wrapping your frightened heart with barbed wire and ready to squeeze if necessary.

“I’m assuming everything went as planned?” His gaze was unwavering but the side of his mouth was being tugged at.

“What was the point in all of this? Why did you keep me here?” Tears were stinging you as they swelled up.

“Well, for one, you came here on your own free will and offered to help me. That was simply an opportunity I couldn’t refuse. And, uh, quick question before I continue, did you touch that last patient by chance?”

Scanning each scattered remnant of your mind, you recalled trying to keep them from injuring themselves, remembering the slight dampness on their shirt.

“And that, my dear, would be the main reason. You see, I thought it was strange that despite being in town during the outbreak, you had no symptoms, so I decided to send you there again with the “cure”. When you came back with no complaints, I just had to see this through.”

“How do you know for sure though? That I’m immune. I mean, couldn’t there be other factors th—”

Tilting his head and giving you a sympathetic smile, “I think you know how.”

Streams of panic cascaded down your cheeks. “So, what are you just going to keep me here as some rat?”

“No, of course not! Luckily for you, you’re quite an entertaining guest.” His eyes casted down slightly before finishing his speech, “I will be the kind host I always have been towards you and offer you knowledge you could only dream of, as long as you comply with each and every test I run on you.”

Peering into each other's souls, there were clashing morals and dreams for the future, with which yours was in no shape to fight against. “Fine.” You muttered.

“Oh, come now. Don’t get in such a mood. I wasn’t lying about everything. You do have something unique about you, hence why you won’t be bound to a cage. But remember that only a waning candle sheds its light around, so just make sure that light of yours stays lit.”

Straightening up to his full height again, dismay engulfed you while you awaited his next demands. For once in your life, you wished you’d been selfish and fled with the others.

[terrence-silver]

Also I had the best idea the other day after seeing Nick Marini Silver in the camo(?) with young Kreese in the cave.

Post 'Nam Terry Silver, with his new little ponytail, going back home to Cali only to somehow meet innocent hippie Beloved whose all about love and peace and hope- all the things Twig was concerned with- until it was purely just survival and he had to evolve into a Cobra. Yet, he can't help but become obsessed with Beloved...

Summer of Love.

Twig!Terry Silver x Reader.

―

You had a ‘make love not war’ badge pinned to your jacket and Terry Silver thought that was the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

Of course, you weren’t the only one; that year in California there was an abundance of these smiling, airheaded cockroaches drifting around aimlessly with handmade embroidery featuring their empty, meaningless slogans — jeans patches, spray paint backpacks, sharpied on mud-crusted sneakers, assholes hand painting Yoko Ono’s likeness on their shirts thinking they’re making some big statement, vans decorated (if it could be called decoration) with corny, one-word mottos in the likeness of ‘Peace’ and ‘Love’ that made Terry’s gut lurch up in amusement at the vapidity. Must’ve been easy. Ranting about peace and love from the comfort of home, the easy summer of the West Coast washing away all problems with a warm, seaborne salty breeze, not doing anything at all but slum around in the heavy shade, but regardless, in spite of all their comforts, they all gave the impression of being dirty. Unwashed. Something the ocean couldn’t exactly scrub off considering it was internal as much as, often times, external. He thought you were the dirtiest of all. Not physically, but something about your manner as you spoke enthusiastically about your plans to go overland, on a trailer from one end of Europe, all the way Bangkok, through the Silk road along the Hindu Kush mountain range gave him the irresistible urge to wash your mouth out with soap and make you swallow the bitter, soapy load.

-"Kabul, Peshawar, Amman. I guess I wanna see these ancient, hallowed places before they’re irrevocably changed."-

You explain, engrossed in your own imagination like a child, a colorful crochet blanket sprawled out beneath you in the back of an open van, your legs hanging and dangling from the edge. Terry had learned you didn’t exactly have an address in the classical sense. Heck, hilariously enough, you didn't even drive the very vehicle you were laid up on, considering the act somehow backwards and harmful, a notion that made you inherently comical, ; you came to California and by extension joined your traveling troupe, to, as you put it, see the world. Go wherever the path took you. For all you were concerned, he was just some guy with the same goal in mind and not someone who just rotated back to civilization a couple of months ago. Who’s already seen the world, alright. Who’s already walked paths you could scarce imagine. Who’s already witnessed the change you were babbling on about firsthand. He left one country behind and came back to a totally different one. A country filled with people like you. You were everywhere, one way or another. Unavoidable. Reflected in every face. Every person. Every sight.

-"You know? Everything is eventually changed, usually for the worse and it’s good to grab the chance and see stuff while they last, in their original form."-

You continue, leaning on your elbows and smiling, your enthusiasm and zest like a biting into something way too sweet; both addictive and slightly disgusting. So. You wanted to go to Goa, Bangkok and India. What was next? Go to Vietnam too? Carry a transparent that said ‘Americans go home’? Was that it? -"Oh, I know exactly what you mean."- Terry interjects, feigning innocence, watching you idly twirl one of the suede leather frills on your shirt, not in a manner deemed seductive, because no, you weren’t out to seduce him or anyone. He could tell as much. He could tell someone who had insidious intentions from someone who didn’t. You merely thought you’ve made a new friend in him these past couple of weeks in the grand soulsearch called life, feeling relaxed enough to act whoever you wanted to act in front of him — he cultivated that atmosphere for you on purpose, wanting to have you trust him, wanting you to be relaxed, right before…right before — well, Terry wasn’t entirely certain what he wanted to do to you just yet, but he was certain it would hurt. -"I just recently came back. And the place isn’t the same."- He tells the truth by effectively lying; things have changed, yes, you just weren’t privy exactly how things changed for him. So naive and wide eyed, he told you he was part of the Peace Corps and you believed him because you had no reason not to. You didn’t think people were fundamentally bad, just occasionally misguided at worst and that was a worldview so alien he thought it should be placed in a jar and examined under a microscope for good measure. You went by Beloved around these parts, after all, instead of your actual name. That alone deserved to be scrutinized and laughed at in the line up of all the other facts about you that were funny all on their own. But then again, Terry found he strangely enough didn’t mind. He knew your actual name, and he recently discovered he didn’t want to share it with anyone. -"All around Asia, yeah? Right on!"-  You beam up, a light visible in your eyes. The light of admiration. Heavy, omnipresent, addictive. He wanted more. Needed more. Revolted that he did, yet still craving it. He wanted to take that light and crush it in the palm of his hands like a puny ant. But, he needed to separate you from everyone else here first; separate you from all these cockroaches mingling around with too many eyes that could potentially be on him. So far, nobody suspected him to be a returning vet. Especially you. That was your fatal flaw, Terry figured; the fact you trusted anyone at all.

Least of all him.

He supposed, irony of all ironies, that the handful of hair tied at the nape of his neck helped the overall impression and image you had of him. Half of the bums here had long hair. None was like his, of course. Unlike theirs, his hair was sacred. But, it helped perpetuate a certain look. Even the Cobra ink on the side of his ribs; you were convinced it was an aesthetic statement and no more than that.

-"I really respect that, Terry. I wish I could go too. You’re so lucky!"- 

You sigh dreamily, throwing your head back under the shade of the van’s roof.

Lucky?

He was lucky?

Sure, why not, so long as you keep bearing your neck to him the way you were.

-"Yeah, Cambodia, Thailand, Korea."- Terry keeps perpetuating a half-lie, seated on a low wooden lawn chair in front of you, his blue Ford pick up truck he procured for the occasion parked nearby, neglected and busted up just enough to give him the visage of some working class schlub mingling with other schlubs, the fan from inside your the van blowing in a cool breeze his way; he’s been to all of those places, that much was true, you just weren’t aware of the context he was there in; admittedly, you didn’t hate returning army men either like he initially was convinced you and all of your ilk would, finding roundabout ways to question you of your worldviews — no, you merely thought they were deluded, lost souls someone took advantage of, which was somehow only ever more infuriating than plain old hate. Humiliating. Pitiful. Like a disgustingly sympathetic nod nobody asked for causing him to feel a bit like a stray street dog someone threw a dry bone to chew on. Terry Silver preferred death rather than for someone to feel sorry for him, fueled to an even darker place every time you were hideously empathetic, towards him and the whole world, hit with a flash of greed, wanting your stupid kindness for nobody but himself. So, he keeps on lying. Anything to momentarily distract him from the violence brewing around in his mind like a tempest. -"But, my favorite experience has to be with the Peace Corps in ‘Nam, hands down. It was life changing."- Terry allows himself to smile, finding the urge irresistible. He’s told you so many made up stories about his volunteer work abroad that he almost felt bad for you and how desperately you believed him. Almost. All those hours spent on various lawns, picnic blankets, on the backseat of a car, walking along the beach, spinning made up scenarios you ate up like a child full of wanderlust, eager for someone to tell them a story of how the world is full of possibilities. Hope. Terry leans forward suddenly, his elbows pressed against his knees and your body moves, matching his, engrossed in the conversation, looking at him like he was about to share with you the answer to life itself. -"Would you like to go one day?"- Terry asks, all figuratives and future tense, chuckling, and oh, he would take you down a path unwalked before. That’s what you said you wanted after all. Go wherever the road took you, no? You nod vigorously, smiling wide, a warm twinkle in your eyes. Trusting. Pliant. Unspoiled.

He returns the gesture, bearing his teeth in the visage of happiness.

So, you wanted to have a Vietnam experience and that could very well be arranged.

But, thing is, he doesn't.

The thought remains firmly lodged in his head, all the things he could to do to you, make you suffer, take that sweet, sparkling light in your eyes and ensure it is a dimmed, lifeless thing after all the various methods through which he could cause you pain. Make you suffer again and again until you're a husk and your lesson has been learned; a remainder forever that life isn't just travel and seeing pretty places, instead, he's laid up with you in a pretty place all of his own, thinking he deserves his Summer of Love too, perhaps more than anyone else --- after all, he's fought for it. Toiled for it. Seen his friends murdered for it. He spent months in a cage for it. He's earned his place in the sun tenfolds over. And he enjoyed the game. He enjoyed this role he played in front of you. If Captain Turner could see how now he'd say he's 'gone native' and the idea only serves to amuse Terry doubly so --- the notion his commanding officer would be mad at him for anything only intensifying him further, supposing he wanted to spite the man from beyond the grave, if possible --- your head in Terry's lap, the foliage of the palm tree casting a long, heavy shadow from above obscuring your face, your jacket riddled with badges cast to the side in the beach sand at the foot of the tree. Thank fuck. -"You know, I always thought my travel companion wouldn't be anyone but myself."- You sigh, keeping your eyes closed only to flutter them open suddenly, looking at him engrossed in the task of smoothing the top of your head, fingers drawing patterns along your scalp. The thin layer of skin atop of the skull, potentially so easy to peel. -"As in, that I'd mostly be hitting the road on my own."- You continue; Terry spots the odd bit of hesitation in your voice. You lean up because he lets you, your weight prepped up on your elbows. -"All these others, they have someone other then themselves. Not me, though."- You glance further down the beach and the ramshackle collection of vans parked up along the coastline, the distant sound of music echoing through the seaboard. Beatniks making a barbeque and someone strumming a sappy guitar tune. Your tribe. The punks that drove you around. Dragged you from place to place. Occupied your time. Perpetuated this way of living you took to heart. Not for long, though. -"But, I think that's changed now."- You remark, forlorn. Of course it has changed. You were less and less a part of them and more and more a part of him than you could imagine. That's the way he liked it too.

-"When I leave here, I'd like you to come with me, Terry."-

You ask sweetly, halfway pleading, as much as he relished the notion of you begging him for anything, imaging you doing so on your knees, he had to concur internally that as much as you were convinced of the opposite in this very moment, you weren't in fact going anywhere. Where would go anyway? San Francisco? Out to Mexico? The thought made him want to throw his head back cackling. No. You didn't realize it just yet because Terry didn't want you to realize, but you'd be staying put, right here, with him. Indefinitely. Instead, he gives you the softest look he could muster to camouflage his intent, something within him melting and bleeding forth like warm, overly sugary pus, as he nods slowly, that desire to scrub the inside of your mouth out with soap every time you talked about leaving for somewhere else subsiding for a second, taking a backseat, overtaken by a certain gentleness, the assurance it was all just make belief on your part anyway because you wouldn't be going no matter how badly you were convinced of the opposite and no matter how badly he was convincing you of it. -"Yeah. Sure thing."- He says, absentmindedly, deliberate in his choice of words, deciding to never say 'yes' or 'no' decidedly, but you never notice, falling back on his back momentarily content and closing your eyes once more, seemingly enjoying the ocean breeze, choosing to trust the way you always did so far and when you're not watching, he weighs his options between tossing the 'Make love not war' badge he took off of your jacket into the sea and keeping it for himself as a memento and deciding it belonged to him rather than the depths of the rolling waves. After all, in Vietnam, they always had the tendency of collecting trophies. Sometimes it was ears. Sometimes it was chopped fingers. But, in your case, the notion of separating you into pieces he could keep starts becoming less and less alluring compared to the idea of having you whole and this thought hits Terry helming the steering wheel with you beside him on the passengers seat, all tender smiles and quiet warmth. During the war, he always daydreamed of someone writing him the way Betsy wrote to John --- the way all the other boys had sweethearts, wives and fiancées writing them too, wondering what it would be like if it was you who wrote to him, filling every page with your idealism and this puny belief in a better tomorrow. A field opens up in front of him. A coastal superbloom spreads as far as the eye can see. He figured you'd get a kick out of this shit, and just as he thought, you do, sighing deeply. -"Words can’t describe how pretty this is, Terry, so I’ll say nothing."- You turn to him, appearing serene, shrugging simply, your hand on his shoulders, touching him. He allows the gesture, leaning into it. Of course it was pretty. Desert Lillies, Verbenas, The Indigo Bush and Dune Evening Primroses spread on for miles. That's why he privatized the place. That's why he owned it. For you to indefinitely do what you liked with it. A gift you didn't even know was a gift just yet. -"Lets just enjoy it together, okay? Take in the moment."-

Terry feels his lips spread and a smile form in place of his stoicism so far.

He couldn't help himself. He brought you to a field of flowers and you were convinced he was the best of men. You were wearing a jacket riddled with pins, a weaved wicker purse, the birds chirping and your face was sunkissed with light; the fact he had to ruin this moment and squash the innocence of it both filled with blood with heat and made his gut lurch out in pain. Terry allows his himself to cackle quietly ---- at first as a slow rumble emanating from the back of his throat and then open, into his own chin. You give him a confused look. You were going to hate him so much for what he was going to right now and he both relished and reviled the fact.

-"What’s wrong?"-

You ask.

-"This is really funny."-

He manages. And it was. It genuinely was.

-"What is?"-

You prod on, scooting closer like you were worried for him, your fingers squeezing and kneading his shoulder and the concern shoots his blood down into his groin; at this point, he's outright laughing. How could he not?

-"Peace Corps."-

Those two words alone provide him with enough humor for him to barely contain it.

-"I was in Vietnam, but not with the Peace Corps."-

Terry shakes his head, feeling his own mouth pucker up comically, like he was teasing a child for believing his elaborate story about the toothfairy, and still, your trust stands there unshaken, your expressions lost and confused. You really bought into this crap.

-"Wait, what do you mean?"-

You scoot in your seat, fidgeting a bit, poor, beautiful idiot, your bag and all its many jiggling keychains and ornaments firmly clutched against you like a subconsciously protective barrier, your body facing him. A man just comes along, tells you a story and you go with it because your philosophy in life and first instinct was to not think someone just went along lying for its own sake, but see, that's where you were wrong. Terry supposed he loved and hated you for it, envying and coveting you and how unpolluted your mind was. Anyone could've come along and sold you on some bullshit and the idea of that momentarily infuriates him and relieves him --- he was infinitely glad it was him and that he was the first.

-"And I lied because you provided me with such wonderful sensations. Hated to see it ruined."-

He continues, ignoring your previous queries, the budding shock on your face positively delicious; the way it spontaneously grew in scope in real time as you sat in his busted up car surrounded by a meadow of flowers like a scared fairy or a deer caught in the headlights about to be trampled --- he could have the image and the whole scene commissioned and painted, framed and hanged above the mantlepiece facing his tub so he could have the vision of your naiveté collapsing in on itself for all eternity, admiring it while he bathed, had his mourning champagne, took calls. Touched himself underneath the searing hot water. Squeezing his cock in the palm of his hand. -"What sensations?"- You mouth, more breath than words at this point.

Your body language changing slightly. Skittish. Uncertain.

-"Friendship."-

Terry smiles into the word.

-"Hope."-

He adds leisurely, chewing on those four letters like they're bones.

-"Love."-

Finally, his hand grips the place where your shoulder blades meet your neck, caressing and squeezing there, ensuring his own body is distant; he was touching you and you weren't to touch him. Not when you were so close to realization and then, with in an instant, it hits you. The light from your eyes is gone and he feels the space in his trousers tighten. His teeth digging into his lower lip. -"You were in the army!?"- You gasp, like your lungs lacked the oxygen necessary for you to actually raise your tone and yell out, your voice crackling your throat as you tried to move backwards, further into your seat and the door on the passenger's side --- Terry doesn't let go, his hand still ever-present on your neck. A lover's touch transforming into a vice grip within seconds. He shrugs, deliberately mocking, paraphrasing and twisting every hippie-dippie bullshit talking point he's ever heard ever since he's stepped back on American soil.

-"What can I say, I was a demographically exploitable, impressionable youth and the big mean man from the poster tricked me into killing Gooks. I wouldn't have otherwise. I'm strictly anti-violence."-

Terry senses his own brows shooting up in a make-belief mask of feigned, parodied innocence only for your own to furrow and you look offended. Angry, for once in your life. Beautiful enough to consume. -"You're making fun of me!"- You cry out, desperately as he grabs you, both hands, and you struggle, to no avail. Your running days were over. You'd stay put for a change and you'd stay down. -"Don't you love me?"- Terry cocks his head only to find you quelled. Hesitating. Oh, you loved him alright. You just loved the pacifist idiot listening to you how you wanted to be a nomad backpacking in every backwater dump on the surface of the planet and not the man with the past and you couldn't immediately reconcile the two without betraying everything you stood for. -"I ---"- Your mouth falls open and he feels you shiver, your words caught on the precipice of your mouth. -"You said you wanted to see ancient places before they're changed, but do you think they were built on notions of peace? Every empire you'd like to travel to with me was built on war and conquest."- He shakes you, only slightly, hoping it'll make you come to your senses. You thought Xerxes in the remnants of Persia you wanted to see was a pacifist with a flower garden atop of his head or something? Did your beatnik friends tell you that? Your eyes shimmer, horrified, glossed over with suppressed tears he wanted to lick off your cheeks. -"God, what else did you lie about to me."- Your voice is barely audible, raspy, like the gravitas of the situation only just started settling in. If he wanted to mess with you further, now would be the ideal time, so he does just that, pointing his nose across the field, towards the skyline of the city and the tallest tower visible from plain on the outskirts of the highway. Impossible to avoid, juxtaposed like a distant fortress against the blue sky vista. Terry points the tip of his nose towards it, feeling rather triumphant of Dynatox's expansion. -"That compound. I own it. Along with half of the real estate in the country. Content?"- He snarks, tilting his head at your outrage. Not only was your lover a war criminal, he was an eco-terrorist mass profiteer as well. He's fucked you and you loved it too. -"I don't know you. Jesus. I don't even know you."- You murmur, wiggling out of his grip and moving because he lets you, very well intending to give chase once you practically jump over the closed door of the van, and unto the grass. Sure, why not. He'd get to fuck you knee-deep in flowers next. It was perfectly in-line with the life you led. He steps out of the Ford, slamming the door shut, his arms open and inviting once he finds you hastily walking down the meadow, no doubt intending to hitchhike your way back to the city. He couldn't allow that.

-"Why are you running? You've got it all now! A ticket away from backpacking your entire life away with a bunch of aimless bum punks!"-

He speaks plainly then; the jig is up, he tells himself, and playing games as only as fun as the revelation of true intent. His true intent being, taking you, his diamond in the rough, cleaning you up and separating you from those who'd get you hooked on a life of slumming it on every street from here to India. His wild blossom needed to be plucked, re-planted, placed in a hothouse, tended to, domesticated and copiously watered until it bends or breaks for him. You're practically running at this point, glancing back at him, face radiating ire. You were pissed the fuck off. Nice. Perfect.

-"Maybe I'm an aimless bunk punk too! Have you thought about that!? But, at least I didn't kill anyone! And I don't lie! Get away from me!"-

You yell, and Terry doesn't recall the last time he's seen you this angry, if ever, but the vision makes him smile and this point, he's so hard he can practically feel himself pulsate as he follows after you at a brisk pace, allowing you enough leeway to have you stupidly think you can just walk away from him while he's right there only to come up from behind you, always in your shadow, grab your forearms from the back, stop you in your tracks, spinning you to face him. Chest to chest, face to face, there was no escape. Why should his well-earned Summer of Love ever end? Have you asked yourself that?

-"See, that's where you're wrong, baby."-

He practically giggles, steadying you in his grip.

You're slippery, like a bar of soap. Luckily, he's stronger, not intending to let go.

-"You aren't an aimless bum punk. You're mine."-

He states the fucking obvious, grinning at the levels of your vexation growing.

-"And you are lying. You're lying to yourself when you refuse to fess up that you care about us."-

He inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dragging itself against the outline of your neck, inhaling all that sweat, the aroma of the great outdoors, the pollen of the field caught on your skin, smiling against you as he spoke, feeling you dig your fingers and nails into his arms, the jab of pain a relish, like an injected aphrodisiac in his system. His hand travels down, cupping you between your legs and on instinct, he hears your breath hitch. You liked that, didn't you? He rubs up against the side of your thigh, craving raw, dry friction. -"When you pretend that targets living in mud huts halfway across the planet getting napalmed matter to you as much as they do."- He presses his mouth next to the lobe of your ear, caressing the shell with his lip, feeling a slight shiver there, like your body spoke out in confirmation instead of you, even as you pushed and struggled, spilling words of venom when it was so clear your very nervous system craved to shout out a definitive 'yes'. -"You murderous son of a ---"- You seethe, trashing only to get hooked even more firmly against him, until he's practically embracing you not unlike wrangling a slithering Cobra, attempting to tame it. What's wrong? Were you afraid your friends will exclude you if they find out you've been getting fucked by a vet? Will they label you as less progress for it? Take your hippie credentials away? The continues massaging the seam between your hips, swearing he could feel the warm sensation of moisture and heat through the fabric, watching your mouth part even as you struggled. Bodies don't lie. He finds your zipper and the material of your panties underneath it, soaked to the very flesh. Ah, yes. There it was, all your political philosophies flying out the window proven just by how wet you were for him. -"You don't care about it that much."- Terry whispers laced with giggles, finding the bare skin of your cunt ready for his touch. Suddenly hungry, he devours your neck with kisses in-between words, pushing you backwards, hands all over, on the small of your back, around your waist, coaxing you down into the bed of flowers. He was going to have you, right here, right now. He's slept under the open sky and the wilderness for months and months only up until recently before rotating back to civilization, so for all intents and purposes, this should've been true return to form. -"You care about how good my fingers feel inside of your cunt much, much more and the thought of not being morally upstanding while getting fucked kills you on the inside."- He laughs, on top of you, finding you were no longer fighting it, maybe just barely, enough to make it interesting for him. The faintest spice of struggle with his hand up your leaking hole.

-"It kills you that your lizard brain rules you when I'm near."-

His hand propped up underneath your head, pillowing your contact with the bare soil underneath you, he admires you, all of you, cooing to you surrounded by flowers bent and broken at the stem through the impact of you both laying down in the bosom of the meadow, or more like, crashing into it; he supposed he despised the natural world as a whole --- a distaste he cultivated in Vietnam, in the jungle, overgrown, deep, impossible to traverse, during six months of monsoon rain, the perpetual, sinking moisture of the ground and the insects, centipedes as long as his arms, snakes, scorpions and things stemming forth from the muddy, slick bowls of the earth that would make any man's skin crawl, mowed down, culled and leveled, sprayed from above with an orange dust, the brainchild that birthed everything he wanted Dynatox to be --- a great equalizer of nature. The big, final X. But, you? Seeing you surrounded by the natural world? He supposed the only way he could ever tolerate nature is if it is in relation to you personally and no other way at all. Terry found no use for it unless it was in connection to you. That was his own lizard brain working overtime when you were near and he wanted you, needed to hear it from your own mouth that you were much the same as him. Weak around the resolve where he was concerned. -"Say it."- He demands it, firm lipped, his hand fishing around his trousers, pulling his cock out, hard, dripping precum, entirely ready for you. You shake your head, avoiding eye contact, pinning your gaze up at the sky; he could swear he spotted the faint, pale glimmer of suppressed tears. -"No."- You mouth bluntly. No? That just wouldn't do in this dojo. -"Say. It."- Terry repeats himself, insisting, annunciating every syllable, not intending to do it a second time, pulling your trousers down to your knees and spreading you. You could've shut your knees, but you never do; not that it would've stopped him, if anything, it would make this all the more profoundly enjoyable, but he reads desire, guilty, transgressive, hidden between the lines, yearning to burst forth. You wanted him too, but it went against your core values. Were you really as free as you thought you were, though? If you couldn't even fuck who you really wanted? Sounded like a miserable way to live. You moan and sob up at the same time once he's inside of you, bucking your hips up against him, managing a single word.

-"Yes."-

-"Yes, what?"-

-"It kills me ---"-

You stutter, attempting to repeat his words back to him beat by beat, only to stop, cutting yourself off once Terry picks up a pace, back and forth, back and forth, his fingers long since having undone your blouse, your tits and nipples bare, kneading them, greedy, wanton, unsure of what he'd do first, what he'd rather touch and when, finding he wanted all of you at once, no waiting, no hesitation, on a plot of land he owned, fucking someone who belonged to him.

-"What kills you?"-

He encourages, kissing along your jawline, biting, all spit, lack of decorum.

Finally, you break, and the tears flow like a river, your hands pinned above your head.

Complete defeat. Complete surrender.

-"You do."-

You whimper under the warm breeze, giving up even the faintest notion of finishing your sentence the way you should've; but he didn't mind this subversion. Actually, he rather prefered it, finding your mouth and kissing it deep, longer and hard, separating himself if only just a moment mid-trust to admire his handiwork and the pink bruise left behind on the side of your perfect lips that promised to grow blue by tomorrow --- a punishment for his tiny lack of control. Punishment for you not parroting his words back the way he ordered. But, you weren't going anywhere anymore, the final destination being right here, in this very city, so he'd have all the time in the world to train you as he liked. Teach you as he wanted and he feels his own throat hum in contentment, his cock lodged deep inside of you, remembering your badge and how he still had it somewhere in the inside pocket of his jacket left behind on the driver's seat of his truck; claiming one thing and then claiming another and ultimately, claiming everything you were, piece after piece, part after part, from the smallest, most insignificant pin, to the biggest, most crucial segments that made up who you were.

-"Good. Perfect."-

Terry murmurs victoriously, smiling, caressing the hair sticking to your forehead slick with sweat.

[janus-stanus]

[reposting a bit from this fic on its own (and cut down in places) for anyone who needs it today. i love you. please survive.]

“I would like to try something. If you’d be so courteous as to humor me.”

The lump under the covers offers no resistance.

Janus presses a hand to his chest, just below his neck. When he speaks again, it’s all tea and honey.

“Things are going to be okay.”

Thomas doesn’t look at him, in the hopes it’ll make the words easier to swallow. Like how things were before a face was put to the voice. Before everything got thrown off by the label “Deceit”.

But it doesn’t work. The sentiment rings hollow. Empty calories.

“It will be okay,” the side repeats, now turned to face him.

Thomas sighs. “I want to believe you,” he says, his throat horse.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Janus tells him, tone wavering. “You don’t have to believe anything I’m saying. Frankly, knowing what you know, you shouldn’t.” His hands turn and twist and fold into each other. “You just… you have to trust me.”

Thomas’s face scrunches. He’s pretty sure what Janus just said is inherently self-contradictory (not that that wouldn’t be in line for him). Or maybe his brain is just too gunked up from the… everything of it all.

“Look at me, Thomas.”

It comes out too sharp. It always does these days.

Still, Thomas lifts his head. Of course, his eyes are already watering, for the third time in as many hours. But he could swear that there are pinpricks of tears in Janus’s, too.

It’s the snake’s turn to sigh. “Here’s the thing, Thomas. I told you I’d be more honest with you. So here’s the truth: I can’t give you what you want right now.” The confession is slow and painful, like that old saying of drawing blood from a stone. “I’m not your optimism, or your hopes; I’m not the one you’d want to turn to for answers, or a plan. Those parts of you will be here when you’re ready to hear them.

“All I can give you is what you need, for this moment. You just, have to trust me.” He gulps to clear his throat. “And, again, you probably - I’d understand if you…”

A thousand different sentences seem to wordlessly slide off Janus’s tongue.

“I’m here,” he eventually chokes out. “So. Please.” 

Through the mist building up in his eyes, Thomas sees a softer, younger Janus.

And, in him, he sees his younger self. The Thomas who clung to every scrap of affirmation, of hope, of love, even those that were self-gifted. The Thomas who trusted, wholeheartedly, the voice that was a suaver, sweeter, stronger version of his own, telling him whatever he most needed to hear.

The Thomas who believed them all. Who believed in himself.

He scrubs away the liquid buildup, and that Thomas is gone. Except, he’s not. He’s still here. In him, and all of his sides.

“Of course I trust you, Janus,” he says, sitting up.

The side in question blinks, then coughs. “Ah. Wonderful.”

He takes a breath. Thomas imitates.

“Good. Now listen: things will be okay.” He takes a second to figure out how to proceed. “I can’t tell you how; certainly not when. But they will be.”

Somehow, Thomas feels himself smiling already. But it’s a flickering, fragile thing.

Janus imitates him this time, though his smile is much more bittersweet. Almost nostalgic.

“They will be,” he continues, “not because the laws of the universe demand it, not because one person believing so is all it takes, but because there are people like you. And your friends. And Nico.”

Thomas’s eyes light up at the mere mention of him.

“Good people.” He visibly cringes as he says it but recovers swiftly. “So many of them, who will do whatever they can to help.”

The words taste so sweet they’re almost sour. But the most potent medicine never tastes good.

“They’ll take care of each other, sacrifice for each other, out of compassion, out of spite, out of sheer stubbornness,” he spits, voice rumbling, “and yes, it’s stupid of them, but-”

He catches himself tumbling into unhelpful honesty.

“Nevermind that. The, so… I…” He falters. “People, some people, will try. And they’ll mess up, for sure; they might just make things worse, if all they have are directionless good intentions. You - they, they’ll get caught up in their own problems, and won’t get help. They’ll make choices, so focused on predicting the future that they keep repeating the past. You know, you…” The water in his eyes is bubbling over. “You know all that. You know, people, like that. The, the point is-”

And Thomas embraces him.

It’s fortunate Janus is imaginary, or he likely would have passed out in the first few seconds with how tightly Thomas squeezes his torso. Instead, they stay there, for some irrelevant number of minutes, Janus’s shirt soaking up Thomas’s tears and snot.

When the snake notices that his own face is wet, he attempts to wipe the precipitation dry discreetly. It proves to be a losing battle.

“The point is,” he eventually concludes, “You’ll survive. You’ll go through all that, again and again, and you’ll survive. For at least as long as I have anything to say about it. Or those other people who love you, I suppose. Because that’s the miserable existence we’ve been cursed with.”

Thomas hopes the other sides are experiencing this moment. They all deserve it.

“Thank you,” he croaks. “For… for everything.”

Janus collects himself, rolling back his now sticky sleeves, straightening his collapsed spine, and taking a few breathes, before he responds.

“Just doing what I can.”