#it’s always “female rage” this and “female rage” that until someone in the depths of despair throws a donut on the ground

[bartonbones]

im just warning you guys in advance that im a carmy berzatto defender first and foremost so however much of a bitch hes gunna be this season im gunna be by his side okay so be prepared

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Thirteen

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Nurse!reader. Domestic slice of life. Feelings of fear, self loathing, anxiety, dread. Complicated emotions. Verbal depiction of domestic violence. Non sexual intimacy. Scars from cigarette burns. Very brief daddy kink. Sick character (not reader). Comfort. Confessions.

The park is quiet.

You hoped it would be- middle of the day, in the middle of a work week, in the middle of the city. There are a few people around, walking, running, lingering. Enjoying themselves, the warmth of the sun on their face, a bright spot amid a typically grey winter.

It makes it easier. To look.

To watch.

To wait.

And you do. You wait, and you wait. You sit steady on the park bench, pretending to be remotely interested in the rough paperback cradled in your lap, spine already cracked flimsy by Simon’s grip. It’s Stephen King. Carrie, if you’re precise. A story of stolen girlhood and rage.

You swallow the shards of glass and acid the pages bring forth.

Deep breath. 

The breeze gusts, and your shoulders nearly shake. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve sat out in the open like this.

Easy prey.

You may have always been easy prey. Easy and young and stupid, easy, and naïve and manipulated. You fell for every trick in the book. You didn’t see the signs until it was too late.

Still, you watch. You wait.

You considered, for a while, that if Philip was around, if he was in the city, looking for you- he’d arrive here. Like magic. Like a classic villain, materializing in a plume of smoke.

And while it’s not exactly comfort you feel as each minute ticks by and he fails to appear, there’s relief in your soul for certain.

It’s a risk, to sit here. A question. With an answer, for now.

Will he? Won’t he? 

Today, the answer is he won’t.

Your phone vibrates, and you don’t need to look at it to know, guilt worming its way into the depths of your heart, anxiety piquing as you imagine both Simon and Johnny at their house, their home, worried.

Don’t fool yourself. Don’t give yourself too much credit. Don’t get carried away. 

Someone clears their throat over the back of the bench, and you whirl.

“Hey, sorry.” Your pulse slows from a gallop to something slower, and you shake your head.

“You can’t sneak up on me like that.” The man shrugs his second apology, legs spreading into the spot next to you. You’re practiced at this, familiar. Knowledgeable enough to keep your hands from shaking, even though the tremor builds through your bones.

“Been waitin’ for you to call.”

“I’ve been busy.” You eye the black bag in his hands, a small black fabric pouch, gold zipper glinting in the sun. “That everything?” He nods.

“Can I ask-“

“No.”

“Just seems strange, is all. Pretty, polished thing like you, needin’ all this. Most of my clients are more… rough around the edges.” Your teeth dig into your tongue. Already, this guy is less discreet and more obnoxious than your last purveyor. You wish you had hidden your face.

Like Simon. 

“We’re solid, then?” You unzip the pouch, cursory eye roaming over the collection inside, checking off a mental list. Usually, you would feel relief at this point, but today, it sours and rots. Liberation burns into a roaring wave of uncertainty, and your fingers tighten over the zipper.

“We’re good.” He stands, giving you one last long look, and then his mouth shifts into a half smile. “Good luck.” Your polite nod is strained and forced. A nonverbal fuck off.

He takes the cue, and slinks away, disappearing around a corner and out of sight.

The bag weighs heavily in your hands. A terrible reminder of the truth.

You’ll never have a life. You’ll never have a family. You’ll always be alone. 

You’ll never be pretty or polished or perfect. 

You’ll always be this. 

Scarred. Sectioned off. Scared. 

Desperation wells, and you close your eyes. You see Johnny, and Simon. Their faces. Sunlight in bleak darkness.

Love and family and strength.

The ache in your chest widens. You want to be home, with them. Curled up, with them. Sitting at the table and eating dinner, with them. All these things, these domestic, familiar things that once seemed so unattainable, now within arm’s reach.

But still so far away. 

Your shoulders relax a fraction, dipping lower, the strain on your injury zinging through your muscles as you roll them, and you shove the little bag into the backpack, above the clothes you pulled from your apartment.

Deep breath. 

Johnny’s the first you see after locking the front door. He’s in the kitchen, half leaning on his crutch, fishing something out of a pot, a noodle of some kind, and he freezes, eyes heavy with relief, when you come around the corner.

“Bunny.” His good arm reaches, fingers brushing together, cold against warm. He coos. “Ye’re freezin’.”

“It’s cold.” You agree, unzipping the front of your jacket. He slides cautious and slow touch around your waist beneath it, and you go with him, face burrowing into his chest, just below his collarbone. Your nose is nearly smashed, but you can still breath him in, feel him, be in this moment with him.

His hold tightens. “What is it?”

“Sorry it took me so long.”

“That’s alright, was jus’ worried is all. Text us back next time.” You nod, but stay silent, still taking gulps of air, nosing against the collar of his shirt to find his skin. “Pretty girl,” his hand strokes over the back of your head, warm breath on your cheek. “Ye alright?” You breathe through the threat of tears, though they sting and threaten to sink you.

“Ye-yeah.” You choke, and he tries to pull back, grip steady on your upper arm, but you follow him, still trying to crawl inside and hide, wrap yourself up in him and disappear.

“Hey now,” he clucks his tongue, trying to re-focus you, trying to get your attention, nimble fingers cradling your jaw, “what is it?”

There are no words to explain it, these feelings. The fear. The dread. The bile rioting in your stomach, the anxiety churning like a turbulent sea. It’s like no matter what you do, it all comes back, no matter how deep you bury it or how much you try to change the tide.

It’s easier to lie.

“I’m tired.” You whisper, and he rubs your back.

“Did ye eat?” No.

“Yes. I got something at the hospital.”

“Paperwork all in order so ye can hang out wit’ us until ye’re better?” His smile is infectious, a mirror blooming across your own face, and he dots your nose with his lips. “There’s our girl.” Your toes curl. He tugs the backpack into his grip, and you let him, let him push you up into the counter, drop your bag to the floor, slip his tongue between his teeth. You let it all go to your head, let yourself get lost in him, twist your fingers in his hair, nipples pebbling stiff as his mouth finds the sensitive skin of your neck.

He takes it all away. Every time. 

“Johnny.”

“I’ve got ye.” He finds an opening, a soft spot between your jeans and your shirt, hands roaming upward and over, everywhere. He’s everywhere, effortlessly, and you’re along for the ride, clinging so tight like you’re afraid you’ll fall.

And then-

It stops.

He’s holding your face, blue gaze unwavering, focused. “Bun, talk to me.” Your throat throbs, words sticking like taffy, clawing their way up in a jumbled mess until the only thing intelligible is what spills out.  

“Is this real?” You’re a child. Small and scared, desperate for some sort of reassurance, some semblance of security.

“Is what real?” His fingers close over yours, lifting them to his lips. “This? Us?”

“Everything. All of it… I- I-“

“It’s real. It’s been real since ye held my hand the first time. Or at least, it’s been real for me… since then. Thought ye were an angel. An answer to a prayer.” He cracks a smile, thumb rubbing across the slope of your cheek. “An’ I’m not the praying type.”

“There’s… you don’t know me, Johnny. There’s so much… you don’t know.” Your chest heaves, anxiety stuttering inside your lungs, air turning thin in your mouth.

“I know, shhh. I know.” You press your face back into his chest, words slowing to a stop, a trickle. “Ye remind me of him, ye know. A lot prettier though.”

“Who?”

“Si.” He kisses your temple, your forehead, peeling away to peer at your face. “Guarded… but scared under it all. Ye dinnae even know how life can be, too busy runnin’ away.”

“Johnny-“

“Ye’ve got secrets, I know. But it’s the same thing I used to tell him. Eventually you’ve got to let go, let me in. Let us in, Bun. We’re not goin’ anywhere. We’re not afraid. Let us prove it.” Your lower lip trembles, eyes burning with the brunt of tears. “Shhh, dinnae cry. Ye’re alright, everything’s going to be okay. I swear it.” You do nothing, nothing except stand there, half folded into him, breath and touch agonizingly slow, steady in his hold.

The two of you stay there, in the silence, until the agonized sear of distress starts to fade, and you begin to balance, ship righting itself after a long night in rocky seas.

Penny’s bedroom door is open.

The soft glow of a nightlight floats into the hall, and you peer past, finding Simon with his arms full, reclined in the rocking chair, a nearly asleep Penny gap mouthed in his arms. You wave.

“Hi,” he whispers, “get everything you needed?”

“Yeah, all set.” You nod to the baby. “She’s knocked.”

“Bath time was rough.” He traces her cheek, twirling a finger in her hair. A soft, faultless picture, his features delicately framed by shadow, thick arms the perfect place for a baby, an easy cradle.

It’s an intimate moment, and inside it, you feel out of place.

“I’ll see you downstairs?” You shift away, motioning, and he hums.

“In a few.”

Everything is slow with them in the evenings, you’ve realized.

They move leisurely, dancing around one another, Simon constantly watching and waiting, for both you and Johnny, anticipating. It’s a natural role, one that seems more permanent over necessary considering the circumstances, Johnny falling into an unhurried pace, languishing on the couch after dinner and dishes are done, fingers mindlessly stroking into the soft spot beneath your ear. Simon leans over, kissing Johnny and then settling at your side, an arm stretching around your back. “Should we watch something?” Johnny brightens.

“A movie?”

“If you’d like. Bun, any suggestions?” You blink. It’s a surprise, one that’s never occurred to you, the ability to simply choose a movie.

“Umm… no?”

“What’s yer favorite?”

“I don’t know. Whatever is fine. What do you guys like?”

“We know what we like. We want to know what you like.” What do you like? Comedies, you suppose. Something light and funny, something to distract the never-ending stream of thoughts cycling through your head.

“Uh, have you guys ever seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall?” Johnny chuckles.

“It’s been a while.” He flicks through the icons on the screen, thumbing over to where he starts to type it in. What if they don’t like it? What if they’re humoring you? What if you picked wrong? “Or, if you don’t like that, we can do something else. Anything. I’m not picky. It doesn’t have to be-“

“Hey,” Simon murmurs, warm palm resting on your knee, “that’s perfect. We both like that one.”

“Dracula musical.” Johnny smiles, finding it easily and clicking play. Your breath catches at the ease of it all, of picking a movie and that being that, no anxiety about a reaction or something triggering popping up on screen.

You can just… enjoy it.

The light in their bathroom is a little too bright.

Your toes stretch across the tile, nerves thrashing in the pit of your stomach as you stare in the mirror.

You don’t know who it is looking back at you.

You don’t recognize the girl getting ready for bed, brushing her teeth, wearing a pair of pajama pants and Simon’s shirt.

There’s a disconnect, some semblance of wires crossing, some phantom of someone else, living in your skin.

Because it can’t be you, getting ready to crawl into bed between them. It can’t be you, who fell asleep with her head on Simon’s stomach during the movie, can’t be you who stole a kiss from Johnny as Simon propped his leg up on the stack of pillows.

You’re playing house. Playing a game. 

It won’t last. 

It can’t.

You wrap a finger up in the hem of Simon’s shirt, frayed and torn edges pulling apart below the seam. It’s an old one, something he tugged out of a drawer and tossed on the bed, faded graphic turned from white to grey against a rusted black backdrop. It’s soft, and worn, and comfortable, an article of clothing well loved, and you wonder if Johnny’s worn it too. If it’s been passed around, washed, and dried a hundred times.

“Everything alright?” Simon leans into the bathroom, Johnny in view just past his shoulder. He’s not wearing a shirt, just soft, flannel pants, and you stare at the scars dotting his torso before dragging your gaze away.

“Yeah, sorry… I got distracted.” You turn the tap, rinsing your toothbrush before placing it by itself on the edge of the sink, out of place next to the cup holding theirs, and Penny’s.

You blink slow, allowing your eyes to close for a fraction of second.

“Ready for bed?” Johnny beams at you, lush and sleepy, hand outstretched, reaching.

You take a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Simon’s bedside lamp is still on, barely illuminating the dark. It’s quiet, and warm, and you bask in the space between their bodies, fingers playing idly with the hem of your shirt.

When Johnny’s fingers graze the skin under the fabric, your chest tightens. He strokes back and forth, over your navel, blazing heat from his palm tingling into your skin. You’re being torn in two, swallowed by the ocean, tugged in different directions.

You struggle to regulate your breathing, small draws coming in quicker, and Simon covers Johnny’s hand with his own, stopping the movement.

“Will you show us?” He murmurs.

“Sh-show you?”

“The scars.” Oh.

Will you? 

Even though Simon’s already seen them, this feels different. This feels like a choice. Like you’re peeling something back, baring yourself.

You close your eyes and pull the bottom of your shirt to the top of your ribcage, cool air ghosting over your exposed skin. Johnny makes a sound, a twisted whisper of something pained, and you shiver.

A thumb slides over the raised skin on the left side of your belly. “These are from cigarettes?”

“Yes.” You almost want to look, want to see, but can’t bring yourself to do it, to witness their disgust, their shock. You’re hollow. Drifting. Falling away from them. Someone shifts, the bed moves, jostles slightly, but you block it out. Every muscle in your body is taut, jaw locked, and fists clenched.

This morning was intimate but this… this is something else. Something more. 

“Can ye feel them, still? Do they hurt?” Two hands roam, rubbing gently, skimming.

“No but… they’re hideous.”

“No.” Simon croaks, voice thick. “There isn’t a single part of you that isn’t perfect.” Your heart cracks, and the light touch of fingertips disappears, replaced with a swath of breath and then-

Lips. 

He’s kissing them. 

It stops your heart, dries your mouth. Robs you of your breath, your head spinning into an enormous vortex of disbelief. Simon’s mouth travels, dotting your skin between each ugly, raised bump, carefully pressing a kiss to each one, gradually. He takes his time, and with your eyes closed, you can feel his body hovering above you, holding steady just over your frame. Johnny’s forehead rests against yours, and he cups your face, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek, sweet and slow.

“Will ye tell us… about how you got them? Who gave them to ye?” Simon cradles your hips, firm pressure folding into your skin, the curve there, and he squeezes, prompting you, expecting. You don’t know how he does it, how he’s so easily able to guide you, and Johnny. It’s seamless.

“I…” You don’t know what to say, if you were to say anything at all. How to answer. How to begin to explain. How to confirm what you know they already suspect, how to start this story. This nightmare.

Are you really doing this? Could you really do this? 

There’s a sliver of sun, begging. Pleading. It rails against the cracks in your heart, desperate.

So, you spit out the only thing you know for sure.

“He liked to hurt me.”

“Who?” Simon’s question is immediate, and your ribs expand with a long breath.

“My… ex.” Stop talking. Stop this, stop it, stop- “He’s a monster.”

“The healed breaks on your x-rays…” He trails off, and you reach blindly, searching for an anchor. Johnny gives it to you, clutching your hand in his, thumb soothing over your knuckles.

“Yes.”

“And more.” Simon whispers, and Johnny draws a sharp breath. You nod.

“And more.”

“Your neck, and shoulder?” There’s a long silence, as you sit atop the wall. As you wait and try to decide if you want to jump off or continue to sit here… trapped at the top, teetering on the edge while they wait below.

You’re in their life now. You said you’d try. They should know. 

You trust them. 

Don’t you? 

“He found me.” You confess, cracked and bleeding and hung out to dry. Three words barely scratching the surface of the truth, saying almost nothing at all and still so much. You stumble, and panic, fear bubbling up to the surface. “I’m sorry, I told you before- I said-“

“And we told ye; nothing is going to get ye while ye’re with us. Ye’re safe, bunny.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about!” you blurt, a near snap, and Johnny freezes. “It’s you guys, and Penny, and your friends, you- you don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t understand. He’s chased me across the world, he always finds me, no matter what, no matter what I do, o-or where I go-” You’re rambling, nearly hyperventilating, and slipping away, succumbing to the rolling black clouds overtaking your mouth and mind, stuttering and falling, drowning in an endless darkness.

They don’t know. They don’t understand. They can’t. 

You’re weak. You’re stupid. You’re nothing. 

You’re a child again. A lost girl. Alone and scared. Trapped in the dark.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.” You shake your head, and Simon catches it between his palms, holding you still. You can fight and flail and run, but he’s still there. Strong and safe and beautiful in every way, a foundation of love, of trust. “It’s just us, we’re here. With you. Look.” Johnny tightens his hold, and your bones rattle inside your skin, aching and splintering, shredding you from the inside out.

“I can’t.” You hiss, trying to curl away. You can’t face them, or this. The reality. The truth.

It’s easier to run. Who were you kidding? You can’t do this. You should have already been gone. 

But they won’t let you go. Not now. Not when they have you so close to the light. So close to the sun. 

And maybe it’s time to accept it.

“Look at me, pretty girl.” Johnny murmurs. “Ye can do it.” The pull of his voice drags you closer, comforts you, and you long for him, long to see his blue eyes, overgrown mohawk and gorgeous smile. You long to relax into him, to hear the thump of his heart, steady and strong. He’s a lighthouse in the pitch-black night, a guiding light. It’s enough to lessen pressure building in the back of your skull, and you slowly blink, both of their concerned faces coming into view.

The three of you linger silence, holding each other, decompressing from your confession, your fear that feels too much sometimes. It all fades, night turning long, and eventually you yawn, blinking away the sleepy stars in your eyes.

“There’s our bunny.” Simon kisses your cheek. “My good girl.” My good girl. Turning it over in your mind makes you squirm, allowing it ricochet back and forth with his accent, and you wish you could latch onto it, memorize it, hear it every day. Johnny gives you a bemused smile.

“Ye liked that?” He raises an eyebrow at Simon, and then presses his lips to your ear, whispering. “Ye want to be a good girl for daddy, little bunny?” Daddy. You choke. You anticipate disgust, revulsion, but none of it comes.

Only… intrigue. Warmth.

“I think that’s enough for tonight.” Simon interrupts gently. “Thank you, sweetheart. For trusting us. I know it’s hard.” You turn into Johnny, and Simon rolls to flick out the light, pulling up tight behind you, sliding an arm under the pillows. You burrow deeper into the blankets, snuggling between them to find the warmest spots, and sigh.

“You both… make it easier. You make it easy.”

The world from yesterday is forgotten the next day when Penny wakes up with a fever.

The house is thrown into confined, regulated chaos, but chaos all the same. She wails almost the entirety of the morning, miserable, and you ache for both her, and her dads, who are unmoored and anxious. You don’t even balk when Simon asks you to hold her, explaining he has to call her pediatrician.

“Hey, you’re okay.” You coo, rubbing her back. She’s warm to the touch, but not scorching, and it gives you some comfort, even with what little you know about peds. You rock her, pacing, as Johnny watches uneasily from the couch, typing unending questions into a web search about babies and fevers. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I know you don’t feel good.”

“It’s 38.1… that’s fine, right? As long as it’s under 39?”

“I think so.” You try to reassure him. “I’m not a little human nurse though, so I can’t be sure. But it hasn’t been that long, Johnny. We don’t need to worry until at least twenty-four hours.” He nods, lips quirking into a small smile. “What?”

“Ye said we.”

“Well… yeah…” you trail off, and he shakes his head.

“Jus’ like the sound of it, is all. Like how ye look, holdin’ our baby.” You give him a look, half exasperated, half doe eyed, as always, because you can’t help but feel a little lovestruck or dazed whenever you glance his way, always taken by him, no matter the moment.

Simon steps back inside from the patio, swooping to rub his nose in Johnny’s hair and squeeze his shoulder affectionately. “The pediatrician says if she gets worse, or doesn’t improve by tomorrow, to bring her in.”

“Good.” You bounce her, propping her up on your shoulder. “That’s good.” She gurgles, croaking through her miserable fever. “Poor baby girl, I’m sorry.” You pat her again, trying to help settle her-

She coughs, and something warm runs down your back.

“Shite.” Johnny curses, Simon immediately trying to pull her from your arms, but you shake your head.

“There’s no sense in her throwing up on you too.” You explain.

“I’ll go grab a towel, and some clothes. Do you want to change your shirt?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” You keep your hand steady on her back. You’ll both need a thorough wipe down now, maybe even a shower.

“Sorry, bun.” Johnny frowns, but you reassure him, still rocking Penny in your arms. 

“It’s fine, really. I’ve been through way worse with bodily fluids, trust me.” The bottom stair creaks, in the way that it only does for Simon, his mass too much for one of the wooden slats.

When you look up, you realize he’s not moving, only standing shock still, clothes and towel and a baby blanket in one hand,

and the contents of the little black bag in the other.

You left it on the dresser. You left it out in the open, unzipped, on the dresser. 

Your blood freezes. Johnny frowns, looking between his partner and you, trying to desperately draw a conclusion that doesn’t come.

Simon holds the little navy-blue book up, the one with your picture in it, but with a name they won’t recognize. A person they wouldn’t know.

A person you don’t even know, yet. A new life. A new identity.

“What’s that?” Johnny’s quizzical, intrigued.

“Bunny.” Simon breathes, and you shake your head. It’s all you can do, just shake your head back and forth until your brain is rattling around in your skull.

You can’t stop it.

They’ll never love you. They won’t accept you. They won’t understand. 

“It’s- it’s j-just in case,” you stammer, panicked and tongue tied. “you… you don’t understand, I have to have it… just in case.”

“What is it?” Johnny demands, and Simon flips the front of the booklet around-

revealing the cover of a brand-new American passport.

[merakiui]

chemic.

floyd leech x (female) reader cw: nsfw, lots of nerdy pining from floyd, a few cringe science innuendos, childish locker room talk, characters written as 18+, nrc is written to be co-education, reader can use magic note - in the stories you've read, the dumb jock and the teacher's pet always have some sort of clash. if your life is fiction, then you've just fallen into that exact trope. in chemistry, alkali metals react explosively when mixed with water. or: the teacher's pet and the dumb jock are paired up for an alchemy project, and both find that the other has been egregiously mischaracterized by the narrative.

You’ve always thought Floyd Leech was reckless.

“He skips classes, turns in half-completed assignments, and he’s always sleeping around,” you gripe to Ace, who idolizes the upperclassman and his proclivity to party carelessly. Apparently, Floyd’s example is all the rage nowadays amidst the guys at Night Raven.

“So what? We all do that.” Ace sticks his tongue out at you. “Not everyone’s a nerd like you.”

You huff and snap your book shut. “I care about my education. There’s nothing ‘nerdy’ about that.” Your gaze sweeps through the crowded cafeteria, and there he is—Floyd Leech, munching gluttonously on a plate piled high with takoyaki.

“No, I totally get it,” Deuce cuts in. “It’s good to keep up with school. Grades are important. I guess some of us wouldn’t know since he’s not honor student material.”

“Oh, hop off. Deuce is only agreeing with you cuz he wants in.” Ace nudges you, gazing not-so-subtly at your skirt.

Smooth like a well-oiled machine, you turn your horrified stare on a very red-faced Deuce.

“I-I do not!” he protests, choking on his drink. “That’s not true! I’m not that kinda guy. I was just saying—” He stops himself and glares fiercely at a snickering Ace. “Do you wanna fight?!”

“Honestly…” Sighing, you stand up. Boys will always be boys. That will never change.

In your world, there is nothing three-dimensional. It’s all purely fiction. Everyone fits into a trope, packaged neatly for your consumption. It’s literature.

Deuce is the Delinquent. Ace plays the role of the Best Friend (who won’t admit it until you catch him in a sentimental mood; he’s just that type). And Floyd’s the Dumb Jock.

As for you, you’re just a reader. An observer. You watch the story that is your school life unfold before your eyes, and it is full of unusual characters. By fiction’s logic, the Dumb Jock and the Teacher’s Pet almost always clash. You avoid this trope like the plague because, in every iteration you’ve read, the Dumb Jock is always painfully foolish and the Teacher’s Pet is always annoyingly clever. There’s nothing more to either of them. No depth whatsoever.

That’s how it’s supposed to be, at least.

But the thing about your beloved fictional worlds is that, whether you like it or not, one day you’ll have to put the book down and face reality. 

“Leech! Bad boy!” Professor Crewel snaps his pointer against the chalkboard. It quiets the class instantly, and all eyes fall upon the troublemaker in question. “How many times must I tell you not to play with the equipment?”

“Oops. My baaad,” he drawls from the back of the class, not sorry in the slightest.

You watch him from your seat and your dislike for him grows by the minute. What a lazy attitude. Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to pay attention to the instructions? Professor Crewel’s just about to assign groups, but I doubt he was even listening to that. He’s so busy doing… What even is he doing?

It looks like he’s doodling or fiddling with the vial. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. You peer at your own materials, each one organized on your desk, and beam proudly. 

Professor Crewel tuts. “Seeing as your investment in this project is nonexistent, I’m going to pair you with someone who’ll keep you on track. Remember, pups, you and your partner will receive the same grade. This is a team effort, and so the work you do should reflect that. Now then… (Last Name)!”

You flinch. “Yes, Professor?”

“You and Leech will be partners.”

“Me? Hold on. Wait. There has to be—”

“Rosehearts, you will be with Ashengrotto.”

You can almost taste the Strict Tyrant’s—Riddle’s—relief as he deflates. Anyone’s better than Floyd. For once, everyone can agree on that. Or perhaps that’s a sentiment shared only by you and Riddle. You don’t miss the longing stares of some of Floyd’s admirers as they gaze forlornly between the two of you.

Professor Crewel sets his clipboard down. “I expect fine work from all of you. Anyone who fails to meet the deadline or scores anything below the average will take remedial lessons after class. You have one month to finish this project. Instructions have been included in your kits. Work together and utilize your time wisely. We’ll meet halfway through to discuss where everyone currently stands. Dismissed!”

A collective groan sweeps through most of the class as they begin filing out of the room. You jump up from your seat, hurrying to gather your belongings, and bound towards Professor Crewel’s desk. You’re going to plead your case. You can’t work with Floyd.

But then he’s trotting down the aisle, covering each step with a whistle. “Heeey, if it isn’t Li’l Shrimpy! Guess you ’n I are partners now. Lucky me.”

“Hello, Floyd…”

“Aww. You sound so bummed.” He grins. “You sad you didn’t get paired up with Goldfishie?”

You swat him away when he leans over into your space. “This is an injustice. I shouldn’t have to work my ass off just to carry you,” you hiss, scowling at him.

“Hey, I’ll pull my weight. I never said I wasn’t gonna do it.”

Refusing to debate this matter further, you turn swiftly on your heel. Your skirt swishes with the movement. “If you skip even one of the meetings, I’m telling Professor Crewel.”

Floyd follows dutifully after you, irritating like a parasite curled beneath your skin. “What a scary threat comin’ from Teacher’s Pet. Didja rehearse that one in the mirror this morning?”

If you weren’t carrying a box of fragile equipment, you’d slap him. Maybe. You have to uphold your academic record, and assaulting Floyd isn’t worth the tarnish temporary relief will bring.

“We’ll meet in Lab Room 4 during lunch tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

“Whaaat? Why lunch? Can’t we do it after class?”

“Out of the question. If we’re going to get a good grade, we should start as soon as possible. Absolutely no slacking. So make sure to actually read the instructions beforehand.”

Floyd rolls his eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

“I never said that, but our grade will make us seem so if we fail this.”

“It’s not that hard. All we gotta do is use whatever we got in the boxes to make a reaction. Somethin’ like that, right? If we break the glass ones, ain’t that technically a reaction? Like it’s changin’ states of matter or whatever.”

You stare at him. He can’t be serious.

“Talking to you is killing my brain cells, actually. I can’t believe you’re even in this class.”

“What?”

You’re already striding past him.

“Hey! What? What’d I say?”

You turn the corner, and the Dumb Jock disappears from your sight.

Floyd is studying the instructions intently.

His deskmate leans over. Her perfume is obnoxiously sweet. It tickles his nose.

“What’s that?” she asks, smiling.

“Alchemy stuff. The regular class got the same assignment, I think. But ours is a little more advanced cuz it’s honors.” Floyd rests his chin on his palm and frowns at the sheet of paper. “So basically we gotta find the missing component. It’s to make a potion we’ve already covered in class… I guess it’d be best to start with the chemical compounds of the ingredients we’re given and find out what’s compatible and what’s not. What sorta properties they’ve got. The list says…” He squints until the words are clear. “Sodium chloride’s one of ’em… Oh, that’s salt. As a solid, we can’t use it to conduct electricity. But in aqueous and molten states… Yeah, maybe that’d work since the ions are freely moving and stuff. Are we even trying to do that, though?”

“Wow,” she marvels, and his clinical concentration snaps. “You sure know a lot about alchemy.”

Floyd blinks back at her, confused. “Ain’t this common knowledge? Even the guys in the beginner class learn this stuff.”

“Ah, is that right?” She laughs, but Floyd thinks she doesn’t really care. “You were talking super scientific just now. It was pretty impressive. Reminds me of your brother.”

“What’s Jade gotta do with this?”

She shrugs. “He’s the smart one. I always see him with his face buried in a book.”

“And what am I?”

She opens her mouth to reply and then shuts it. “Hm. Well…”

Floyd leans in close. Those sharp teeth of his flash at her in a teasing smirk. “I got one. You wanna know what you are?”

“W-What?” Her breath catches in her throat.

“The pretty one. You make me feel like a noble gas.”

She slaps his arm playfully and giggles. “You’re so cheesy!”

“Do ya get it?”

“Hm?”

“Noble gases. Like helium and argon and neon. They’re chemically inert.”

So basically they’ll never bond with other elements on the periodic table. Which means it’s never gonna happen between you and me. No chemical reaction whatsoever.

“Oh, I get it now!” She shakes her head in amusement. “You could’ve just said I was hot.”

“Sure. We’ll go with that.”

She slides the sheet out from under his hand and, in glittery ink, scrawls her number.

After class, Floyd stands over the rubbish bin and tears it to shreds.

You think you might actually murder Floyd, and then you’ll be the first honors student from Night Raven to commit such a cold-hearted crime.

“Where are your materials? Where’re the instructions? Did you even read it at all?” you seethe, yanking on his tie so he’s pulled down to your height.

Despite the scolding, Floyd’s expression softens into something lackadaisical. “Lost it.”

You release him with a mournful cry. “My grade is doomed and I’m paired up with the world’s biggest idiot… It’s over for me.”

“You got yours, don’tcha? I don’t see the problem with sharing.”

“That’s just it! You’ve got half of the ingredients on your instructions and I’ve got the other half. Didn’t you listen when Professor Crewel explained that?”

“So we’ll just improvise. Can’t be that hard. All we gotta do is figure out what kinda potion we’re brewing based on the ingredients. Should be easy.”

You drop down into your seat and hold your head in your hands. “I can’t believe it… I’ve got a party-animal-slacker for a lab partner, and Azul’s got Riddle. It should’ve been me…”

Floyd lowers into the seat beside you. He opens his mouth, but the words remain lodged.

“Whatever. We can work around this,” you declare, straightening your tie and smoothing the wrinkles in your skirt. “We’ve got my ingredient list and the potions textbook. It’ll be fine.”

“See? You know what you’re doing. Shrimpy’s always thinkin’ smart.”

“I have to if I wanna make up for your shortcomings.”

Floyd holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Let’s see… My list says this specific potion, which is to be sealed with cork and candle wax, is one that you ingest. So it isn’t any sort of spray or perfume, and it’s not a cosmetic either. It must be a liquid.”

“Could be a solid, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like enchanted foods. They sell ’em in town. Gummy worms that whisper gossip and lollipops that grant you temporary charms. Like the ability to see in the dark for some time. Cool stuff like that.”

“Or it could be medicinal.”

Floyd pouts, somewhat disheartened. “Or it could be medicinal.”

“This is an assignment from Professor Crewel, so it must be a relatively advanced potion. Let’s see…” You straighten your lab coat and pry the thick tome open. “Butterfly wings. Sapphire. Red clover. Pluteus villosus. The kiss of a person charmed or cursed. Huh…”

“Ooh, that’s a fun list.”

“It makes no chemical sense. If I remember, red clover and that mushroom are known to have medicinal properties when used in certain concoctions. But butterfly wings and sapphire…don’t.”

“My list called for salt if that’s any help.”

“But salt from what? The Coral Sea? Mermaid’s tears? Normal salt from a shaker?”

“Dunno. Why not try ’em all and see what we get?”

“I suppose process of elimination would prove useful here… But we can’t do that until we know the rest of what was on your list. Ugh… Seriously, Floyd, you’d better find that instruction sheet, or else I’m going to wring you out and use your tears as the salt—recipe be damned!”

Floyd smirks. “That a challenge?”

“It’s a threat.” You grab hold of his tie once more and force him to look you in the eyes. “Find that list. I’m not joking.”

“I’ll do my best, Teacher.”

You cut today’s meeting short on account of your fried brain and Floyd’s attention span.

On his way out of the lab room, Floyd says, “Bring your beaker next time. I’ll bring my stirring rod.”

And then he waltzes out, humming his way down the hall. You look at your belongings scattered on the table.

Of course I will. Why wouldn’t I? We need these materials to do the experiment.

Marking your place in the textbook, you shut it and decide to return to it after the day’s ended.

“Floyd’s in good form today,” Ace remarks as he laces his sneakers next to Jamil.

“That’s great news for us.” He gently knocks Ace’s head with his water bottle. “Let’s keep it that way. Don’t do anything to spoil that.”

“Course he’s feeling good,” their teammate joins in with a sleazy grin. “He didn’t show up to lunch. Bet he was busy rawing one of the cheerleaders. Who do you think’s the lucky lady?”

“Hard to say. They’re all super hot. If I gotta guess, though, it’s probably the captain. I heard she got her nipples pierced recently. Bet that’s a sight,” another interjects.

“Post-sex adrenaline’s gotta be something else if you’re Floyd,” Ace mumbles. “I dunno what everyone sees in him.”

“Dude’s funny, good-looking, athletic… Not that hard to check the rest of the boxes when you’re him.”

“(Name) thinks he’s a dumbass. Her exact words were ‘an unfunny clown who flouts classroom etiquette and rules completely.’” Ace puts on an impression of your voice as he quotes that phrase.

“What? The teacher’s pet? I think I had class with her last semester. She’s cute.”

“Ew, gross!”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t fuck her stupid? Come on, man! The nerdy types are always freaks.”

Ace grimaces like the mere mention of you is going to infect him, but the blush on his face says otherwise. He’s picturing it.

“She’d be a perfect match with Rosehearts. Guy’s nuts for rules. She’s like a wet dream come to life for him.”

Ace punches his teammate. “Shaddup. She deserves better than that.” That last part is mumbled bitterly.

Jamil looks unenthused with this conversation. “Keep it down long enough to get through practice. Whatever you want to do after that is your own business.”

On the court, Floyd slams the ball through the net. It’s a flawless dunk.

Ace has to wonder: Does good pussy truly improve your performance on the court? 

Obscene moans spill from Floyd’s laptop. On the screen, folded into a mating press, a little scientist gets her brains fucked out by the monster she’s created. He’s laying on his stomach, fully immersed in the salacious scene and chewing on a lollipop stick. The lewd imagery reflects off his glasses.

Jade happens to glance at it from where he’s sat at his desk. It’s a hentai he’s seen before.

“You seem preoccupied.”

“Mhm.”

“I was under the impression you weren’t fond of the studious type.”

“Meh. I guess it’s fun in this one.” Floyd tracks the way the monster grinds his clawed thumb against the scientist’s clit. She squirts with a delighted squeal. It’s a fantastic visual. “You think they all wear those little lace two-pieces underneath their lab coats?”

“Who can say?”

“She’s got nothin’ in her head now, though.” Floyd pulls the stick from his mouth. His tongue curls around it. The scientist’s lab coat hangs off of her shoulder. Her tits look fuckable. Her whole body looks like the perfect canvas for dozens of bites, but there’s something missing. Something that just can’t be replicated from real life—obviously. It’s hentai and Floyd knows that. But… “Shrimpy’s not brainless like that.”

“Ah, so this is about (Name).”

Floyd doesn’t answer at first. He watches the woman’s stomach bulge, watches the way the monster’s cock slides in and out. The way they connect as if they were made for each other despite size and species.

“She smelled good today.”

“Humans often do.”

“This was a different smell. New Shrimpy smell… Sweeter. Comfortable. Like the smell of holidays on land.”

He remembers he caught a whiff of it when you met up to test various ingredients for the project. At the start, he assumed it was coming from the cauldron—the scent of some foreign mixture. But then you’d gotten closer to him, nearly pushed him out of the way in your impatience, and the smell hit him head-on.

“Perhaps a perfume?”

“Maybe.” He studies the table as it shudders from the force of the monster’s thrusts. He has the scientist’s legs pinned by her ears. She’s euphoric, mind melting and body burning. It’s almost chemical. “If it is, it’s a damn good perfume.”

There’s a spark of yearning in his chest, accompanied with a singular thought: I wanna be inside a little shrimpy scientist just like that.

Even if that means he’d be the monster.

Especially if that means he’d be the monster.

“I think it was comin’ from her benzene ring.”

“Her benzene ring?” Jade raises a brow, curious.

“I dunno… She just…seemed softer today. Like… Like talc.”

Jade struggles around a laugh. “Talc?”

“Yeah. On the hardness scale, it’s one of the softest minerals. You can scratch it with your nail. It’s real easy. That’s what she reminded me of.”

“Right. I’m aware. I just…wasn’t expecting that.”

“If she touched me, I’d be a ten on the scale.”

Plucking the moss ball from its container, held delicately between the tweezers, Jade lowers it into a glass terrarium. “What comedic chemical comparisons. You’d be a diamond, in that case.”

Floyd shuts his laptop just as the monster fills the scientist with copious amounts of thick, sticky cum. “Guess I would be.”

“Are you going to see her?”

In an indirect way, yeah.

He drags a small bag out from under his bed. “Nah. She said she’s gonna wring me out if I don’t figure out what kinda potion we’re making. Think I’ll procrastinate on that a little more. See how far it gets me.”

His brother chuckles. “Good luck.”

Floyd grins and shuts the door behind him. He beelines for the showers, not wasting a single second running hot water and stripping down. He fucks you in that cubic shower stall—or part of you. The synthetic part, anyway. The part he’s named after you because who else would he want curled around his cock and coming undone like in hentai? Forums say an onahole can’t compare to the real thing, but then of course it couldn’t. Just in the same way cotton velour can’t compare to silk velvet. Floyd would know that and he’s never had real pussy before. 

In the back of his mind, just as he spills his load inside for the third time, he thinks he’d taste that same smell he caught today if he parted your legs and dove in.

Maybe you’d squirm just like the little scientist beneath her beloved monster.

Ostensibly, you’ve made progress.

The molten mixture in the cauldron looks promising. A small amount is scooped up in the beaker for further study. It looks like liquid gold and smells overwhelmingly like a confectionery. You set it down on the table and peel your gloves off.

“I’m gonna try it once it’s cooled.”

Floyd shakes his head. “I’ll do it.”

“I’m the one who mixed it.”

“What if it kills you?”

“Then I die a genius.”

Floyd whistles. “Big words for Shrimpy.”

“It’s only right that I take responsibility for… Actually, if it does incapacitate me somehow, the project might not get done and we need someone with a functioning brain to complete the task… Floyd!”

He stands rigidly at attention, saluting you as if you’re a drill sergeant.

“Drink this and let me study its effect on you.” You pass the beaker to him while poring over your notes. “The color looks correct, the fragrance is fine, albeit a little stronger than normal, and it’s completely opaque. This has to be it!”

Floyd tilts the sample. The glittering liquid sloshes around. “What’s it supposed to be?”

“If I’m correct, which I’m certain I am, this is a mood stabilizer of some sort. The mushroom I got from Jade is supposedly hallucinogenic.”

Floyd cringes. “Yuck.”

“You don’t have to drink it if you aren’t sure, but I’m very positive that’s what it is. A mood stabilizer meant to boost a mage’s happiness.”

“We don’t gotta use magic for that. Can’t ya just go outside and lay in the sun if ya wanna be happy?”

“I don’t know,” you say, exasperated. “We added the salt from your list, and you suggested adding sunflower. Maybe this’ll work.”

“I dunno, Shrimpy.” Floyd sniffs it and draws back. “Are mood stabilizers supposed to smell this strong? If this is supposed to make me happy, the smell’s not doin’ it for me.”

“It’ll be fine. You don’t have to drink the whole thing. Look, right here. The book clearly lists the same ingredients we used, and we followed the same brewing and mixing process.”

“If Shrimpy thinks so…”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Floyd downs the sample in a single gulp. You watch him with a scientific sort of fascination and wonder just how many parties he’s had to go to to master that trick.

“Done,” he mutters gravelly, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“How’d it taste? According to the book, it’s supposed to taste flowery with a hint of salt.”

“Tastes fresh. Like peppermint.”

“Peppermint?” you echo, bewildered. “No… No, that’s not right. It shouldn’t.”

Immediately, you consult the book again.

Floyd squints blindly at the words from where he sits beside you, his elbow propped on the table. “Didn’t we also add nettle leaf?”

“What? No. The recipe didn’t call for—” You round on him just then. “Did you slip something in?”

He shrugs. “It was lookin’ like a boring potion anyways. Thought it’d be more fun this way.”

You lower your head onto the open book and groan into the pages. “Not even magic can replicate the amount of stupidity you’ve just showcased.”

“Hey, I’m just following the pattern. You said those things had medicinal properties, so I thought nettle leaf would fit in with that.”

“So then what did we make?” You lift your head to look at him. “Do you feel any happier? Any symptoms?”

“All the same over here.”

“So now we’re back to where we began…” You slap his hand away when he reaches for a clean vial. “Hands off. Let me do it.”

“C’mon. I wanna help. Lemme help.”

“Are you trying to get us kicked out of the lab? If something explodes, Professor Crewel’ll be on our asses in no time.”

Floyd rolls his eyes, but he obeys.

“Okay. Fresh start. Clean slate. If we follow the same recipe using the ingredients on our list… Hmm.”

You retrieve your notebook and open to a fresh page to begin jotting down ideas.

What am I missing?

“These are the ones with medicinal properties, but then psilocybin can also imply…” Your pen flies across the page as you work to construct a new mixture. “So maybe, if we’re using these things, it might work. And then… Sapphire is commonly associated with romance and truth… A potion that makes you speak the truth? Ah, but there’s also luck and healing… Is that it? Taking into account the mushroom… No, there’s also the red clover, butterfly wings, and the kiss. Oh, the kiss! We didn’t add that.”

You dig through your bag for lipstick and set it on the table. “The kiss of someone charmed or cursed. If it’s someone cursed, we can assume the potion will then have ingredients meant to reverse said curse. If they’re charmed…”

Unable to make a concise deduction, you deflate against your chair. This would be so much simpler if Floyd hadn’t lost his instructions!

Speaking of your lab partner, he’s been eerily quiet. You glance at him and find he’s looking right back, unfalteringly focused. That’s new for Floyd Leech.

“What’s wrong?”

Floyd blinks slowly, as if he’s thawing from a case of ice. His pupils are impossibly wide, so much so they’re like two black voids. And then he jerks away, his cheeks hot with a fierce, crimson blush. You watch him fidget in his seat. For once, he isn’t the silver-tongued, smart-mouthed jock who oozes confidence from his pores. Right now, he looks uncomfortable and awkward. Like a boy who’s just held hands with his crush for the first time.

“N-Nothing.”

You sigh. “It’s not ‘nothing’. It’s obviously something. What’s wrong?” You lean closer, scrutinizing his sweaty face. “Do you feel sick? Are you about to vomit? Are you running a fever?”

He smacks your arm away when you reach to feel his forehead. And then he coughs out an odd laugh. It’s unlike any sound you’ve ever heard him make. “How about let’s not…do…that?” His gaze darts to your chest and then your skirt and then your stocking-clad legs.

You understand his thoughts at once.

“Oh, grow up. I’m trying to check if you’re chemically, physically, and mentally stable.”

“I know that. S’just…” He swallows thickly. “K-Kinda hard…to focus.”

You spot the strain in his uniform slacks and then the sweat that beads at his brow. There’s a glaze to his two-toned eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Ah, I understand. We’ve mixed a common aphrodisiac.” Turning away from him, you flip a few pages in your textbook. “Let’s see… Red clover is supposedly good with fertility and then the mushroom increases the effect of the afflicted’s most potent desires, and then the nettle leaf has nutrients that support reproductive health. The other stuff we added either balances the mixture or makes it stronger.” You peer into the cauldron next. “The color matches that in the book and so does the smell. It says nothing about peppermint, though. How peculiar…”

“So… So was that it?” Floyd rests his head on the table and inhales a shaky breath. “We got it right?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“We’ll keep trying. For now, you should drink some water. It says the effect shouldn’t last longer than an hour. Of course, if we wanted to save time, you could just ejaculate and then it should be out of your system. Otherwise, you’ll just have to let it wear off. Kinda like when you’re drunk.”

Floyd grits his teeth. “Sounds real fun.”

You frown. “Sorry. I… Maybe I should’ve taken it.”

“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Better me than you.”

“Hm.” You flip a few pages in the textbook. “We have limited resources, so I’m afraid I can’t brew a cure. We either wait it out or I help you.”

Floyd’s head snaps up from the table. “You… You’re gonna help me?”

“I need someone to reach the top shelves. Can’t do that when he’s doubled over with a hard-on.”

Floyd bites the inside of his cheek.

“Here. Sit up and relax.” Your hand ghosts over his crotch. He does the opposite of relax. In fact, he tenses so badly you think he’ll become a statue.

“A-Are you sure you wanna…?”

“I don’t see what the issue is. You’ve probably gotten way better from other girls. Just bear with it for now.”

“S’not that…” he trails off, staring at your throat as it bobs with your every swallow. “W-Whatever. Go ahead…”

“If you get my lab coat dirty, I’ll kill you.”

Floyd’s chest rumbles with a delirious laugh. He makes quick work of undoing the button and zip on his slacks and then, very clumsily, he fishes his cock out of his boxers. You notice they’re patterned with polka dots and little cartoon eels. It’s not the sort of underwear that’d pop into your mind when you imagine the sex-addicted jock everyone in the school lusts after.

With a swish of your magic pen, the lab door shuts and locks. You rifle through your bag to procure a small jar of aloe vera. Floyd watches you intensely, his gaze never wavering.

Unscrewing the lid, you dip your fingers into the gel. 

“We can make good use of this,” you say conversationally as you wrap your slick hand around his achingly hard cock. Floyd bristles and sucks in air through his teeth. “Moray semen could be used in a potion of some sort. I’d like to test it sometime.”

He stares at you, absolutely mystified. It’s then when Floyd realizes he’s misjudged you entirely. You’re more than a Teacher’s Pet. In fact, you’re his exact type. Better than any girl he’s ever seen in hentai.

His cock throbs under your touch. Your hand is warm and soft against his shaft. It moves up and down in a hypnotizing rhythm, and suddenly there’s no other place in the world he’d rather be than right here at your side, led closer and closer to the ledge by your hand alone. You don’t spare him another glance, returning your attention to the book. You pick up your pen with your free hand and, like a real scientist unbothered by external variables, you’re back to working in your own little world.

In an effort to provide a modicum of support, Floyd squints through glazed eyes. “C-Can’t you… Fuck.” He bows his head and bites down hard on his lip. Blood pools to the surface. He tastes it on his tongue. “Move the page closer?”

“You can’t read it?”

Floyd opens and closes his mouth. “Can’t see it. S’all blurry.”

This draws your gaze. He struggles to pick an area of your face to look at. Either way, every inch of you is pretty. Even that perplexed expression sets his body aflame—or maybe that’s the work of the aphrodisiac. He’s not sure. He doesn’t care much either way. You may as well be more mighty than the spell itself, for it’s left his cock weeping pre-cum in your fist.

“What do you mean?”

“I normally wear contacts. Morays have shitty eyesight,” he explains, hissing when you squeeze him experimentally. He proceeds with caution. “But I lost ’em a while back. I’ve got glasses as a back-up.”

“So why don’t you wear them? Don’t tell me you lost those, too.”

Floyd lifts his shoulders. He should—he really should—but he’s learned to function with bad vision ever since he first lost his contacts. “Don’t feel like it.”

“That’s foolish. You should wear your glasses. Then you won’t have to struggle so much.”

Floyd aims for flirty. “Ooh, so Shrimpy wants to see what I look like in glasses?” 

“I think you’d enjoy being able to see clearly more than my own curiosity.”

And he falls embarrassingly flat.

You resume your scribbling. He doesn’t say anything else, choosing to brace himself against the table with a grip so tight it whitens his knuckles and tenses the muscles in his hands. He’s panting like he’s just finished a grueling workout. Rather than sounds of exhaustion, though, they’re more like great gulps of air as he struggles to keep his composure. He’s a merman; they don’t possess wings, but he certainly feels like he’s flying in this moment, caught up in the clouds with his crush.

It’s better than any fantasy he’s ever conjured—better than any hentai—and you’re oblivious to it.

“That’s it! I’ve figured it out!”

You squeeze his length tightly. And that’s all it takes to rocket him up into outer space. He inhales sharply, squeezes his eyes shut, and hangs his head when he cums. It’s messy and sticky, but that doesn’t deter you in the slightest. Mercifully allowing him to ride out his wave, you continue to slowly pump him. Pearly cum drools from his tip.

“Mm, s’great… Good job. Knew you could do it,” he mutters, dazed and dumb.

The pounding of his heart is incessant like the buzz of cicadas in summer. Did that really just happen?

But then you do the unthinkable, and for a single second he thinks he’s still sitting in his room, hunched over his laptop and watching hentai.

Like a succubus, you clean his cum from your fingers in just a few licks. He tracks your tongue the entire time. Did that really just happen?

“It’s either a love potion, a remedy of some sort, or a type of transformation potion. One of these three��I’m sure of it! We’ll spend next week testing each one, so be ready.” You toss your head back and drink from your water bottle, unfazed. It’s both the coolest and hottest thing he’s ever seen. “Does that sound good to you, Floyd?” 

There’s a determined fire blazing in your eyes. He smiles dreamily.

“Anything for Shrimpy.”

You match his energy with a joyous giggle. “Thanks for your hard work, Floyd!”

He wants to ask, but he stops himself. Is it so wrong to want you to experiment some more on him?

Maybe that’s asking too much.

“Floyd, you were a monster out there!”

He wipes the sweat from his face and neck and then turns to look at the few teammates who’ve crowded around him.

“Wasn’t a big deal. I just played like I normally do.”

“Uh, it kinda was, though!” Ace says, pushing through the throng. “You actually managed to stay in the game!”

“And we scored more than we usually do!”

“Impressive work,” Jamil adds from where he sits on a nearby bench, tightening his laces.

“What’s your secret? Didja get laid before the game?”

“You totally did, right? Who was it? You gotta hook me up, man!”

“What? No way! Send her my way.”

Floyd gazes at all of them, wondering what in the deep, blue sea they’re prattling on about. He’s only just tuned in on today’s locker room gossip. His head has been in the clouds ever since his last meeting with you. The feeling is fuzzy, snug like a duvet fresh from the dryer.

“You wanna know my secret?” he asks, leering at the lot of them. The difference in height makes this possible, and he takes full advantage of it.

Some of them shrink back, but the few emboldened teammates inch closer.

“Ya can’t have her. She’s all mine.”

“No way. You’re actually serious with this one? Who is it?”

“Bet it’s the cheer captain.”

“Dude, my money’s on the hottie from Magic History.”

“What do you think, Jamil?”

“Does it really matter?” he asks, his tone monotonous.

“It does! No fair Floyd gets good luck pussy while we’re all stranded over here.”

Floyd can’t understand humans sometimes. Why would I share my Shrimpy hole with these small fry? That’s all for me.

Because the team was definitely referring to his sex toy, right?

Surprisingly, Floyd’s waiting for you in the lab when you poke your head inside. He has everything laid out, and he’s even started working on some of the formulas to ensure a successful brew.

And this time he’s wearing his glasses.

You almost don’t want to break his focus, but he senses your presence and glances your way before you can duck out.

“Oh, hey. Sorry for interrupting.”

“S’all good.”

“Were you waiting long? I was a little caught up.”

You recall your chat with Riddle, who told you he already solved the missing ingredient with Azul, and wince. You’re certain you would’ve been in that same position if not for Floyd’s carelessness.

“Nah.”

Heaving a relieved sigh, you venture deeper into the room and deposit your bag on the nearest chair.

“What have you been doing?”

“Brainstorming. Directions said we gotta seal it with wax afterwards. I only know a few potions that call for seals. Most of ’em are either super volatile, dangerous, or need time to ferment.”

“So you’re thinking…?”

“Maybe it really is a love potion. We were kinda on the right track last time. We just gotta figure out what we need to subtract and add to get it right.”

Taken aback by his initiative, you nod mechanically. “And we still need the kiss.”

“And we still need the kiss,” he affirms.

“Then what’re we missing? There’s salt, red clover, sapphire, the Pluteus villosus, and the butterfly wings.” You shuffle over to him and glance at his notes. “Oh, you’ve broken down the chemical components of each of these. Wow…”

“It’s not that hard.”

You bite your tongue. It was hard when I was learning it…

“So what about the kiss?”

“I’ll do it.”

“But you’re not cursed.”

Floyd smiles at his textbook. “Not cursed.”

“If you insist… If it gives you a hard-on again, I’m not helping you.”

“Aww. So mean. And I thought you wanted a li’l sample of moray for your next experiment.”

You elbow him harshly, to which he laughs. Observing Floyd as he is now, you begin to regret your original assessment of him. It was rather scathing.

I was wrong about him. He’s not the Dumb Jock.

“Do you want to pursue something in science after you graduate?”

“Not really. I think it’s interesting, yeah, but not enough to wanna shape my whole life around it. Y’know?”

“Ah.”

“I kinda wanna design stuff. Crewel’s been givin’ me pointers.”

“Design? As in, fashion design?” You furrow your brow. “Huh. I never would’ve guessed.”

“What about you? Bet Shrimpy’s got an entire life plan laid out. Super responsible-like.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you say, laughing woodenly. “I have a general idea.”

“Yeah?” Floyd grabs a vial from off the shelf and empties the contents into the cauldron. The silver liquid bubbles as it’s stirred in. “I’m sure you’ll do it—whatever it is you wanna do. You’re smart.”

“Thanks…”

He beams and tosses the rest of the measured ingredients in. You’re content to watch him, trusting in his judgment. When it comes time for the kiss, he gestures to your bag.

“You still have that lipstick you always carry around?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Put some on me and then hold up that blank sheet there.”

“Are you sure that’s going to work?”

“Maybe.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing…”

Still, you retrieve the tube and apply it to Floyd’s lips. This proximity gives him the chance to admire you up-close while you focus on his lips. He smacks them twice to make sure they’re coated properly and then, while you’re holding up the clean parchment, leans in. When he pulls back, there’s a ruby-red lipstick mark where there wasn’t before.

Using magic, Floyd then extracts the print. You watch in awe as it’s dissolved in the solution. Vibrancy explodes within the cauldron, turning silver into plumeria-pink.

“Whoa…”

Floyd passes you a wooden paddle. You take it from him and dip it into the cauldron. As you stir in time with Floyd, listening to him mutter the enchantment, you think back on the past few weeks. 

I’ve had such a narrow-minded view of him this entire time, and yet here he is proving all of my misguided opinions incorrect.

“Did you ever figure out the missing components?”

“Mhm. My list had salt, honey, and peppermint.”

“How’d you know it was those two?”

“Cuz honey’s sweet and peppermint’s refreshing. Two feelings you experience when you’re in love. And that’s what it called for according to an older recipe. I found it in the library.”

“You actually did research on your own time?”

“Well, I don’t wanna fail.”

“And here I thought I was losing brain cells having you as my lab partner.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry. I… I shouldn’t have thought that. I know better now.”

“Doesn’t bother me. Sides, I got to see a whole new side of Shrimpy, so it works out.”

“A whole new side?”

“Ooh, you wanna know the secret ingredient? The one we were supposed to find.”

“I do! What was it?”

“Cacao beans.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Pretty cool, right? The perfect love potion is all about bittersweetness.”

“I get it. So the mushroom completely blindsides and fools the afflicted into thinking they’re in love. It’s all hallucinogenic. Sapphire enhances that effect, and red clover stabilizes it. Honey makes it sweet. The butterfly wings contribute to that fluttery feeling in your stomach shortly after you’ve ingested it. Peppermint adds a refreshing aftertaste. Yes, of course! It all makes sense.”

“And salt flavors it. Sorta.”

“What a complicated mixture.”

“Was a real pain tryin’ to get the order correct, especially when the recipe’s written in old runes.”

You and Floyd stare into the bubbling cauldron. It smells just as it should. It looks just as it should. Without a doubt, it’s a perfect product.

“At least we did it. I’m so ready to wipe my hands of this project.”

“Took the words right outta my mouth.”

Just as instructed, you and Floyd bottle it. Next, you light a candle and pour wax over the cork. For extra flourish, you tie a ribbon around the neck of the bottle. You hold it up to the light to check its transparency, or lack thereof. It’s an impenetrable pink—just like in the textbook. A beautiful success if you’ve ever seen one.

“Now all that’s left is to turn this in to Professor Crewel and wait for his analysis.” You set the bottle down. “Good work, Floyd.”

He preens under your praise. “It was nothin’. Thanks for all the help, Shrimpy.”

Mirroring each other’s giddiness, the both of you bump fists.

Floyd lies on his back, his arm raised to the ceiling. He flexes his fingers absently and recalls the feeling of your hand on his skin. 

Did that mean anything, or was that just a standard chemical reaction?

“Perhaps you ought to illustrate the way you feel using symbols on the periodic table.”

Floyd glares at his brother from across the room. Once again, he’s sat at his desk, carefully arranging the plant life in a new terrarium.

“That’s way too lame.”

“Really? I find it to be rather creative.”

“I’m not a loser.”

“Your earlier comparisons made me think otherwise.”

He’s overcome with the strongest urge to knock Jade’s teeth out of his mouth. Exercising a mere sliver of restraint, Floyd turns over on his side and hugs his body pillow against his chest. There’s a magical girl dressed in a frilly outfit printed on it, smiling brightly as she holds her magical staff up to vanquish evil. Most nights, as he often does with many personal belongings that fill the emptiness in his heart, he pretends it’s you.

“You’re talking a lot for someone who’d be better off without his tongue…”

“How harsh. And here I was willing to offer advice to my dear, troubled brother.”

“You can stuff it. I don’t want your advice.”

He turns his back on Jade and huffs, which earns him a chuckle.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything after all.

He buries his face in the pillow. Hentai makes it look so simple, but love itself is just another convoluted chemical reaction. It’s even more so under the sea.

Floyd shuts his eyes.

I guess this means we won’t see each other during lunch anymore…

Professor Crewel has graced you and Floyd with a passing grade. You expected this, so it isn’t a very jarring shock, but it’s still pleasant nonetheless.

“I knew you’d pass!” Deuce says as you walk between him and Ace, proudly flashing the graded assignment sheet. “To think you managed it even with a guy like Floyd…”

“He’s not so bad.”

“What’s this? A dramatic change of heart?” Ace pokes and prods, standing so close you can smell his cologne.

You roll your eyes. “He wasn’t a total pain. It was quite nice, actually.”

“You sure that’s all that happened? I heard you were skipping lunch with him…”

“To do the project—”

“So she could get the project done, dumbass,” Deuce speaks over you. “Besides, Floyd’s not (Name)’s type.”

“Hey, how come I’ve never heard about this type?”

“Does it really matter what my type is?”

“Yeah, it does! I gotta see if you have good taste. Us guys can be so terrible, y’know. Total slobs. Gotta make sure my (Name) keeps her eyes on the good ones.”

You slap his arm lightly. “And you’re definitely not one of them, wearing that cheap, casanova cologne!”

Ace sputters, his cheeks tinged pink. “Y-You just can’t recognize greatness when you smell it!”

Deuce snickers. “Greatness that costs fifty-percent off.”

“So now I’m lame for wanting to save money? Geez. You’re assholes.”

Giggling, you wrap your arms around the both of them and pull them in close. “It’s done out of love.”

“Gimme a break.” Ace groans.

Your little trio carries on down the hall, ignorant to the rest of the students who pass you by.

Floyd looks up, his ears pricking. He smells you before he hears you. It’s not the same, nor is it as strong as the sticky-sweet scent from before, but it’s still enticing in its own right.

“You should talk to her,” Jade encourages, following his line of sight. “Invite her to this year’s Wintertide. I’m sure she’ll consider it, at the very least.”

Floyd narrows his eyes. “My odds ain’t zero.”

“They aren’t one-hundred either.”

Jade speaks like he doesn’t value his teeth. But it’s all intentional. He’ll push and push until Floyd stumbles out of his cowardly mold. Maybe one day.

‘One day’ is so vague, but it isn’t without hope.

After all, you’re an alkali metal and he’s the water who’ll cradle explosive, enchanting you. And where there’s water, there’s sure to be a reaction.

His feet carry him away from Jade and towards you. He descends like a spontaneous tempest. Ace and Deuce flinch back in surprise when he all but squeezes between the three of you.

“Shrimpy!”

And this time you look at him with a bright grin—not the scalding vexation you’d first leveled him with.

“Floyd!”

It’s deliciously chemical.

[venus-haze]

Brother's Keeper (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: You’re Vincent’s. You have been since you ended up in Ambrose. Bo decides it’s time to make an exception.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Please read the warnings before deciding whether you want to read. Before anyone asks, I’m already planning a Vincent-centric follow-up. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Extremely dubious consent since reader is Vincent’s captive, elements of Stockholm syndrome, sadism (mentioned in reference to Vincent but also Bo to the reader), dacryphilia, slapping, blood, mommy kink, overstimulation, I guess cheating? There’s a lot going on in this. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Even though your eyes were closed, you knew the man coming down the stairs wasn’t Vincent. He’d wordlessly disappeared up them about an hour earlier, no indication of where he was going or when he’d return. Unusual that he’d be gone for so long and not leave you a note with a vague idea of what was going on. Maybe it was urgent.

You hadn’t seen Bo in a while, though you’d certainly heard him plenty of times. While Vincent had a knack for slinking around like a cat, Bo reminded you of a wolf, howling loud with his razor sharp teeth on display. All the better to eat you with. You had the feeling that if he’d gotten to you first, he would have taken up hunting you for sport.

You sat up, blinking your eyes open. They didn’t need  to adjust to the dim lighting anymore. The last time Vincent had brought you upstairs for the shower you begged for (and now felt long overdue for another), you were dismayed to find the bright lights stung your eyes. You asked him to just turn off the lights altogether. The longer you spent there in his studio—lair, as you’d come to personally refer to it—with him, the more like him you were becoming, slowly but surely made in his image. 

Bo’s eyes were dark in the basement where Vincent kept you and all of his other art supplies. For the longest time, you thought his eyes, and, in turn, Vincent’s, were brown. Instead, they were a raging, stormy blue that threatened to drown you in their depths if you stared too long. 

“You just sleep all day, huh? Leave us to do all the work?” There was a joking lilt to his accusatory tone.

Though you knew better than to protest, you desperately wanted to. Being Vincent’s muse was unforgiving work. You were available to him at all times, posed and molded and used whenever he felt so inclined. Your body had been the victim of several bouts of artist’s block, bearing the scars of his frustration and inspiration. Most of them were due to candle wax burns.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

Bo’s eyes raked over your body, nearly nude save for the thin t-shirt and athletic shorts that barely reached your mid-thigh. Humiliation coursed through you when Vincent first presented you with the clothing, your size, taken from someone who was too dead to miss them, probably. The first clean clothes you had since he first imprisoned you. You soon found it to be the best choice with how hot it could get in his lair when he was working. Practical until that moment, when it left you exposed to Bo’s hunger for a handful of flesh.

“You look good. Vincent always took better care of his toys than I did,” Bo said with a grin, his tone eerily playful. “Mama said I was too rough.”

The chain around your ankle rattled as Bo pushed you back onto the bed. Less restraints than when you’d first been brought there, but you couldn’t parse a rhyme or reason as to what compelled Vincent to grant you these minute freedoms. 

“Please don’t,” you whispered. “He’ll know.” He knows everything. 

Whether you were easy to read or he was just observant, you had slowly convinced yourself Vincent was omniscient. Your captor was an otherworldly entity, aloof and removed from the messy emotions that you and the other poor, unfortunate souls who found yourselves in his lair were burdened with. He moved coolly, without care, without remorse. 

If Vincent were merely a man, what little bit of sanity you were clinging to would unravel. A man was vulnerable, conquerable, real. Like Bo. Brash and impulsive to contrast his twin. He unsettled you more than your silent captor. After god knows how long of being met with Vincent’s cold, emotionless wax face, the way Bo’s shifted with each mood, each thought, left you feeling overwhelmed. 

“Vince and me shared a lot growin’ up. He won’t mind,” he said, the alcohol on his breath burning your nostrils. 

His lips parted with the intention to devour, like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow you whole. You wondered how long he’d been drinking, how long Vincent would be gone for, how long Bo had wanted to do this. Bo wouldn’t kill you, but you knew he didn’t care if you were in one piece. He growled against your mouth, his lips bullying yours into kissing him back.

Satisfied with your reluctant return of affection, his attention turned elsewhere. Coarse hands slid up your shirt, roughly massaging your breasts. He pinched your nipples, eliciting a pained moan from you that only reached his mouth. Upon feeling his lips upturn, a siren went off in your mind. So used to blindly vying for the approval of your unknowable captor, you shouldn’t know he’s enjoying this.

He broke the kiss to pull your shirt over your head. Wasting no time, he latched his lips to one of your nipples while his hand attended to the other one. His teeth tugged at your nipple almost experimentally before biting down a bit harder. 

Tears blurred your vision. Where the hell was Vincent? You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the sound of him walking purposefully across the floorboards above. Instead, you were met with silence and the sound of your own whimpering.

You released a breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding when Bo finally released your nipple from his mouth. He landed harsh slaps to each of your breasts, especially painful on the sensitive one he’d been—nursing on? Torturing was more like it.

A mean snarl had made its home on his face, reveling in your suffering at his hands. Rounding his arm back, his palm smacked against your cheek. And then it did again. And again. And again.

You could feel your lip split, your wailing echoing through the basement. He’ll know. Maybe that was what Bo wanted, because the slapping soon stopped.

“That’s it. Gimme those tears, mama,” he cooed, brushing his thumb against the wound he inflicted. He collected the blood that beaded at your lips and brought his finger to his mouth, sucking it clean.

Your brain felt fuzzy. Even worse, you could feel his words going straight to your pussy as it clenched around nothing but air.

“You cry this pretty for Vincent? Or just me?”

“J-Just you.”

He grinned. “Don’t I feel special.”

He slapped you one more time for good measure, harder than he had before. Your arms flew up to shield your face from further damage. His hands moved down your body instead, pulling your shorts down to your ankles. 

Suddenly, you didn’t feel his hands on your at all, and you glanced down to see what’d given him pause. His gaze was fixed on your upper thigh where Vincent had neatly and painfully carved his initials into your flesh some time prior, long enough for the mark to scar over. Bo glanced at you, expression unreadable for a split second wherein you felt some relief. 

His face soon betrayed his anger, and you felt your stomach drop upon hearing him unbuckle his belt. He then unzipped his jeans, pulling them and his underwear down to free his hard cock. There was no warning, no preparation as he pushed his length inside you. While the encounter hadn’t been about your pleasure in the first place, you realized with the pain between your legs that it’d turned into a punishment, and there was little you could do but lay back and take it.

“Lookit you, ‘bout to leave a wet spot in the fuckin’ mattress,” he mocked. “You’re a natural cockslut, ain’t you, mama?”

You earned another smack across the face for your silence.

“You answer me when I talk to you.”

“I’m a cockslut,” you forced out.

He groaned as tears rolled down your swollen cheeks. Still, his stamina proved to be more than you could handle, because your calves started to ache from flexing while being painfully close to orgasm. You choked out a sob, his pace relentless as he pounded into you. The metal bedframe clanged against the wall, a loud and ugly noise that made your skin crawl. It was as if he knew exactly what to do to make you feel like you were losing your mind.

“Gonna make you cum, mama. Leave you dreamin’ ‘bout my dick.” His words slurred together, probably from exerting so much energy in his intoxicated state.

You responded with a moan that sounded foreign coming from you. It was good enough for him, because he didn’t slap you this time, instead bringing his hand to your clit. His calloused fingers rubbed the sensitive bundle of nerves, and you grabbed his forearms for leverage.

“Know you’re close, way your pussy’s squeezin’ my dick. Wanna take it all, huh?”

“Wanna cum,” you moaned.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then, cum,” he said, slapping your clit so hard you almost swore you saw stars. 

Your hips bucked, and your orgasm blazed white-hot through your body, fire engulfing your muscles as they constricted, black spots hazing your vision. You thought you were going to pass out. Vincent had brought you to that point before, thought it was usually from pain rather than the pleasure that overwhelmed you. 

Bo chased his own release, thrusts becoming sloppy as he got closer. “Fuckin’ whore, cum all over my cock like this.”

He finally bottomed out inside you. Your pussy clenched around his throbbing cock as he came, filling you with his cum. Cursing under his breath, he made eye contact with you, a lazy smirk spreading across his face.

He pulled out of you, licking his lips upon seeing his cum leak from your pussy onto the mattress beneath you. Physical evidence that he’d laid claim to you. The grown-up version of him messing with his brother’s toy. He was right about that much, at the end of the day, that’s what you were, biding your time until Vincent grew bored of you and moved onto something shiny and new.

Staring at the ceiling, you let out a shaky breath when you heard the sound of his pants zipper and then his belt buckle. There was no point in you pulling your flimsy articles of clothing back on. You jolted when he grabbed your unchained ankle.

“Thanks for the taste, darlin’,” he said with a wink, as if it were something you’d flirtingly suggested, a playful secret between the two of you.

After a few moments of silence, he disappeared upstairs unceremoniously. You listened to the sound of his heavy footfall until it became inaudible. The faint sound of a truck engine revving made you relax a bit. He was gone.

You laid motionless in the bed until Vincent finally returned, and it took everything in you not to scream at him. Where the fuck were you? He began walking toward you, freezing in place before rushing to your side. He knew. Your lip trembled at his concern. It wasn’t for your well-being as a person, you knew that much, but because you were his. His muse. His living, ongoing art piece. 

He touched your shoulder tentatively, and you avoided making eye contact with his mask. Were you angry? Or ashamed? 

His fingers moved to brush his initials in your skin. 

“He didn’t care,” you whispered.

You hissed when his fingers dug into your thigh. He moved his other hand, signing, “It won’t happen again.”

You scoffed. No acknowledgement he fucked up. No apology. You should’ve known better to expect that much from Vincent. The half-assed promise was the closest you’d get. Part of you hated yourself for finding some comfort in the cold familiarity of his emotional distance.

Vincent looked at you, his blue eye staring down yours, a whirlpool threatening to drag you into its depth until you closed your eyes. You heard a light rustling, but nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of his scarred lips pressing gently against your forehead. The tenderness was a momentary reprieve, as you felt him lift his hand from your thigh. You heard him walk a few feet away, the metal stool he favored scraping against the concrete. Feigning sleep, you waited for him to join you in bed.

[princessmisery666]

Live In My Memory, You'll Always Be There.

Summary: Not long after moving to San Diego with your fiancé, Jake, he’s declared missing in action. The Dagger Squad rallies around you as you grieve his loss, and you grow closer to one particular member of the team than you ever imagined.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: angst, character death mentioned, grief, fluff, unexpected love, smut, loss of parents (mentioned).  

W/C: 6.3k - too many to be the drabble it was supposed to be. 

Characters: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw, Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin, female reader (no use of Y/N), Dagger Squad.

Pairing: Rooster x female reader (you - no use of Y/N, no descriptions of body type or ethnicity). Hangman x female reader.

Notes: No use of Y/N, but the reader has nicknames. Inspired by Pearl Harbor. 

A/N: @justagirlinafandomworld sent me the title for the made-up fic titles. Thank you!!

Betas: the wonderful @deanwinchesterswitch // all mistakes are mine.

Graphics: made by me.

Master Lists: Top Gun Maverick // All The Fandoms

Live in My Memory, You'll Always Be There

A bang stirs Bradley from his sleep, but he doesn’t move, unsure if he’s dreaming. A growl of thunder rumbles in the distance, and he wonders if that’s what woke him.

He rolls onto his back, pushing the sheet down to his waist, seeking the cooler air of the room.

A second louder knock sounds. He jumps from his bed and rushes out of the room as the rain grows heavier, pelting the windows.

It can’t be work-related. The navy would have called, not sent someone to get him.

He flicks on the light in the hallway, interrupting the urgent insistence of the third knock. Bradley scrambles to unlock the door, finally pulling it open as a flash of lighting breaks across the sky. 

You stand a few steps off his porch, rain-soaked clothes and hair clinging to your skin, but it doesn’t hide the agony behind your tears. 

“I …I,” you hiccup, chin shaking, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

The water dripping from you seems to drag your remaining strength with it, and your legs buckle. Bradley leaps toward you, but he’s too late. You're in a heap on the ground.

He cradles you, rocking back and forth while your throat-scratching roars of pain nearly rival the storm’s rage.

“They announced it,” you stutter, voice shaking, “officially declared it. Jake’s gone.”

Bradley doesn’t tell you it will be okay. He doesn’t promise you that one day it will be. It won’t ever be the same again.

No one truly understands loss until it happens to them. Jake’s officially been missing in action, declared dead, for six months. Search and rescue had found debris from his jet but no body. They made assumptions, but the truth was they had no idea. 

His family held a funeral, a coffin filled with memories. You couldn’t bring yourself to put your engagement ring beside the vinyl record of the song that became yours, the catalyst of your relationship. They’d buried the mementos, but you couldn’t bury him. Not completely.

It was a beautiful send-off, held in Fightertown, like Jake would have wanted, and Penny gracefully offered up The Hard Deck for the wake.

Jake was everywhere in that place, his name on top of all the scoreboards, pictures scattered around the walls from different occasions; birthdays, promotions, retirements, a Thanksgiving that he couldn’t make it home.

Jake had always said there was no family like a found family. But you hadn’t realized the depth of his words until recently. Understandably, you’ve been a wreck, inconsolable at times, but you’ve barely been alone since he’s been gone. The Dagger squad adopted you as one of their own, though they hadn’t known you very long before Jake’s untimely demise. 

You feel close to Jake here, but it is also suffocating, knowing the memories will never be added to, that the life you planned to live with him in San Diego is no more.

You leave his parents to be gracious hosts and find a quiet spot by the ocean. 

Is Jake still out there? Hurt and alone in some foreign land while people are reminiscing about him. It’s possible, right?

You hear his footsteps disrupting the sand before Rooster appears at your side, dropping to the ground next to you. You glance over to see his jacket open, shirt unbuttoned, and a slight glassy shine to his eyes. You’d seen him doing shots with Coyote earlier. If anyone feels the loss as much as you, it’s Coyote.

“Stupid question time,” Rooster sing-songs in a game-show host voice. “How you doin’?”

“Can I give you a stupid answer?” you ask. 

“As long as you give me a truthful one after,” he says, handing over his bottle of beer.

“Like I’m about to kill the next person who tells me Jake’s in a better place,” you admit, taking a drink.

“We all know Jake wasn’t the nicest guy.” Bradley says, nudging you with his shoulder, “Except when it comes to you. If he’s anywhere, he’s making plans with the Devil to open a flying school in Hell.”

Your unexpected laughter shoots beer out of your mouth. Rooster scolds you, “Hey, hey,” taking back the bottle, “don’t be wasting perfectly good alcohol, woman!”

You laugh together for a moment, and when it naturally teeters off, silence descends.

Bradley has been a constant for you in the weeks since Jake has been gone. He’s close friends with grief. He understands it more than most. You are old friends with it, too, having lost your parents, but you never felt like an orphan. Jake’s family treated you as one of their own.

“Can I ask you something?” Bradley asks, interrupting your thoughts as he shifts in the sand. 

“Another stupid question?”

He turns his head to look at you, and his expression is sobering. “A serious one,” he takes a deep breath, “why did you come to me that day? The day they announced it, why me?”

“Coyote was the one to break the news to me, to tell me Jake was missing in action. I think he felt like it was his duty, but he couldn’t face me after that.” You sigh at the memory, hurting just as much for Coyote as yourself. “I think he blamed himself because he was supposed to be with Jake that day, but his jet had some technical fault. The rest of you took turns to ensure I was never alone. Did you work out some kind of rota?”

He chuckles, confirming, “Phoenix’s idea.” 

“Fanboy and Payback tried to distract me with movies, tv shows, magazines, anything but talk about Jake. Bob and Phoenix kept me busy, made sure I was taking care of myself, and helped me with laundry, grocery shopping, and cooking. I guess you got the short straw because you were always on your own,” you laugh, trying to lighten the mood. 

He shakes his head, “I made sure it was just us. I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people and still feel alone. I wanted to save you from that.” 

“And you did. You are the only one who didn’t say stuff that you're supposed to say. You made jokes like the one you just made. You were honest and understanding. You asked me what I needed. Whenever I said nothing, you’d hug me and just let me be. That’s why most nights I cried myself to sleep on you.” 

He says nothing but shuffles over in the sand to put his arm around your shoulders.

You rest your head on him, “With you, I never had to put on a brave face and pretend I wasn’t delusional that I still had some hope he’d come back. I never had to fake it that I wasn’t angry at Jake for leaving me.”

“You never have to pretend anything with me,” he says, kissing your head gently.

It’s a beautiful balmy day. The Bronco is freshly washed and gleaming in the golden sunlight, a cooler full of snacks secured in the back. Bradley, being the seasoned road-tripper that he is, has created an award-worthy playlist. He won’t tell you anything about the surprise he has planned, but a smile has been plastered on his face since he knocked on your door. He’s singing along with the current tune and looks like something out of a beer commercial with his Aviators, bronzed skin, and slight sheen of sweat. 

You stop for lunch at a diner on the edge of the Mojave desert, and you laugh harder than you have for a long time when Bradley tells the story of his disastrous first date. The combined laughter and Bradley’s slight embarrassment help you ignore the flutter of nervous butterflies that vie for attention when a fleeting thought that perhaps, in another lifetime, this could be classified as a date and not just Rooster trying to distract you from the significance of the day's date.

The reminder makes you pause. Should you be laughing as much as you are when today should have been your wedding day? 

You drop your eyes from Bradley’s when he reaches across the table for your hand and squeezes it tightly. He must have seen the guilt you feel in your expression. “Jake would want you to be happy.”

“I know.” 

“Actually, he’d make some cocky comment about you settling for less ‘cause there’s no one like him,” Rooster rolls his eyes, “but he’d want you to be happy, not clinging onto the past.” 

You laugh, “Y’know, for someone who wasn’t Jake’s biggest fan, you sure know him pretty well.”

“I’m just observant,” Bradley defends with a jesting tone. “I wasn’t obsessed with him or anything.” 

“I mean, no one would blame you,” you laugh, “he was a good-looking guy.” 

The realization hits you like a slap to the face, and you abruptly cut off your laughter covering your mouth with your hand. You’d referred to Jake in the past tense.

You thought you still had a sliver of hope that Jake would return with that smug smile and a wild tale of survival. It was why you remained in Fightertown, or so you told yourself, but perhaps hope isn’t the only reason you have begun to think of San Diego as home. 

The sympathy in Bradley’s eyes makes your chest ache, and with a featherlight touch, he takes your hand again, stroking your finger, where until a few days ago, your engagement ring had lived. 

“You took it off,” he notices.

“It was time,” you say, feeling the sorrow wash through you, “at least I thought it was,” you shrug, smiling mirthlessly as a warm tear lands on your cheek. 

Smiling softly, Bradley swipes it away. “It doesn’t mean you stopped loving him, but the promises you were prepared to make don’t matter anymore now that he’s gone. You can’t keep holding onto a future you have no hope of living in. Believe me, I tried, and it kills you a little bit more each day.”

A day hasn’t passed that you haven’t thought about Jake, an unwanted memory resurfacing at the worst time, or a fantasy of a lost future playing out while you were supposed to be focused on something else. It happens when you least expect it. Like now, something creeps into your subconscious, and then it’s all you can hear - a song, the song that started your relationship with Jake. 

“Can we leave?” You ask, forcing a smile to your lips. 

Rooster watches you for a second and then shakes his head. “Running from it doesn’t help,” he says.

“This song,” you sigh, “is the reason me and Jake got together.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I can’t-” you choke, taking a breath in an attempt to stop the memory from playing out in your mind, but all it does is steal your ability to breathe. It’s too difficult to remember a time when Jake was so young, full of life, and had a future.

“Breeze,” Bradley soothes, gently lifting your head to meet his eyes. “Breathe with me.” He takes a deep breath, his chest puffing, and slowly releases it when you follow his lead. “Don’t run from it. Embrace it, feel it.”

If I lay here, if I just lay here. Would you lay with me and just forget the world - the song continues, and you take a second to let the emotion wash through you before you explain.

“I don’t know how much Jake told you, but me and his twin sister, Jules, were best friends. Still are.” you correct quickly. Just because you've lost Jake doesn't mean you’ve lost your family. “We lived across the street our whole lives, went to the same schools, then my parents died two weeks before I started college. I had to identify their bodies because we had no other family. Jules was with me the entire time. Before I even had a chance to figure out what would happen to me, the Seresins had already arranged for me to stay with them.”

“So you lived with Jake before you were together?” Rooster asks. “And you still dated him?” 

You laugh along with him. “It most certainly wasn’t love at first sight. But the first spring break of college, we saw each other again, and things kinda happened organically,” you explain, getting lost in the memory of how your relationship with Jake started.

It was soon to be Mrs. Seresin’s 50th birthday, and a party was to be had, much to the dismay of the older siblings. Jules and Jake had complained their first spring break should be spent letting loose with friends and doing what college kids do. Jacob Senior had given one stern speech, and no more complaints had been made.

The Seresin house was always a lively one. Returning from college for Spring Break, you’d expected nothing less. Except the place was dead silent when you left your room after your shower.

“Hello?” you call out, walking to the kitchen. 

A note on the island counter informs you that Jackie and Jacob were out finalizing party arrangements and then meeting friends for dinner. Jenny, the youngest Seresin, was at the mall and then going to a sleepover. You already knew Jules was with Harvey and not likely to be home until tomorrow, seeing as they hadn’t seen each other for a while. Jake was always coming and going, so you ignored his absence.

Peace and quiet were just what you needed. You had a paper due three days after spring break, and you weren’t about to leave it until the last minute and then stress about getting it done.

Bringing a snack and a soda to your room, you left the door open, letting the air flow through while you worked on your paper. You were in the thick of it, fingers flowing across your keyboard, feeling good about the words pouring onto the page.

“S’up, Jellybean.” 

“Geez, Jake!” you jumped, twisting in your chair with your hand over your heart. “Lurk much.”

He laughed, resting against the door frame. Winking, he said, “Though there are better ways to do it, I like getting your pulse racing.” 

His teasing was nothing new, but something in his demeanor pointed toward it being more than friendly banter. College had been good for him, mentally and physically. Being away from the tyrant that was Jacob Senior had done him the world of good. Though he never lacked self-assurance, he now radiated confidence. Well-defined muscles and bulkier physic were an obvious payoff of what must have been many hours in the gym. 

Your eyes dragged down his naked torso, watching as a bead of sweat trickled into the waistband of his shorts. You caught yourself before any drool escaped and feigned nonchalance rolling your eyes and turning back to your computer.

“Please tell me you're not studying!” He leaned over your shoulder, looking at your screen before you could reply. “You do know it’s Spring Break, right?”

“Some of us need to study,” you said, “we can’t all just wing it and still get top grades.” 

Jackie had bragged at dinner last night about Jake being top of his class like anyone had expected anything less.

“You're the smartest person I know,” he countered.

Something had changed. You felt the shift almost immediately upon seeing Jake for the first time in seven months after you’d arrived home. He’d been looking at you differently, like he was now, a softness to his eyes as if he’s trying to say more than his words. 

You cleared your throat and turned away. “With the company you keep, that’s not the compliment you think it is,” you chuckled. 

“Okay,” he laughed, “you got me there. I set the bar too low, but you know what I mean. You need to take a break, let loose, and have some fun.”

“I have fun,” you sneered, “when I don’t have a ten thousand-word essay due in less than two weeks.”

“Okay, you twisted my arm,” Jake said, “I’ll help you, but on one condition.” 

“I don’t need help.” 

He ignored you, turning on the radio and cranking the volume while Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol played. “Dance with me,” he said, taking your hand and guiding you out of the chair.

You followed to the middle of the room with minimal complaint and let him pull you into a dancer’s stance. “You're all sweaty,” you whined, feeling his sticky chest pressed against your thin tank top.

“Sorry,” he laughed but leaned closer to press his cheek to yours. “Went for a run before Dad could start in on the lectures.”

You felt for him. Nothing Jake ever did was good enough. “You know his Navy buddies are coming to the party, right?”

He sighed heavily as he swayed you both to the beat. “I know. I’ve been warned to be on my best behavior. He’s already got my future carved in stone.”

You'd been unsure how to help him, though you desperately wished you could. “It’s not all that bad. You’ll look good in dress whites.”

He spun you away from him, and an incredulous but teasing look cocked his brow. “Please, I will look amazing in dress whites.”

You rolled your eyes as he tugged you back in close and slipped his arms around your waist this time, and you wrapped yours around his neck. The dance continued in contemplative silence until the end of the song.

Still holding you, Jake pulled back to look into your eyes, an earnest vulnerability in his, “You’ll come to visit me wherever I end up, right?”

“Just try and stop me.” 

“After that, we pretty much spent the whole break together, just hanging out and talking, so obviously, my paper was late,” you remember, smiling fondly. “Then the same song came on at the party. He sought me out and took me to the dance floor. When the song finished, he kissed me for the first time in front of everyone.”

“Smooth bastard,” Rooster compliments. 

You laugh. “Jackie was ecstatic, practically in tears. She said everyone always knew we’d end up together.”

“And you did,” Bradley reminds you, “it may not have been the forever you planned on, but it was the time you had that counts, right?” 

You swipe the tears off your cheek, “Okay, enough sad stuff. I thought today was about forgetting.” 

“Damn it, my plan has been foiled.” he rolls his eyes as if it’s the most inconvenient thing but reaches over to catch another tear. “Was it at least working?”

“It was,” you say, “and I’m sure you can make me forget again.”

You pull into the hanger, and it becomes clear what the day's activity is. You take the hand Bradley offers to help you out of the Bronco, and he holds yours so delicately that butterflies dance up to your throat.

“You know I’m afraid of flying, right?” you remind him, taking in the sight of the P-51. 

He does know. It has been a running joke amongst the Dagger squad. The self-proclaimed king of the sky, Jake Seresin’s fiance, is afraid of flying. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks, with such a sincere smile you’d lie even if the answer were no just to keep that smile on his face.

“Yes.” 

“It’s a short flight,” he says, “and I won’t do any crazy loops or anything.” 

You chuckle but give him a skeptical look. “Hilarious.”

“I got you, Breeze,” he promises. 

He does have you, and he’s proven that more than once in the last few months. 

“Are you ever going to tell me why you call me that?” you ask, holding down your skirt as you climb into the cockpit of the aircraft. 

He’d given you the call sign a few weeks after meeting you but never told you why. Jake had claimed he knew but said it was a sacred thing and that the person who bestowed it upon you had to be the one to explain why. It also felt fitting that Rooster had been the one to dub Jake, Hangman. 

“I will,” Bradley shrugs, “when I think you’re ready to hear it,” giving you a bashful grin as he climbs into the seat in front of you.

The flight itself is uneventful, but the sensation is exhilarating. Bradley only speaks a few times to make sure you’re okay and ask if he can tilt the plane to show you the sights below, deep canyons and big horned sheep.

“Okay,” Bradley’s voice crackles through your headset. “I’m gonna set her down.” 

“What! Here?” 

You are still in the middle of the desert, cliff tops and canyons as far as the eye can see. No runway or landing strip unless he plans to land on I-40. 

“Trust me,” he says.

The plane bounces once, kicking up red dust and rolling to a stop. “Wasn’t sure I could pull that off,” he jokes, shutting off the engine.

“Jerk,” you laugh.

He helps you out of the cockpit and onto the wing, turning to help you again when he’s on the ground. You sit on the wing, shuffling to the edge, and Rooster holds his arms out, ready to catch you.

“Don’t let me fall,” you say. 

His smile falters for a brief second, but he promises, “Never.” 

You jump, and he catches you, arms wrapping around your waist as he stumbles back a step. You pull him against you, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he relaxes into you.

Now that you’re on the ground, you can see the makeshift runway that’s been trodden down over time.

“As much as I’d love to stay like this,” Bradley whispers, exhaling the regret from his tone, “we’re going to miss it if we don’t get going.” 

There’s no point in asking what it is. He won't tell you, so you wait for him to reach into the cockpit, take out a backpack and then lead the way up a slim path.

It isn’t far to walk, but you’re out of breath by the time you reach what you hope is the top of the mountain. Bradley sets down an old green-colored blanket, handing you a bottle of water once you’re comfortable.

“Mav used to bring me here,” Rooster explains, breaking a long silence. You turn to look at him, but he’s gazing out across the vast desert. “Before I could fly myself, he’d bring me here, and we’d just sit and watch that.” He points toward the horizon. Your eyes follow his finger, and the sight steals your breath. 

The very edge of the sun touches the horizon, and the sky explodes into an oil painting of pinks and oranges that look close enough to touch.

“I always feel closer to my Dad here.” he twists to look at you, and you reluctantly drag your focus from the sunset to him. “Sometimes, I pretend he’s the one in control of the sunset, to remind me that I made it through another day without him.” He shrugs, smiling mirthlessly, “I come here a lot to talk to him. It helps me figure stuff out.”

Lifting his arm, you shuffle closer to him. He gently kisses your hair as you rest your head on his collarbone, his arm slipping around your shoulders.

“Thank you for bringing me here.” 

“I, um,” he clears his throat, an excuse to give himself a moment to contemplate how to say what he needs to. “I have ulterior motives,” he confesses, but his fix on the sunset remains steadfast when you lift your head again. “And I thought it might soften the blow.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, and seems shocked when you slip your hand beneath his.

You grip his hand tight, encouraging him. “Just tell me.”

He stares earnestly into your eyes, and you see the sorrow behind them before he softly says, “I was supposed to be with Jake that day.” Confusion pulls your brow tight, and he interprets it as you needing further explanation. “When Coyote’s jet was grounded, they asked me to accompany Jake instead. We had a stupid argument that morning, and it wasn’t a direct order, so I told them no, that Jake could handle it on his own. Jake got this smug look like he thought I was afraid or something, and I had the thought that hopefully, soon, karma would catch up to him and take him down a peg or two.”

You chuckle, “Sounds like Jake.”

“Breeze,” he protests, “I should’ve been with him.”

You swallow down the lump of emotion, imagining losing Jake and Bradley. You certainly wouldn’t have survived the loss of Jake without Bradley. The emotional trauma of neither of them being in your life is fathomless. “Then I would’ve lost you both.”

“Or I could’ve done something, brought him back to you.”

“Don’t do that,” you warn. “You have nothing to feel guilty for, Bradley. You don’t know what happened. You don’t know that you could have helped him. And maybe in some weird way, you have helped him.”

It’s his turn to look confused, and you smile lightly.

“You’ve helped me survive losing Jake, helped me see that there are still beautiful sunsets to be seen and a life to live, and you didn’t need to bring me here to do that, Rooster. You’ve shown me every day for the last few months. Jake is with me every day, he’s alive in my memory and will always be there, but you’ve shown me that I can keep moving forward. Some days you’ve been the only thing to keep me moving.”

You can’t bring yourself to look directly at him for fear he’ll see right through you. In your mind, it’s too soon to fall for someone else, but there’s no doubt in your heart that you are in love with Bradley Bradshaw. A part of you worries that it's a reaction to your grief, yet it doesn’t feel like a reaction. It feels right.

“Breeze, look at me.”

You're uncertain if it's pity or understanding in his tone, but either way, you don’t do as he asked. You’ve lost enough. You can’t bear to lose Bradley too.

He decides for you, gripping your chin with his fingers, gentle yet assertive, guiding your head upward to meet his eyes.

You expect him to say something profoundly sweet, but he sighs, closing his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to you.”

You don’t want to, but you should put some distance between you. Apparently sensing your withdrawal, he acts before you can move so much as a millimeter, his breath mixing with your own.

“Should I stop?” he whispers against your lips. 

“No.” You move in and make the connection he seems reluctant to, lips tentatively meeting, hesitant to linger for too long.

Bradley pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours, “If this is weird for you…” he trails off. 

“It’s not,” you say with certainty. “Is it for you?”

“No.” His hand squeezes your hip. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you,” he confesses and pecks your lips again. “And that sounds awful ‘cause you were with Jake, but…” 

You press a finger to his lips to silence him, leaning back to look at him. “I get it. I’ve wanted to do it for a long time too.”

He’s not so hesitant this time, dipping to kiss you again. It’s tender and sweet, how a first kiss should be. You feel giddy with anticipation of something new and unexpected, but simultaneously it somehow feels familiar. Breathlessly, you both pull apart.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern written all over his face.

“Yes, no,” you shake your head. “Yes. I just…are we crazy?”

He shrugs, “Maybe. But I’m okay with being a little crazy.” 

You laugh and drop your gaze, taking a deep breath. 

“Breeze,” he says softly. “There’s no pressure here. We can pretend it never happened and go back to being friends if that’s what you want.” 

You frown, slightly offended at his suggestion. Yes, you’re friends, but now there’s something deeper - a connection you can’t quite explain. “No, that's not what I want. It’s all a little overwhelming, but I know, without a doubt, I want this. I want you.” 

He smiles sheepishly. “Okay, but I need to know it’s more than a way to forget. I need it to be more than that.”

“It is. It’s so much more than that. It feels…” You're not sure how to describe it, but Rooster finds the word for you. 

“Right.”

The beautiful scenery is forgotten, and all you focus on is each other, the anticipation and excitement of exploring something new. You exchange timid kisses and tender caresses. Rooster leans over you, gently laying you flat to hover above you.

“It’s gonna get cold soon,” he worries, “wanna head back?” 

You shake your head, “Can we stay a while?”

He answers with an eager kiss. His lips are soft, and you hum with satisfaction when his tongue traces yours, seeking permission to deepen it.

He groans at the inviting warmth of your mouth, and your tongues meet, settling into a slow natural rhythm.

He releases you long enough for you to pull his shirt off and growls into your mouth when your nails scrape his stomach and back. Bradley is still cautious but follows your lead, letting his hands explore your body, groping and kneading your breasts through your shirt.

Now that you’ve accepted your feelings and given yourself and Bradley permission to pursue this new aspect of your relationship, a sense of urgency takes over. You need to feel him everywhere. Turning onto your side, you throw your leg over him and use him as leverage to pull yourself closer. You can feel all of him now, and it stokes the flame of your desire.

You roll your hips to rub yourself against his stiff cock. The friction of his jeans against your core is frustratingly not enough. You reach down between your bodies, rubbing over his shaft before popping the button on his jeans. 

Bradley breaks the kiss, panting to catch his breath, and pulls back enough to be able to look into your eyes. 

“We don’t have to,” you say, suddenly slightly embarrassed. “Not here if you don’t want to.” 

“I want to,” he says, “but are you sure this is the right time?”

“Yes. I don’t want to wait any longer. Where has waiting ever gotten us?” You ask bitterly. Waiting is a waste of time and makes the future even more uncertain. You don’t want to wait and miss out on something wonderful. “Let’s make this the right time for us.”

He kisses you again, gripping your hip, tugging you with him as he rolls onto his back, an invitation to straddle his lap that you accept willingly. 

You both get in each other’s way, trying to unfasten his jeans. Until Bradley decides he’d rather be touching you, he pushes your panties to the side to slip his fingers through your folds, coating his fingers in your slick before he breaches your entrance with two, his thumb circles your clit, and you feel the pressure already building.

It’s clumsy and awkward, but he lifts up enough for you to shuffle his pants off his hips while pumping his fingers inside you, pushing as deep as he can go and rubbing your pulsing clit.

“Are you sure about this?” he pants, “I can stop.”

In answer, your walls clench, and you twitch through your orgasm. “Don’t stop.”

You're empty for a matter of seconds before his cock replaces his fingers, and you slide down his length, both groaning out the gratification of a complete connection. 

Stones dig into your knees through the flimsy blanket, but it barely registers when Bradley starts to move - slowly at first, rolling his hips to help you stretch to his size. He takes hold of your sides, and you lift and push back against his thrusts. The rhythm gets harder and faster with every snap of hips, and your whimpers and whines drown out Bradley’s grunts and moans.

“Oh shit.” Shuddering, you bite down on Bradley’s shoulder as you come for a second time. It spurs him on, his movements becoming desperate as he chases his end. 

He wraps a hand under your jaw and holds your head up to look at him. “You got one more in you?” he asks, and you nod. “Then, come with me.” 

Slipping your hand between your bodies to tease your clit, the coil tightens again as Bradley pounds into you. He claims your mouth as his movements stutter, and with one last powerful thrust, your walls clamp around him as he ruts his release inside you.

Bradley can’t stop smiling. It’s not just the residual endorphins coursing through him after a particularly intense orgasm. It’s you, leaning against the Bronco, smiling, almost shyly, back at him.

“Did you plan this, Mr. Bradshaw?” you tease, eyeing him suspiciously as he removes his soiled pants.

“The sex, no,” he says with a smug chuckle, pulling on a clean pair of jeans. “If the moment presented itself,”  he admits, stepping into your space and pinning you between him and the truck, “I promised myself I’d kiss you.”

He fulfills the promise again, kissing you breathless and only pulling away when your phone rings. 

Bradley curses the interruption, reaching into the car to pick it up. “Phoenix,” he says, reading the Caller I.D. and handing it over.

He watches as your thumb hovers over the answer button. You’ve never been able to lie very well, and you're probably worried Phoenix will be able to hear the change in your voice and figure out what happened.

You decline the call and smile up at him. “I wanna stay in the bubble a while longer,” you confess, “we can tell them when we get back.” 

“Fine by me,” he agrees, delivering a swift kiss as his phone starts ringing. He shrugs it off, declining the call, “Bob. They're probably wondering where we are and if we’re gonna make it to quiz night.”

“Not sure we will,” you say, checking your watch. 

“We’ll definitely miss the quiz,” he nods, “but I can probably get us back for last-call.” 

“Show me what you got, Bradshaw,” you wink.

Bradley breaks the speed limit a few times on the way home, but true to his word, you make it with fifteen minutes to spare before Penny usually calls for the last orders. 

The happy haze of the day still lingers, and you don’t want it dampened by a crowded bar and a possible scene. You’ve discussed telling the team, but neither of you is sure how they’ll react to the news, though you both acknowledge neither of you has been subtle in trying to hide your feelings. Bradley doesn’t want to lie to them, and you agree, but you also don’t want to deliver the news with an audience of strangers.

“You sure you wanna do this tonight?” Bradley asks, kissing you softly, still tucked up in the safety of the Bronco.

“We have to,” you say. “It’ll be worse if they catch us.” 

“You say that like we’re doing something wrong.” 

“We’re not, but if they find out some other way, they’ll think we think we're doing something wrong.” 

He nods, “I’ll go get them and some drinks. Meet you on the beach in five?”

The kiss is sweet and tender and lasts long enough that you're bordering on being caught if someone walks by. Reluctantly you part ways. 

Bradley’s barely in the door before Phoenix and Bob are in his face. 

“Where have you been?” Phoenix asks, blocking his path to the bar. 

“We’ve been calling you,” Bob says. “Is Breeze with you?”

Rooster’s guilty tell-all smile takes on a life of its own, and he can’t contain it until Phoenix scolds him with a look.  

“What?” Bradley asks.

“Oh, shit, Rooster, you didn’t,” Phoenix sighs.

“Didn’t what?”

“You know what!” she grits, “You and Breeze.” 

“It’s not a big deal,” he shrugs, trying to step around them.  

Phoenix blocks him again, a firm hand on his chest. “Hangman’s back.”

It’s late, and the beach is quiet. You stand staring out at the ocean, enjoying the calm before everything potentially blows up. 

It’s a siren call, it has to be that or your slight guilt playing tricks on you, but you hear it, Jake calling your name.

“Jellybean!” he calls, and it grows in urgency the closer it gets. You realize it’s not coming from the ocean but behind you, and you spin around. 

Jake runs toward you, thinner and not as toned as he once was, but there’s no mistaking that it's him, flanked by Coyote, Fanboy, and Payback.

He crashes into you, caging you in his arms, but you're too shocked to react, barely bringing your arms up to hug him back before he pulls away to look at you. 

“Jake.” 

“It’s really me, baby,” he says, “I’m back. I went home, but they said you’d stayed here.” His smile grows wide and watery, “You didn’t give up on me. You knew I’d come back. That’s why you stayed. I fought to get back to you, and you waited for me.”

“Jake,” you gasp, “you’re here,” tears laced with shock, relief, and guilt pool in your eyes.

“I couldn’t miss our wedding daycould I?” Jake smirks.

The back door to The Hard Deck bursts open, and you watch as Rooster frantically searches the beach for you. He finds you, looking as shocked as you feel, and before you know what's happening, Jake cups your face and draws you to his lips.

Look a handy reblog button. Reblogs are the fuel creators need to continue creating.

A/N: I do have plans for part 2 but the muses aren't complying at the moment so for now, this is a one-shot. Who would you want to end up with? Rooster or Hangman?

Tags // Info

@alexxavicry / @b3autyfuldisast3r-blog/ @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library / @shanimallina87 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox / @dempy / @atarmychick007 / @genius2050 / @kmc1989 / @emorychase

Master Lists: Top Gun Maverick // All The Fandoms

[fleurswn]

La belle au bois dormant: The Sleeping Beauty.

Pairings: Tom Riddle x Female!Reader

Word Count: Bla blabla

Fandom: Harry Potter

Summary: You are a great friend to Hermione Granger, staying by her side despite being a year younger. As the Battle of Hogwarts rages on and the darkness of the night grows thicker, you stayed with the Light side. When Voldemort and his Death Eaters emerge from the depths of the Forbidden forest, silence falls upon the battlefield. The air is heavy with dread as Hagrid steps foward, revealing the limp body of Harry Potter in his arms.

(WORK IN PROGRESS, PLS IGNORE 😜)

After casting a spell that sent a death eater flying away, you collapsed against the crumbled wall of the corridor.

Once vibrant and full of life, it now exuded the sense of sorrowness. A sharp, stinging pain in your abdomen drew your attention, and upon examining the wound, you saw the deep, bleeding gash that marred your flesh.

"Fuck!" you exclaimed, the pain and shock causing your voice to tremble. The sight of crimson liquid flowing steadily from the wound left you feeling lightheaded and weak.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps approached, you clenched your teeth, shut your eyes, and held your breath, desperately hoping to remain undetected and praying to whoever above for a chance to survive.

When you sense someone standing in front of you, you part your eyes slightly, only to catch the sight of Tom Riddle himself standing there, the firstborn of The Dark Lord.

Despite your parents' allegiance to the Dark Lord, you have always feel a deep hatred towards Tom. The idea of pureblood supremacy has never sat well with you.

However, your rejection to your parents believe had led you to run away from home when your parents attempted to pressure you into taking the dark mark. Fortunately, your aunt welcomed you with open arms into her home.

Now, Tom Riddle looms over you, as you struggle to conceal the bleeding gash on your skin. Memories flood back from the time before the Battle of Hogwarts, when Tom had cornered you upon your return to Hogwarts after running away from your household. He expressed disappointment in what he perceived as wasted potential, urging you to join the his side, the winning side.

In a moment of anger, you had slapped Tom that day. While any other person might have to face consequences for such an act, Tom merely responded with a smirk before walking away.

That absolutely make you feel more ang—

"Oh, Doll," Tom cooed, interrupting your train of thoughts.

Tom knelt down in front of you, his fingers gently wiping away the blood trickling from your slightly torn lips. You felt the urge to bite his fingers, but he quickly pulled them away. His gaze shifted to the blood seeping from your abdomen.

"Oh, my poor darling. Does this hurt?" he taunted, mocking your pain. "Fuck off, Riddle." You hissed and tried to move away, but he grabbed your shoulder firmly, keeping you in place.

"Stay still now, would you?" He pulls out his wand, pointing it to your abdomen.

You held your breath, expecting a deadly curse, but instead you watched in suprise as he flick his wand and muttered, "Vulnera Sanentur."

The bleeding slowed and your wound began to mend. "Why are you doing this?" you asked, fighting back a whimper as the magic stitched your skin back together.

Ignoring your question, Tom chuckled darkly. "It's not too late to join me, Y/N. It's clear who will win the war," he said, cocking his head slightly.

"Don't underestimate the other side, Riddle. You know nothing," you retorted, gritting your teeth against the pain. His face hardened as he stood.

"Silly girl. You will come to me eventually. And when you do, I will forgive you. I am, merciful, afterall." he declared before walking away.

"Go to hell!" you shouted after him, watching as he disappeared, leaving you leaning against the wall.

You sat there, not sure of how much time had passed until a familiar voice called out your name. Instantly on alert, you reached for your wand in your pocket, ready to cast a shield until you realized it was Hermione approaching you.

Concern etched on her face as she knelt down beside you, "Oh, Y/N, what happened?" she asked, her voice trembling. "A Death Eater stabbed me, but I think I'm alright now," you muttered, gesturing to your now stitched wound evident through your torn shirt. Hermione's eyes followed your gaze, filled with worry.

"Do you think you can stand?" Hermione asked, her voice filled with concern, to which you shook your head. Despite your attempts to rise, the pain from your fresh stitches made it feel like you would stumble with every attempt. You had tried to cast any spell that could help you, but when you try to focus on casting a spell, the pain made it difficult to concentrate on anything else. "Could you help me up?" you requested.

Hermione looped her arm around your shoulder, supporting you as you struggled to steady yourself. You leaned on her for support, feeling a sense of relief at her presence.

"Where are Harry and Ron? Are they okay?" you asked, noticing the worry etched on Hermione's face. The change in her demeanor only heightened your anxiety, prompting you to ask again, "Hermione, please tell me what happened," your voice trembling, a sinking feeling settling in your gut.

"Harry went to surrender himself to Voldemort," Hermione choked out, causing you to gasp in shock. Trying to compose herself, Hermione wiped her eyes, her features now marked by despair. Realizing now was not the right time for grief, she spoke solemnly, "We have to focus on the task at hand. We need to destroy the snake; it's Voldemort's final Horcrux," her words carrying the weight of their urgency as she help you in walking.

You took deep breaths, struggling to calm the turmoil within you, unable to understand Harry's sacrificial decision.

Your breath caught in your chest as you reached the scene, witnessing the horrorfying sight of Hagrid carrying Harry, his still form appearing pale and motionless.

Denial flooded your thoughts, a chorus of "no" echoing in your mind. He couldn't be gone, it couldn't be true...

The voice of the Dark Lord boomed, "Harry Potter is dead!" You saw the fear and despair in Hermione's eyes mirrored your own. The dark laughter of the Death Eaters surrounded you, creating an atmosphere of pure terror.

Hermione reached out to you, but before either of you could react, a spell hit you square in the chest. Your body convulsed with the impact, and a wave of dizziness washed over you. Your vision blurred, and you felt like as if the world was spinning out of control.

Through the haze, you could hear Hermione's panicked voice calling out to you, but it sounded distant, as if coming from far away. Your eyelids grew heavy, tempting you to surrender to the darkness encroaching upon your consciousness.

As you sway on the brink of unconsciousness, a last image seared itself into your mind - the triumphant smirk on Tom's face as he stared directly at you. Eventually, you give in to the welcoming embrace of oblivion.

And that's all what you could remember, before you found yourself lying on a soft mattress inside a glass coffin.

Panic tried to grip you, but failed.

Your torn clothes were replaced with clean ones, and you felt refreshed for the first time since the battle. Despite feeling light-headed and tired, a strange sense of calm coming over you.

You tried to move your fingers, hands, and legs, a tingling feeling spread throughout your body. After some effort, you managed to move your arm and reached out to touch the glass of the ornated coffin. It was decorated with gold in the shape of a flower.

Struggling to clear your foggy mind, you slowly tilted your head to have a look at the room.

It was dimly lit by a dying candle and the faint daylight streaming through a window covered with a thin curtain.

The room you find yourself in is undeniably beautiful, so much so that you can't help but wish you could live there if only your aunt's wealth wasn't so limited. It's the kind of place you imagine Malfoy, with his extravagant tastes, would call home.

The only sounds that fill the room are the gentle rhythm of your own breathing and the distant rustle of leaves outside the window.

Everything was so peacefull until you hear creak of a door opening breaks the silence, followed by the steady thud of boots crossing the floor.

Panic flares within you, yet your heart stayed strangely steady.

It's as though your mind has been wrapped in a soothing fog, leaving you calm and almost detached from the situation. You close your eyes. You felt like you were under a.. sleeping-draught potion.

WIP PLS IGNORE (FIRST FIC 😜)

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (9/?) ARCHIVED

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 4653

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Aemond is permanently maimed, Arianwyn wounded. As their family quarrels over how to deal with the aftermath of the fight, all they can do is cling to each other.

Warnings: None.

Series Masterlist

Taglist:@thelittleswanao3,@trap-house-homiecide

The Decisions of Fathers

At the full sight of Aemond's wound – the gash in his cheek so deep that she could see the torn muscle beneath the skin, the blood flowing like a raging river from his forehead, and the ghastly ruin where his lovely violet eye had once been – Arianwyn immediately collapsed.

Through his pain and increasingly blurred vision, her motionless body was all Aemond could see. Had the knife struck her too? Did she bleed into the sand as he did? Was she even still alive? As the horrible thoughts raced through his mind, he began to scream again. Wordless, agonized, soul-crushing screams.

He was vaguely aware of voices around him. Some of them seemed familiar – Ser Westerling, maybe? Or Cole? Armored hands lifted him, sending pain shooting through his veins. But he did not care.

All he cared about was Arianwyn.

Hands bearing the shining gauntlets of the Kingsguard lifted her from the sand, and relief washed over Aemond like a great wave when he saw her chest rise and fall. She still bore the scratches she received from her half-sisters, and a bruise was already forming around her neck, but her bleeding had stopped, and her breathing was steady.

She would be all right.

It was only after the realization settled that he fully felt his own pain. The dull aches across his body were infinitesimal compared to the searing, excruciating pain he felt in his face.

He felt as though a venom-tipped fang of a Dornish viper was scraping across his brow.

He felt as though the skin of his cheek was being peeled off agonizingly slowly – layer by layer.

He felt as though a burning bead of molten rock had been dropped upon his eye, boiling and roasting every bit of flesh it touched.

It was unbearable.

As Aemond's screams began anew, Arianwyn woke. Blearily, she recognized that she was being held by someone wearing armor – it clanked as they ran through the tunnel of the Sea Gate. However, it was not until they emerged into the brighter torchlight of the castle proper that she finally recognized the face.

The usually warm brown skin of Ser Criston Cole was pallid as he ran, sweat beading at his furrowed brow as he rushed to keep up with Ser Westerling, who held Aemond in his arms.

A substantial trail of blood followed them.

The salt in her tears stung the cuts crisscrossing her face as she gathered her remaining strength to speak.

"Is he dead?" she whispered. Her words seemed to break Cole from a trance. As he gazed down at her, she realized the full depth of his concern. Tears were threatening to spill from his dark eyes.

From the very beginning of the Prince's combat training, Cole had taken Aemond under his wing. He always gave him closer instruction, more advice, and extra attention. But, seeing the Prince wounded like this, he must have felt as though it had not been enough – that he had failed. Eventually, Arianwyn would have to tell him how well Aemond had fought.

With a deep breath, Ser Criston replied, "He is alive, my Lady. We sent one of the House Guards ahead to fetch the Maesters. They will meet us in the throne room."

"What about the Queen?" she whispered. "Aemond will need his mother if…"

Cole shushed her before she could finish. His expression and voice softened, "It will not come to that, Aria. He is lucky – he will get to a healer quickly. Besides, I have seen many men recover from injuries far worse than this."

Arianwyn's eyes grew wide with hope, though a great sadness immediately followed. "My mother did not recover."

For that pain, Cole had no words of comfort to offer.

Orwyle, as well as the Maester of House Velaryon, was already in the throne room when the Kingsguard arrived. Aemond and Arianwyn were placed by the roaring fire – Aemond in a plush chair lined with linen to soak up his blood, Arianwyn on a small ottoman by his side – and were immediately set upon by the Maesters.

Aemond was tended to by the Velaryon, whose name Arianwyn did not know. She watched him through the gaps between Orwyle's arms as he tended to her own minor wounds. Cole had set her on Aemond's right side, so she could not fully see his wound. For that, she was grateful.

When she did not so much as flinch as Orwyle pressed a cloth soaked with alcohol to her cuts, he followed her gaze. She watched intently as the Velaryon Maester unstopped a large vial, holding it up to the Prince's lips and commanding him to drink.

"It is milk of the poppy, Arianwyn," Orwyle whispered, gently cleaning the girl's wounds. "It will dull his pain for what is to come."

She, at last, turned her gaze to her familiar Maester. "What is he going to do to him?" Her eyes were filled with fear, though her tears were dry at last.

Orwyle kept his voice low. He did not want Aemond to hear – the boy must remain as calm and still as he could if he wished to heal properly. "Maester Kelvyn will clean his wounds, as I am doing," he squeezed the cloth for emphasis, sending droplets of clear liquor running down Arianwyn's chin.

"If the initial cut was not clean, he may have to… remove some of the damaged flesh. A clean wound will heal better, and leave less of a scar. And the eye…" Orwyle trailed off, his hand stilling over Arianwyn's cheek.

"I saw it," she whispered. "It's gone."

Orwyle's heart sank. He had suspected as much when the guard had summoned him, but he had still prayed for it not to be true. "Then he will close the wound, and take care to ensure it does not become infected." Arianwyn did not respond; she only continued to gaze at her dear companion as Kelvyn continued his ministrations.

Though he had been given a massive amount of the milk of the poppy, Aemond still winced when Kelvyn began to clean the wound. Arianwyn reached across the gap between them, lacing her fingers through his. She squeezed one, letting him know that she was there. Though his hand trembled, he squeezed back.

It was not until the Maester had begun to stitch the wound together that the King and Queen swept into the room, the remaining Lords and Ladies behind them. The moment she laid eyes on her son, Alicent ran from her husband's side, kneeling before Aemond, gripping both his and Arianwyn's hands in hers. Though the devastation was apparent on her face, she did not cry, keeping herself strong for Aemond's sake.

Viserys, leaning heavily on his cane, took longer to come to his son's side. When he finally laid eyes on the ugly wound, Arianwyn thought he might be sick.

No one spoke as the King, eyes wide and mouth agape, slowly made his way to the Driftwood throne. He shook his head, anger seeming to grant him strength.

"How could you allow such a thing to happen?" he asked. When, after a moment, none of the guards – Kingsguard or otherwise – spoke, he raised his voice. "Iwill have answers!"

It was Ser Westerling who finally replied. "The Princes were supposed to be abed, My King."

Viserys closed his eyes for a long moment, clearly unimpressed by the answer. "Who had the watch?" he bit out with thinly veiled displeasure.

This time, Ser Criston answered. "The young Prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace." Arianwyn looked over to the Dornish knight as he spoke. He was still pale, not yet recovered from the sight of Aemond's wounds.

The King rose from the throne with a sudden burst of rage. "You swore oaths to protect and defendmy blood!" he roared. Arianwyn had never seen the King so angry. It was enough to make her shy away. She slid from the ottoman, kneeling on the stone floor with her chin on the arm of Aemond's chair, her lips pressed to their joined hands.

"I am very sorry, Your Grace," Westerling said, fully accepting the King's anger with the grace of a dutiful servant.

Ser Criston was less obedient. "The Kingsguard has never had to defend Princes from Princes, Your Grace."

"That is no answer!" Viserys shouted before the knight had finished speaking. Arianwyn flinched again, at last noticing that Aegon and Helaena had come to stand by their mother's side. Aegon looked at his brother's wound with disgusted curiosity, his eyes glazed from wine. Helaena stood with her back turned, gazing into the fire, completely detached from what was happening around her.

Alicent looked to Kelvyn, "It will heal, will it not, Maester?" The entire room turned to hear the answer.

"The flesh will heal," the Maester said, punctuating his words with a final stitch to Aemond's cheek. "But the eye is lost, Your Grace."

Arianwyn felt the declaration like a blow to the chest. Never again would she gaze eye to eye with Aemond, with his beautiful violet eyes. True, most of her family bore purple eyes, but Aemond's were her favorite. His was a delicate purple, closer to blue than most – perhaps better called periwinkle rather than a true violet. And now one of those lovely eyes was lost forever.

The Queen stood from Aemond's side, descending on Aegon with a fury. "Where were you?" she asked.

"Me?" Aegon balked. She knew very well where he had been – they were both in the library, sipping wine while they listened to Lord Corlys' tales of the sea. But that was not the answer Alicent wanted; she told him as much with a hard slap on the side of his face. "What was that for?"

"That wasnothing," Alicent spat, "compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!" It was not an indictment of his behavior that night, but of the years before, when he had encouraged his cousins to join him in mocking Aemond – the very behavior that had eventually culminated in their fight that evening.

The large doors above the throne creaked open, and Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys descended the winding stair from their bedchambers.

"What is the meaning of this?" Corlys boomed as his wife called for their granddaughters. She held their faces to assess their wounds – though they were far fewer than Arianwyn or Aemond's.

Not a moment later, Princess Rhaenyra burst through the doors at the far end of the room, shouting for her sons as she ran across the hall. None but Arianwyn seemed to notice Daemon behind her, striding slowly as if he did not want to be seen. Anger twisted the Princess' face when she saw the bruise forming around Luke's crooked nose. "Who did this?" she demanded.

Arianwyn's anger began to rise again, chilling her very breath. "Theyattacked Aemond!" she yelled back as she stood, still holding Aemond's hand. "He did naught but defend himself, and me!"

The last of her words were drowned out by the overlapping shouts of her cousins and sisters.

"He attacked Baela!" Luke screamed.

"He broke Luke's nose!" Jace cried.

"HestoleVhagar!" Rhaena barked, apparently unconvinced by Arianwyn's earlier words.

"He disrespected my mother!" Baela bellowed.

The shouts began to overlap, and Arianwyn and Alicent both joined the din, refuting the children's outrageously false claims and defending Aemond, but there was too much noise – none could hear their words.

Aemond pulled on Arianwyn's hand, glancing with his one eye at the King, who was weakly trying to quiet their words. She let her voice fade, knowing that upsetting Viserys was the very worst thing she could do at this moment.

"Silence!" the King bellowed. All fell silent as he climbed down the steps of the throne toward the chair where his wounded son sat. "Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened –now."

Aemond looked sheepishly away from his father and toward Arianwyn, uncertain. She leaned back down, nodding, and placed a kiss on his hand. No matter what was said against him, they both knew the truth, and he would have her unending support.

But before he could respond to his father, Alicent stepped forward. "What else is there to hear?" she pleaded, though her husband was turned away from her. "Your son has been maimed.Herson is responsible." The Queen glared across the room toward Rhaenyra, who now stood with her arms around her sons.

"It was a regrettable accident," the Princess said, refusing to look either her father or the Queen in the eye.

"Accident?" the Queen nearly laughed at the word. "The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant tokillmy son!"

Rhaenyra stepped forward. "It wasmy sons who were attacked, and forced to defend themselves," she growled.

Arianwyn understood why her cousins and sisters had lied – they wanted to protect themselves from the punishment they rightly deserved. But for Rhaenyra, the future Queen, to lie? When she had only just arrived, with no idea what really happened in the tunnel? That, Arianwyn would not stand.

"You're a liar!" she yelled, ignoring the gasps of shock that reverberated around the room. It did not matter that Rhaenyra outranked her, she had lied so blatantly to the whole of the court for years, but she couldnotbe allowed to lie about this. "You were not there; you could not see what happened.I saw it all.”

The King turned his eyes to her, assessing. She lifted her chin and met his gaze, allowing him to see only her confidence, but he did not see her tightening her grip on Aemond's hand. After a long moment, Viserys nodded, leaning on his cane with both hands.

"Very well, Arianwyn," he said, using her full name for the first time in years. "Tell us what happened – but speak only the truth.

"Aemond and I were returning to the castle," she said, confident despite the many inquisitorial eyes upon her. She spoke the truth – she had no reason to be afraid. "We had snuck out earlier in the evening."

Her tale was interrupted by the voice she was least eager to hear – her father's. "And where had you gone?" Daemon leaned calmly against the door where he had entered and gestured to his daughters by Laena. "It seems to me that little detail may be crucial to this story."

Arianwyn did her best to swallow her rage. "We went to the beach to the south," she said, "where Aemond laid claim to Vhagar."

The silence in the room was palpable. Some seemed impressed by her claim. Others – mostly Velaryon – were enraged.

The Queen looked towards Aemond. "Is this true?" she asked. A wave of joyful relief swept over her face as her hand flew to the Seven-Pointed Star medallion around her neck. She murmured a silent prayer of thanks. Aemond was a dragonrider at last.

Even the King seemed to forget his anger for a moment as he looked on Aemond with pride. "Well done, my boy," he whispered.

"Hestole her!" Rhaena's voice shattered the fragile peace of the moment.

Arianwyn's silver eyes blazed with anger. "I already told you: a dragoncannotbe stolen!" she yelled. "Vhagar claimed Aemond as much as he did for her!"

She turned back to the King. "The four of them were in the tunnel when we got back. It was Rhaena who started the fight –sheattacked Aemond. He defended himself, and in return, Baela hit him. We both fell, and when he saw that I had been hurt, he returned the blow – but he was only trying to defend me."

Tears began to flow from her eyes as she continued, "Theyallattacked him, and they would not stop. He was on the ground – he could not fight back – but they just kept hitting him and hitting him." She began to sob in earnest as she looked to her sisters.

"I just wanted to get them to stop, so I pushed Rhaena off of him. She scratched me, and Baela pulled me away. She had her arm around my throat," she gestured to the beginnings of bruises on her neck, "I was struggling to breathe – I had been since I fell. Aemond got away from Jace, and he found a rock somewhere in the sand. He hit Jace with it once, but only after Jace pulled out the knife.

"Baela still wouldn't release me, so Aemond threatened to hit him again if she didn't let me go." She blinked furiously, looking down at Aemond as she finished her story. "But Jace threw sand in his eyes, and Luke used the distraction to – to cut him. Nothing else happened until Ser Westerling arrived, I swear."

Viserys looked between her and Aemond, weighing what he had heard in his mind. Arianwyn was so focused on him and what he might say that she did not notice that at the door, Daemon's eyes had darkened. He examined the scratches crossing her skin, pride rising in his chest for Rhaena's ferocity. Arianwyn's assault on her, no matter her motivation, would not go unpunished.

Before the King could pass judgment, Rhaenyra spoke again. "I think you are forgetting that amidst the fray, Aemond levied vile insults against my sons."

It was true; Arianwynhadforgotten. The words had been least amongst the vileness she had witnessed that night – what were mere words against blood spilled? "Aemond’s words were mild compared to what your sons have said to him for years.”

“What insults?” the King asked, holding up a finger to silence her. Arianwyn could not believe her ears. Was he really considering words against the damage that had been done to him?

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, confident in her hold over her father. “The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question.”

Viserys tilted his head, “What?”

“He called us bastards,” Jacaerys answered.

As silence once more fell over the room, Aemond released Arianwyn’s hand. She looked down at him, worried that he had fallen unconscious, but found him looking straight up at her, smiling sadly.

He knew he had just lost his father's sympathy – and possibly affection – and would likely face further punishment for his words. Men had been maimed and sent to the Wall for voicing that plain truth. Though Aemond was his son, the King had always favored Rhaenyra and her children. The Prince would not be forgiven so easily.

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, You Grace,” Rhaenyra said, striding toward her father with confidence. “This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

Arianwyn let out a cry, “You want totorturehim?”

“Over an insult?” the Queen asked in utter disbelief. “My son haslost an eye.”

Rhaenyra did not respond. She merely watched as Viserys looked down once more on his son. All pride and concern had gone from his face. Instead, he looked at Aemond with the rage of a King.

“You tell me, boy,” he hissed. “Where did you hear this lie?”

Arianwyn was speechless, but Alicent was not. “The insult was training yard bluster. The lot of boys. It was nothing.”

But her pleas fell on deaf ears. “Aemond. I asked you a question.”

Aemond merely stared at his father.

“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder?” The Queen asked, desperate to steer her husband’s ire away from their son. “The boys’ father? Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”

The distraction worked. “Yes, where is Ser Laenor?” The King asked. When he turned away, Arianwyn again fell to her knees, gripping Aemond’s hand with all her might.

“It will be okay,” she whispered, not quite believing her own words. “I’m here – I will not leave you.” Aemond said nothing, but stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. Daemon watched them closely, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind.

Rhaenyra’s confidence seemed to slip at the Queen’s question. “I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.” Though she wanted to, Arianwyn did not point out that no one askedherwhere she had gone.

Alicent quirked her head at the answer. “Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.”

But the distraction was done. Viserys turned back to his son. “Aemond, look at me,” he said, slightly lightening his tone. The Prince took a heavy breath and looked up at his father. “Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

Aemond looked to his mother for guidance or perhaps a new distraction. But the King followed his gaze. Then, not wanting his mother to become the object of the King’s wrath, he spoke the first name that came to mind. “It was Aegon.”

“Me?” Aegon asked for the second time that evening. But it was too late to object. The King needed a scapegoat, and Aegon was well suited for the role.

The King limped over to his eldest son. “And you, boy?” he asked. “Where did you hear such calumnies?” Silence. His patience at an end, Viserys screamed. “Aegon! Tell me the truth about it!”

But Aegon was unfazed, still drunk enough to let his tongue loose. “We know, Father,” he sighed. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Not even Rhaenyra protested the words. Since the moment Jacaerys emerged from his mother’s womb, the truth was clear. Only the King and Rhaenyra herself still denied it.

Though on this night, it seemed that even the King had not the energy to uphold the lie. Rather than assert the legitimacy of the boys, Viserys addressed the entire room.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” he shouted, pounding his cane on the floor. “All of you! We are afamily! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, yourKingdemands it!” Then, with a look to Aemond that was almost apologetic, he began to walk away.

Arianwyn’s pulse quickened, a now familiar icy creeping through her veins. That was it? Aemond deserved more. Retribution. Justice.Something. But before she could protest herself, the Queen took up for her son.

“That is insufficient,” she said, entirely exasperated. “Aemond has been damagedpermanently, My King. ‘Good will’ cannot make him whole.”

The King sighed. “I know Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken.”

“What would you have me do?” the King asked, exhaustion plain on his face.

But Alicent held firm. “There is a debt to be paid,” she declared, turning to face Rhaenyra. “I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”

A murmur passed through the crowd, shock setting in at the price the Queen demanded. Even the King seemed surprised.

“My dear wife,” he began.

Alicent’s voice broke as she tried to move her husband. “He is yourson, Viserys. Your blood.”

The King stalked back to her, “Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment.” Thinking his words final, he turned away.

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will,” she said, resolute in her defense of Aemond. “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Luke cried for his mother, and the King pleaded with his wife, but she stood firm. “He can choose which eye to keep,” she ordered, though the knight did not move, “a privilege he did not grant my son.”

Rhaenyra placed a protective hand on her son’s chest. “You will do no such thing,” the warning she issued Cole was reflected in her eyes.

“Stay your hand,” the King warned, though Alicent immediately objected.

“No,” she ordered, her voice growing frantic, “you are sworn tome!”

Ser Criston looked over all those commanding him, and bowed to the orders of the King. “As your protector,” he muttered, though he seemed displeased by the words.

With a sigh, the King faced his wife. “Alicent, this matter… is finished. Do you understand?” He took her silence as affirmation and turned away.

Rhaenyra smiled, the expression as smug as her voice, “Thank you, Father.”

Arianwyn could hardly follow what happened next. One moment, she was watching Alicent stalk toward the King. She heard the ringing of a blade being drawn, then shouting, and the clanging of armor rung out from across the room.

Aemond tugged on her hand with such force that she was nearly pulled into the chair with him. Sensing his intention, she moved around the chair to his front, allowing him to shield her with his arms and take as defensive a stance as he could while remaining seated. Even injured and with his mind clouded with milk of the poppy, he yearned to protect her.

They watched together in horror as Alicent collided with Rhaenyra, holding the King’s Valyrian Steel dagger above the Princess’ head, poised to strike. Not even the Kingsguard dared approach the women as Rhaenyra struggled to hold the Queen at bay.

“You have gone too far,” the Princess hissed.

“I?” Alicent asked, verging on hysterics. “What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout it all to do as you please.”

“Alicent, let her go!” the King shouted – but she did not listen.

“Where is duty?” she demanded. “Where is sacrifice? It is trampled under your pretty foot again.”

The Hand stepped out from behind the Driftwood Throne to try and calm his daughter. “Release the blade, Alicent.”

Still, she pressed on. “And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that you feel entitled.”

Aemond clenched his jaw, moving to stand. Arianwyn tried to keep him seated, but he was much stronger than her. Still, she held firm to his shoulder as he rose from the chair, and they watched Rhaenyra whisper something too soft for them to hear.

Suddenly, the Queen shouted, breaking free from Rhaenyra’s grasp and slashing with her stolen blade. Aemond surged forward, out of Arianwyn’s grasp, leaving her reaching for the empty space by her side.

Rhaenyra fell back into Lord Corlys’ arms, the Queen to her husband’s. Even the roar of the fire seemed to quiet as a stream of blood began to pour from the Princess’ arm. The King’s blade clattered to the floor.

Fear overtook Aemond’s entire being. If Viserys would allow Luke to take his eye for a mere insult, what would he do to his mother for drawing Rhaenyra’s blood? It was his fault. He had been the one to seek out Vhagar, knowing that Rhaena had aims for the dragon.

He stepped from the crowd, his feet unsteady as he fought through the clouds in his mind. “Do not mourn me, Mother,” he said, trying to summon the joy he felt on Vhagar back into his heart. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye – but I gained a dragon.”

Lucerys was not forgiven. No, this debt would be repaid. But to protect his mother in this moment, Aemond would say anything.

Fortunately, the King took him at his word. “This proceeding is at an end,” he declared.

But not all were finished. Not yet.

Daemon stalked out of the crowd, his eyes dark as he glared at Arianwyn. He made his way to Rhaenyra, cradling her wounded arm in his hands, and turned to his brother and the Queen.

“I think,” he remarked, not breaking his gaze from his daughter’s, “that it is long past time for Arianwyn to come and live with her father – and her sisters. When you leave for King’s Landing in the morning, brother, she will remain here. With me.”

Next Chapter

[unholywood]

who do you think did this? (nova)

the ghoul was dead. the smell of rot was nauseating as percolation, but with ghouls, the decomposition felt like something hostile to the senses. leaning down, the courier touches to the jaw, turns the face to them- female, eyes extremely blood-shot & clear discoloration around their lips (a sign of jet-abuse). the rotting of tissue is not always a sign of death, usually extreme scarring or keloids are created from would be fatal wounds but rot is intrinsic of radioactive 'immortality'. someone who knows him. the way her body is, the barely healed wounds— she hurt until she gave in. the lacerations are in strange, jagged shapes that had trouble breaking cleanly away. the pooling of blood close to her abdomen suggested a depth that tore into her stomach & the acid from it had ebbed blood in a differing pattern to the rest in the carpeted room.

“ you sold to her. she's a mes- message. ” the murder wasn't intentional. the weapon used was barbed [..] it had unraveled itself & pulled into a depth of muscle, not just flesh.

“ she shot them. ” blood drips out of the room, abrupt of the doorway to the dilapidated motel room & the fresh, blackened hole of a near miss that had broken the white-chalk like age of plaster in the frame of the door.

“ she was alive, ” a (shaky) pause to a word you've come to know well, " had revenge. ” it was torture; to give way to information at first, but the disarray of the room & blistering on her hands— she'd shot a gun in self-defense & been met with retaliation of invidious rage of perceived mercy on a turned back. “ he did this. ” guilt rises, thick in the glaze of their eyes; the role of the caretaker to the courier, appeared feeble & incapable but desperate. desperation in a place like the mojave takes the place of reason, occluded by rage & greed. desperate is never a starvation of open hands; it's always sanguinary disarray, the smell of gunpowder & missing time. the domino effect of choice is gut-wrenching. he came to you [..] you mistook his want for love, for familial longing in keener efforts of personal moral disrepair & the debt has been paid. just not by you.

[katerinaaqu]

Oh my gosh girl! Thank you so much! ✨️😭🙏 you are so kind as always!

Oh gosh for real! He was looking for a quick solution to get back home after a decade of war and harsh conditions and he found out that the price he would have to pay for it would just be astronomical. And yeah he miscalculated the true depth of the combined anger of all these people he fought with as they forgot in their anger even the laws of their society committing far worse atrocities than the one he originally expected like slaughter in the night.

Yeah I just thought that a young man who had to fill the shoes of Ahilles especially someone who does seem prone to violence according to the myths involving him, would indeed be the nemesis he never expected to have. Yeah he brought him from Skyros to fight in his father's place after the death of Achillesbahd now he realizes what that meant and the true depth of his potential mistake to bring him there. And yeah seeing a young man, practically a child not much older than what Telemachus would be at that time behaving like this and be drunk by the bloodbath definitely strikes a new level of deep... Gosh what a great description! Definitely like poison and knives! Yeah although there are other versions of Palamedes's death I thought I could use this one and give some benefit of doubt. Did he fall on his own? Did Odysseus push him? But for sure I wanted to show that Odysseus would have no intention of saving him. Which kinda makes it clear that he killed him. Potentially even holding him down...dunno everyone should leave their imagination fly. But for sure being brought before his sin would definitely hit him!

Yeah and funny how he partially believed what he said bevause strategically speaking as long as the royal family was there, Troy would potentially revive. But only now he realizes what that means. Obviously the Greeks wouldn't allow any male yo live and they would enslave every female and still indeed he might have hoped deep down some of them would be spared as captives if they surrendered but the events of the war just proved him wrong in the most terrifying way.

Yeah I should imagine poor Astyanax wouldn't be handled gently and only now Odysseus sees the TRUE depth of his words. That baby was literally the heir of Troy obviously he would die and now he struggles desperately to save SOME of their humanity but yeah Neoptolemus hears none of that! Yeah I thought Neoptolemus fitted more the part for the murder of Astyanax but I wanted also to add Odysseus to the equation hehehe no reason there I thought it fitted Odysseus biting more than what he could chew when he made the plan. Oh yeah somehow I imagined that Astyanax saw Odysseus and thought that is his papa who will save him and Odysseus simply crumbles here and there! And man when the poor little one falls! Yeah too young to understand anything...he didn't live his life...

Oh yeah everyone thinks is good but Odysseus realizes is technically his fault that all this happened and yes he is furious given that his name comes from the verb οδύσσομαι which means to be angry at or to hate according to some people. And the fact that people remind him cuts so deep indeed and yeah Neoptolemus won't let him rest...

Oh boy for real! The scene after a literal apocalypse like I cab fathom the looks of it...and yeah Odysseus is simply physically, mentally and psychologically exhausted at this and I wanted him to be on his feet all night as well not even washed from the blood. Yeah I imagined Andromache marching like Sarabi in Lion king, all dignified and steadfast that is until she sees him and then all her emotions burst out. Oh yeah Odysseus was stripped off his voice before her rage.

Man for real I couldn't help myself doing that because man I imagined as much as she would prepare herself actually seeing it would break her and yeah dunno why I immediately imagined that Penelope would react like that when her own son was in danger so Odysseus would make the connection.

Hahaha he damn should be! I mean he just put the freaking baby in danger! Much more the heir to the throne! And yeah Odysseus seems unbreakable in his acting but when his family is concerned he simply crumbles. He breaks down completely and reveals himself. Yeah for some reason I imagined that he would challenge him with it.

Man I couldn't resist the revelation of the ACTUAL crime like that and I couldn't spare any of the characters here... oh man yeah he wanted to spare her and himself but Andromache just HAD to see it. She had to see her son or what was left of him.. m

Yeah he wanted her to regain her dignity and strength but yeah she didn't want anything to do with the man she held responsible for all...and yes that burns him to the point ye has to harden his heart to remain strong and yes Andromache just regains composure because she has to. Somehow both have to hide their feelings both for different reasons

Gosh girl you are so sweet! Thank you so much!and it is a pleasure to write because as you said it is a great inspiration for other projects as well!

✨️🫂🫶💋🤗

Continuing from Part 1;

Guilt (P2)

"And no, that was what you feared...not what you knew. There was no way you would know the magnitude of it...you gave them the city just like you promised. What theh did with it was their responsibility"

If only it were that simple, Odysseus thought

Odysseus could feel his head buzzing all the time. He was feeling tired of killing that night. As he had promised they had plundered Troy in just one fateful night. Odysseus had lost counting at how many lives had fallen under his sword. The palace of Troy had fallen. Troy was burning. As he cut his way through with with sword he remembered bodies falling down; armed or not; soldiers who barely had time to rouse themselves from sleep to come to save their city and yet they rushed at him bravely. Odysseus couldn't decide if he admired them or felt sorry for them.

"Odysseus!" The voice of a soldier brought him back to the present

"What is it?"

"Priam is dead!"

"Dead?!"

That piece of information he feared but he hoped he could prevent.

"Where?"

The man bringing the news was way too nervous for comfort.

"Where!" Odysseus demanded again

"T-To the altar of Zeus...he was slain upon the altar!"

Odysseus nearly dropped his sword! Had they stooped so low, then, in anger and hate?

"Who!" Odysseus demanded, "who did such a blasphemous act?!"

"N-Neoptolemous..."

Odysseus could hardly remember rushing to the scene. Perhaps he remembered the hall drenched in blood and there he saw the dead body of the king; neck gushed open and blood all over the floor. The haunting image of the expression of horror to the old man's face as well as the stain of blood upon the altar were a blurry mess in his brain. All he knew was that he saw that child he had brought to this war, with his face smeared with blood, having a self-complacent smirk on his face. He almost seemed possessed. That damn armor seemed to be one with his skin.

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR GODDAMN MIND?!" Odysseus bellowed, "How could you do that?! Have you so little respect for the laws of humans that you've stooped to the level of beasts?!"

The way that Neoptolemus looked at him was pure mockery and arrogance gained from victory.

"Now come on, Sacker of Cities...don't pretend that you would have left that man live! He was the king of Troy...just his existence would be a threat. You would have him executed anyways".

Odysseus couldn't remember grabbing the boy by the throat but he was beyond himself. His eyes were two bottomless pools of blackness.

"Do you want to end up like Thersites?!" He threatened in a dangerous whisper, "Do not challenge me, boy!"

"Or what?" Neoptolemus challenged back, "Will you do to me what you did to Palamedes?"

Odysseus was so shocked he could hardly speak. He felt like he had been punched in the stomach. The shock was enough to make him release the threat of the youth and take a few steps back.

"I have no idea what you're talking about" he said

Neoptolemus laughed.

"You are a liar, Odysseus! But then again you always were, weren't you?"

"Palamedes drowned in the sea! It was an accident!"

For a moment the image of ruffling waters had passed through his mind. Palamedes struggling under the surface... Odysseus remembered being frozen. He never tried to jump after him even jf he were an excellent swimmer. He was cold and motionless like a statue. The voice of the arrogant son of Achilles brought him back to reality.

"Yeah, how convenient indeed that he had that small... 'accident' when you and Diomedes were at the same boat with him during that fishing expedition! How convenient indeed!"

"This isn't about me!" Odysseus snapped at him, "This has to do with the hubris you performed here! We do NOT kill those who seek the sanctuary of the gods!"

"Times have changed, old man! You said so yourself! Besides wasn't you the one who implied that the line of the royal family of Troy should be cut? Priam shouldn't live anyways!"

Yes, Odysseus thought,he had said that and by that time he believed jt, however the old man had sought sanctuary. If they waited for him to get exhausted maybe... He could have surrendered. Murder upon sacred place was definitely NOT the way to do it. They could have offered him a nobler death than that! Odysseus didn't have time to reply. He heard a baby cry. He turned around to see in horror a man bringing baby Astyanax and handing him to Neoptolemus. The infant, barely one year of age, was crying woefully as he was handled not at all gently by Neoptolemus, who seemed untouched by the cries. Id anything he seemed to enjoy it

"What about the heir of Troy, Odysseus? What shall happen to him?"

"You can't be serious! It's just a baby!"

"A baby that is almost at the age of walking! Soon at the age of fighting. Will you let him live, Odysseus? You were the one who convinced the council, remember? You said we should all uproot the family of Priam from this earth!".

Yes, once again Odysseus had said that,however he had absolutely forgotten in the heat od the moment how old the heir actually was. The child was barely one. He could hardly speak yet alone walknand fight. Only now had he realized in horror what that promise he partially made would mean. He didn't expect to be brought before the consequences so fast!

"Weren't you the one who persuaded all the Greeks to uproot Priam's long family out of Troy?"

"Yes, but-..."

"So you take your word back? Decide!"

"Decide what?!"

"How he shall die, of course! You can't expect us to raise the son of king Hector, do you? Which will be? Sword or fall?"

The baby...the infant; no older than 1 year of age, was not much older than Telemachus... it was an innocent creature! He watched in terror as Neoptolemus held the baby to the edge of the wall.

"Choose, Odysseus!" Neoptolemus challenged, " or are you taking your words back?"

"This is madness!"

"You said to the council the other night that you would throw all of Priam's line outside these walls!" Neoptolemus insisted, "I believe the phrase you strategically used was 'we can throw them all out of the city of Troy!" I believe everyone agreed with such a sensible idea"

"Odysseus?"

It was the voice of Talthybius. Of course it would be that sleek worm! Odysseus cursed under his teeth. He was supposed to be their messenger and yet he found hik way too compassionate on the Trojan matter. Perhaps he should have gotten rid of him off his position a long time ago!

"Did you really tell the kings to kill this infant? Drag him out of his mother's bosom when she sought sanctuary in her husband's tomb and kill him in such a manner?"

Odysseus pointed his blood-stained sword at the scared messenger.

"Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you!" He threatened, eyes set aflame

He didn't need any more of those throwing accusations at him and he had enough of this for one night! One madman before him was enough; he didn't need a Troy-friendly coward as wellm

"Stay back! This is none of your concern!"

As Talthybius took some steps back, alarmed at this sudden attack from the furious king of Ithaca, Neoptolemus seemed to enjoy this scene more than the idea of throwing the baby off the walls or stabbing him to death.

"Decide, old man!" He urged again, "Do you take your word back? Every person in that hall heard you and agreed with you! Shown in this pilgrim of the night that you have SOME sense of honor!"

Odysseus was frozen in place. His own words that he didn't mean that way were now twisted in such a horrendous manner before him and bound him like chains. He could not take that word back. His brain was also stuck and his usual eloquent tongue could not find an excuse not to do it now...

"So be it..." he said defeated, "But let us choose a more humane method! Not this, Neoptolemus! Not this!"

He needed to buy himself some time. He needed to think of any reason, ANY excuse to keep this baby alive. Neoptolemus, though, being a true son of his father's, wouldn't let him do that either.

"Not on your life, son of Laërtes! This is the child of the man who thought he could kill my father! His bloody uncle actually succeeded! His filthy kin DARED to harm a man whose mother was a goddess! He needs to die and he shall now!"

At that moment he dragged the toddler almost effortlessly with one hand; strength given only by wrath and hatred, he let him hanging on the wall. The child was crying woefully and then Odysseus thought he heard him speak;

"PAPA!"

He froze. In some terrible realization he figured the horrendous truth. Neoptolemousbhad inherited the golden locks of his father's and his light yes that included the sea and sky. He, Odysseus, was dark of hair, black of eyes, lightly olive tanned white skin...he was similar to HIM...to Hector of Troy. The infant was calling HIM to save him! Panic took over him and he forgot all logic, all his attempts to find excuses. Now the child...the baby...someone's SON (Telemachus!)needed HIS assistance.

"Neoptolemus no! It's just a baby! Let the poor creature go!"

"Very poor choice of words, Odysseus!"

And Neoptolemus did exactly what he was told...he let go! The baby fell out of the palace walls, leaving gravity take the body rapidly down.

"NOOOOOOO!" Odysseus yelled helplessly but that's all he could do.

He ran at the edge only to see a tiny bloody dot at the bass kd the wall. The haunting cries had stopped...forever.

"NEOPTOLEMUS!" Odysseus bellowed furiously, "you killed him! You killed an infant!"

"No, Odysseus!" Neoptolemus replied, "You did. Your plan, your advise, your sin."

Odysseus felt dizzy...his stomach twisted dangerously but he did herculean effort to hold himself back. There was so much he wanted to say...so much he wanted to scream but he found it impossible to utter a single sound.

"TROY HAS FALLEN!" the happy cry from the inside of the castle drew them out of this, "WAR IS OVER! HOORAY! HOORAY FOR THE SACKER OF CITIES!"

Odysseus felt like losing strength off his legs. He didn't even know how to feel. However he knew one thing. He was feeling ENRAGED. It was as if the name that was given to him by his grandfather now suddenly made sense! He glared daggers yo Neoptolemus but the arrogant boy only smiled self-complacently...

"Looks like you were right, old man... You DID take the city in one night..."

Odysseus looked beyond the walls. If was true. The sun was rising...although his light was now duller in his eyes; the fires were stronger...

*

The walls of Troy had fallen and the real damage was apparent the next morning following the massacre. The houses had burnt almost to the ground and only the strongest walls were still standing upright; sad reminder of their previous glory. Odysseus was standing there with some of his men, watching the march of wounded or future slaves coming out of the city in chains or ropes. The ways were known. They would be distributed to some of the kings among them and the rest would be given by luck to the rest of the people. After that thy should gather and burn the dead before they would be good to go... Odysseus looked aged almost ten years more. He had dark circles under his eyes and he still didn't have time to wash himself from the blood. The thick liquid had formed a crust upon him by that moment. Helen was secured and brought out of the city to safety by Menelaus. So everything seemed to be in place. Then, why would he feel as if he had to use all his will to endure it and keep a stone calm face? His attention was drawn to the part of the procession. It was Andromache, the queen and widow of Hector. Odysseus grimaced. He had hoped he wouldn't face that woman. She was walking upright with the dignity even the greatest of Queens would be jealous of, as if she were the mighty Hera. Even if she was in chains she was still holding her head high. Odysseus learnt that she was to be given to Neoptolemous. He watched the queen marching to be given to the man that murdered her son... The man they now called Sacker of Cities didn't know which was sadder for her. He had tried to persuade Neoptolemous to take another but all his pleas or even manipulation fell on deaf ears. In the end he wondered if it mattered... At that moment his onyx eyes locked with the eyes of the queen. And then he saw her face transform from purr dignity to pure hatred in a matter of seconds!

"ODYSSEUS!" she yelled at him, pulling the chains with all her strength, "YOU SPAWN OF THIEVES AND RAGGED SCHEMER! THIS IS ALL YOUR DOING! GODS SHALL THROW THEIR RAGE UPON YOU!"

Odysseus didn't have time to defend himself.

"It was all your idea! Your plan! You scheming bastard could not fight with honor! But how could you! HOW COULD YOU!"

Her rage gave her strength anew as she managed to crawl closer. Even Odysseus took half a step back.

"HE WAS JUST ONE YEAR OLD ODYSSEUS!DO YOU HAVE NO HEART?!"

The king of Ithaca froze. He had no idea how she had found out about it but then it hit him. Talthybius! Of course! He must have talked to her.

"HE WAS JUST A BABY! HOW COULD YOU!"

"I didn't..." he whispered more to himself than anything else

"CURSE UPON YOU!" she drew her chains again and even the soldier needed to pull back, "I knew they wouldn't let him live! But this?! THIS?! HE WAS JUST ONE YEAR OLD ODYSSEUS! Just one year-..."

And then there was a heart-wrenching cry. Suddenly her anger turned into outpost pain. Odysseus turned his head and realized the reason. The small wrapped up ball could be nothing else but the remains of her son. One of the Greeks was transferring them to the pyre for the funeral. Odysseus cursed everything he believed in. He had hoped they would be spared at least of that! Both her and him. Andromache fell on her knees trying to release herself and get closer to the wrapped up package.

"MY BOY!" she cried, "AH! MY BOY!"

The soldier was ready to take the package away but Odysseus stopped him.

"No! Let her mourn!"

Unwillingly the man placed the child on the ground as she crawled over it, hands still tied up, not allowing her to wrap her arms around the remains of her son or even scratch her cheeks to mourn... Odysseus watched her kneel almost like an animal mourning her calf, leaning her forehead against the bloodied cloth

"MY BEAUTIFUL BOY!" Andromache's voice rose in an inhuman tone of cries and woe

The king of Ithaca felt his heart pinch. Yes, he has heard that cry before. It was an eternity ago in Ithaca...when Palamedes had come to pick him up...

*

Odysseus was plowing the field, singing an incoherent song. He was moving his head to an unmatched rhythm. He had tied one donkey and one cow to the plow, plowing in a totally messy way. He seemed to pay no mind. Odysseus was very keen upon his disguise as a madman. Palamedes was watching the scene with Penelope from afar as his beloved queen was playing with their son in her arms.

"He has been doing that all day..." Penelope said in her melodious voice, "He listens to no one when they tell him that this is not right. My husband insists that this is the best way to plow the field."

Penelope knew her part very well. They had agreed upon it after all. Part of it was her idea too. She didn't want him to go to war and he didn't want either. Not now that they had their son to take care of. Palamedes looked suspiciously at the scene.

"I find it hard to believe the mighty Odysseus losing his mind like this...it is so fast and so sad to be true..."

He approached closer.

"Come on, Odysseus, son of Laërtes! We have work to do, we have to get ready for the war!"

Odysseus didn't reply and continued his work. Penelope approached.

"My lord, as you see, my husband is a very sick man. He cannot help you in this war. I am afraid you must find someone else..."

Palamedes looked at her sideways before turning his gaze back at Odysseus.

"Such a shame though..." he whispered as if to himself, "Such a brilliant mind...be condemned in such a way... Seems such a waste..."

He eyed Penelope and something inside her heart flattered. She didn't like that look.

"But perhaps..." Palamedes started, "I might have a cure for his...illness..."

Penelope raised a brow.

"My lord?"

No sooner had she voiced that word and Palamedes yanked Telemachus out of her arms.

"NO!" Penelope cried out surprised, "What are you doing?! Stop!"

Telemachus screeched and cried as Palamedes ran towards the field.

"NO! MY BOY!" Penelope cried out

Odysseus barely had time to see with the corner of his eye Palamedes throw his infant son to the front of the two giant animals plowing! His mind did not think twice.

"WOOO BOY! WOO! WOO!" his mighty hands pulled the reigns stopping the plow barely a few inches away from the crying baby

Rushing to the spot he picked up his precious son to his hands, he raised him to his head, he inspected those little limbs and that soft head... He sighed in relief when he found no major injuries to that little body.

"Shh..sh sh...my boy..." he cooed at his son, "It's okay...it's okay..."

His gaze was fiery as he looked up to Palamedes.

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMNED MIND?!" he bellowed, "You nearly killed my son!"

Palamedes seemed uninterested at that coy as he smirked.

"Welcome back to the world of sanity, Odysseus. So now I believe we can talk about the preparations of the war, according to the oath you gave. Let us cut this charade and be men..."

Ashamed, humbled but above all ENRAGED, Odysseus looked up from his kneeling position, still cooing his son, trying to calm him.

"That was a low blow, even for you!" He growled at him

"You are the one to talk, son of Laërtes!" Palamedes retorted, "you are the one who always schemes to avoid his responsibilities!"

"Yes but I don't use innocent infants for it! I shall not forget this Palamedes!"

"I seriously hope you won't" Palamedes retorted, "So that we won't add 'oathbreaker' to your list of titles!"

*

Oh how enraged he had been! And yet now he remembered that moment for a totally different reason! Now he was seeing that woman who used to be a mighty queen screaming and crying over that small ball that used to be her son. She was doubling over and over, crying.

"MY BOY! NO NO NO! NO! MY SON!"

At some point she managed to grasp the cloth

"No! Don't-...!"

The cloth revealed a ball of flesh that the face and the little bones were no more recognizable. Odysseus shut his eyes closed for one secondm

"Telemachus!" He thought, "No! Not him...that's not him..."

Andromache screeched in woe as she doubled over at that small ball of flesh that used to play around a few days ago, hitting her chest with the last bits of her hands, pulling on her chains maniacally. Odysseus could take no more. He went close to her. She was a queen, she had to pull it together.

"Get up..." he whispered huskily, "please get up...for your son..."

Andromache shot her head up and spat straight on his face. The saliva from her mouth burnt his cheek like fire; like the fire that now existed in her eyes. Her woe had stopped, apart from those tears that turned her eyes red. Hatred returned...and it was all directed to him... The Man of Many Ways felt his heart turn into marble; hard and cold. He stood up to his full height wiping his cheek with his hand. He felt the dirt and blood smearing in combination with the spit. All of Troy's massacre had fallen upon him...

"Take her out of here!" He ordered in a low, cold voice

If I show weakness...I'm lost...

Andromache struggled only for one minute and that would be so that she wouldn't be separated from her son (the son that now a soldier was picking up again, sparing everyone from the unpleasant task seeing the child). She then followed her captures. She was a queen again. The only thing you could hear was some low cry.

"Odysseus..." Meriones approached him, "Are you alright?"

Odysseus winced in pain. He hadn't realized that he had clenched his fist so hard that it hurt him. He unclenched it.

"Yes..." he whispered, "Yes, I'm fine"

*

Sooo Part 2! Soon the closure will come! Dedication to some hood friends such as @aaronofithaca05 @simugeuge @prompted-wordsmith @loco-bird @jarondont

[husbandohunter]

What they love about you (part 1) [Genshin Impact]

Synopsis: It was as if the universe had changed when they saw you.

Characters: Diluc, Kaeya, Xiao, Venti x female reader

Part 2 here

(A/n): Okay okay I know I have some requests yet I decided to write something super indulgent. I'M SORRY! This past week I've just been writing so much angst *looks at inbox* AND MORE ANGST TO COME I really need that dose of Vitamin F(luff) 😭

===========================

Noctua's Heartbeat (Diluc)

For a man who had the whole world in the palm of his hand

With looks, fame and all the wealth he could demand

But what stole away his breath was something not to be bought

For it was merely the calming presence of your living and beating heart.

Your heart was a dignity born for empathy, so beautiful and magnificent with the kind of charm similar to white Cecilias blooming across Mondstadt's fields. Diluc would watch from afar, admiring their glow. It shines without reservation, blissfully unaware to a fault that he couldn't help but feel afraid knowing how the real world would simply pluck you from your roots and shape you in the way they wanted to. People who were tainted souls with tainted soles roaming from the shadows, constantly trampling on other's beliefs before leaving them to rot.

Ah but of course, Cecilias are wildflowers. No matter how many times they were stepped on, they could still withsand any force nature throws at them. Whether it'd be raging storms or scorching heat from the summer sky, you were the same through it all. Love. You were in love. You were in love with the wind, you were in love with people, you were in love with the world and everything that lives in it.

And so, Diluc wonders if that was the reason why everything suddenly began to shimmer.

He treaded on a path fated for loneliness while longing for the dawn to appear out of the night horizon-- where emotions once frozen until you came in to melt the ice. He blocked his heart but you tore down those walls. Diluc swore to never feel if it meant protecting himself and yet you held onto his shattered pieces tenderly, dearly, blowing the love of life and teaching it how to beat again.

Your heart was like a fountain of all the hopes he abandoned years ago and the dreams that no one had the courage to envision, cleansing everything within it's reach and freshening them anew. You were a being so in tune with your emotions that it sang through all that you did, laughing despite your obstacles and shedding tears when overjoyed, a single drop it was but still held the depth of the entire ocean. Diluc vows to protect you for your heartbeat was also his own. He'll gladly lay down his life because losing you deemed far worse than any death he could imagine.

~xx~

The other eye of Pavo Ocellus (Kaeya)

The knight's shining armour serves only as a disguise

When beauty from the surface is one's own demise

He used it to protect himself, decorating his words with pretty lies

But unmatched when facing against your truthful eyes.

They say the eye was an open window to a person's true colours. If that were the case then the painting inside him must have been an unsightly one.

Every once in a while the people of Mondstadt would speak about their Cavalry Captain's eyepatch, whether he was injured after being sent out on a mission or if he wears it for the sake of image. No one knows, it was rather unsettling, why someone would cover their eye despite not being injured. Secrets? Perhaps. Kaeya was known to be a man shrouded in mystery after all.

Your gaze was his Death After Noon. Sparkling upon the surface yet with the tasteful allure so captivating that it was almost dangerous. Just one glance and he was intoxicated, eventually leading to a slip of the tongue, revealing what was buried deep within his contaminated essence. Kaeya hated that you had the uncanny ability to see through his mask. Your innocence so contrasting, he felt like looking into a mirror, reminding just how much of an ugly person he truly was in comparison.

But mirrors are easy to break, no?

The thought delivers a sinister smile on his face. Pitiful-- is the state where you were. Pitiful-- it's what he is. How could he think of such things when all you offered was kindness? Unlike Kaeya, you were an honest person, always wearing your emotions on your sleeve and unaware of the devil's vicinity. He was tempted by the invite to crush you and run away like the coward he was meant to be. However as he stares deeply into your eyes he realized they weren't made of glass. They were gems. The most precious gems hardened by the pressures of experience.

In the shine of thine eyes resides the stars and the moon as if stolen from the Abyss, leading to the edges of the universe that was blessed within your mind. The look of curiosity filled with rich hues all held by a soulful stare while they pierced through the armour shaped around his heart. It was your ability to recognize beauty amongst the most wretched of things that he fell so hopelessly in love with you because for the first time someone had seen him-- his flaws and his faults, his abyss painted darker than black but loved him despite it all. As he drowns himself in the world of your gaze, Kaeya prays to never be the one who will steal away those stars or moon because they looked the most beautiful on you.

~xx~

The Winged Nemesis who flew towards the Sun (Xiao)

He looks at your face as if he saw spring for the first time

An unsual encounter, wondering how could something be so sublime

The yaksha stands upon the corpses while reaching for the sky

Seeing the sun in your smile that he wishes to fly

Xiao has dealt with the cards of death and won through many of it's games. But his life was a gamble as the karmic binds may one day bring the same fate that was done upon his comrades-- insanity, murder and corruption. So he swears an oath to his god and himself, ensuring the darkness only he could bear does not seep into the light.

A gust of wind sways in when you pass by, he was struck by pensive bewilderment because happiness was a feeling unknown to him. It was the expression you made whenever you greeted him good morning. The complexion you had while charging through life's challenges. And the face you wore even during the times where there was no reason to smile. Xiao has felt the might of the sun for her light will never be exstinguished by his darkness, he could only succumb to it.

But you were not just the sun, you were the flowers that bloomed beneath her heavenly sky and the birds that chirped upon those earth-like trees. You were a whole new world he didn't dare to touch because dreams were delicate and his cursed self would only devour them until nothing was left. Still, the mighty sun shines through it all, stretching out her rays like a welcoming embrace until the universe had been revitalized, giving birth to new life after winter's storm.

If pictures told a thousand words then he had a thousand reasons and more to love you. Xiao witnessed the sweetest joy decorated by pink petal blossoms dancing around him, the one who pulled him out of his spiraling trance of darkness. The breath he takes no longer felt suffocating and instead was replaced by the smell of nature's greatest gifts: you. Stay away, he says, because there were times where you shone so brightly that he had to look elsewhere. Your rays burned him and he thinks it might drill holes into his wings. Painful it may be but if the splendor of spring could only be admired after the harsh cold snow, then maybe pain and love were only two sides of the same coin.

A world without the sun--such unfathomable thoughts--is a death he does not wish to deal with.

~xx~

A song she sings for the God of Wind (Venti)

Man lives by the power of the tongue,

Whatever Man speaks is aligned with Man's choice.

Hearken when she talks for her words are to be sung,

Because not only was she lovely but so was her voice.

-Venti

There were many reasons why Venti loved music. The freedom to express oneself when words weren't enough, allowing one's spirit to flow out of their mouth and be with the wind. It was the feeling he had when he listened to you because your voice was sweeter than any song he sang or played.

When you speak it was as if the world around you danced, bringing them to the mercy of your stage. Like standing upon the soft grass while letting the sparks of dandelions dust against his own skin, Venti would close his eyes as he hears you speak-- it was you, just you and that was all he needed. He swears that no one in the world could sound as living as you did because it was the words you say that stole his heart away.

The vibration in your tone was fleshed with kindness yet so sure and firm to the point it could even bring a god to his knees. If he were a sailor then you were the siren, enchanting him with your bell-like voice and bringing him to a territory where he can never escape from. It was the spell of your divine song, his Carmen Dei, that tricked the trickster. Venti did not mind as long as he was able to feel the blessing amongst his ears.

[mrsalwayswrite]

Rage Like Ice (Sihtric x Reader)

This is my first time writing Sihtric, so let me know what y’all think!

Warnings: assault, attempted strangulation, aftermath of assault (I promise the assault itself is only brief)

Words:2,100

Tag List: @happyveday​ @evelynshelby​

  Thyra dabbed away the blood dripping from your split lip. You could see her wanting to say something but soon as she opened her mouth, something would flicker in her eyes and she would snap her mouth shut. 

 "Thyra… I am glad it was me. We don't need Beocca committing murder." You tried to both tease and soothe, even as you winced after you attempted to smile. 

 She smiled faintly but you could tell it was hollow. Her lips moved but her eyes remained sorrowful. "The gods were watching over us." She murmured in her gentle voice. 

 You nodded. Being the only two Dane women in Wintanceaster and both having been saved from different places by Uhtred and his men, you two had bonded. She had become the sister you never had. 

 "Sihtric may kill him though." Her fathomless eyes dropped down to the bruises forming around your throat then back up to meet your own. 

 "Shite. I need to cover it up."

 She stared, eyes trailing over your face and neck. Most likely realizing the improbability of hiding the evidence of the fight. "Let me see what I can do." She dropped the bloodied cloth onto the table next to you, then spun on her heel and walked towards the bedroom without another word. 

 Soon as she was out of sight, you dropped your head into your hands and exhaled like it would dismiss all the tension and frustration rolling around in your gut. Your throat was beginning to ache and talking made it worse, even as you tried to mask the pain. You did not need Thyra heaping anymore guilt onto herself. Especially when it was not her fault. 

 The afternoon had not gone according to plan. King Alfred had summoned Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric to talk about Dane raids. Of course, Beocca tagged along, most likely in an attempt to keep Uhtred in line. Osferth had said something about visiting the church to pray. So while the men were gone, Thyra and you planned on taking a leisurely stroll through the market, getting supplies for a special dinner and working on it together before the men returned. You knew the simple act of making a meal with female company was something she missed from her childhood with her mother, so you tried to do it every time you could. 

 Of course, fate had other plans. 

 On your walk, a Saxon man yelled 'Dane whores' at you two from his seat at a pub. When you two ignored him, arms locked together and you rolled your eyes… apparently that was the wrong action to take. He stumbled out of his seat, not quite drunk but certainly not sober, and followed like a stray cat, hissing and trying to be threatening. 

 What you did not expect was for him to sneak up from behind and shove you forcefully to the ground. It may have been the dismissive look you had given him or how you told him to 'just leave us alone, bastard', but he focused all his anger out on you. He shoved Thyra to the ground also, kicking away her basket, spilling all its content onto the ground. After hitting the ground, you rolled over, Sihtric's training forcing your body to move, to be ready. Before you could move further, the Saxon knelt over you, pinning you beneath him.

 Time blurred before your eyes, unable to vividly recall what happened next.  

 You remembered his hands around your throat, the weight of his body on your hips. You remembered Thyra screaming and trying to beat him off but he shoved her away again. You remembered trying to get him off, lungs shrieking, desperate for air. You remembered your mind demanding, pleading for escape. After all you had survived, after all you had endured… this could not be your end. You remembered in a last-ditch effort, grabbing the dagger you had strapped to your waist and in a Herculean attempt, stabbing him in the thigh with it. 

 Then, you escaped. 

 A crowd formed at the sight of the fight. Two men grabbed your attacker, restraining him as he snarled at you, blood dripping down his thigh. Thyra and you did not wait to see what happened next. She snagged your hand and you two raced back to her home. 

 Now, you could feel your hands shaking. You leaned back in the chair to look at them, laying in your lap. There were some droplets of blood on your skin. Either from you or him, you were not sure. 

 Your dagger was next to you on the table, cleaned off thanks to Thyra. A gift from Sihtric. When he gave it to you, he explained he hoped you never had to use it but wanted you to always have some kind of weapon on your person. Wessex was not Daneland but it still was not entirely safe. 

 This was the first time you had used it. 

 A commotion outside drew your gaze to the door just as it opened and those that you called family spilled in. Beocca led the way into his small home, grumbling and throwing glares at Uhtred and Finan, who were laughing. Osferth came next with a blush on his cheeks. Whatever they were teasing Beocca about, you doubted it was appropriate. Lastly, Sihtric walked in shaking his head. 

 Your heart thudded a rapid tattoo in your chest as your eyes met his. Those eyes that saw so much, that were clever and loyal and oh so trustworthy. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth and with that, the air left your lungs faster than when you had been knocked to the ground. Even after all this time, he still left you breathless and giddy like a young girl with her first crush. 

 Most of all though, he made you feel safe and cherished. 

 Thyra stepped back into the main room, eyes wary and jumping from the men to you and back. She gripped a scarf in her hand but it was too late. 

 When Beocca started talking, you ripped your eyes from Sihtric, dropping your head to stare at your still trembling hands in your lap. 

 "Thyra, dear. Are you alright? We heard there was a fight in the market today."

 Before she could answer Beocca, Finan spoke, throwing himself onto a chair with a cheeky smirk. "Oh aye, we 'eard some fool started a fight with some whores and got stabbed. I'd love to find out who the whores were, perhaps see what other moves they have?" He wiggled his eyebrows making Uhtred chuckle. 

 You could not help sneaking a glance at Thyra, whose own concerned gaze met yours. Was that the story being told by those who witnessed it? 

 Then what you dreaded happened next.

 The sound of footfalls came towards you. You clasped your hands in my lap, hoping to stop the trembling, wishing there was a way to magic the bruises away. It was too late though. He knew. Somehow, he always knew when you were in trouble, or hurting or just needed him. 

 Sihtric stopped, standing right in front of you. You could see his legs and boots but you refused to look up. 

 "Look at me." He said softly, yet the command rang loudly in his words. You shook your head, tears gathering in your eyes. 

 With a tender touch that seemed counterintuitive to his warrior skills, he cupped your chin, lifting it gently. That intense gaze swept over your face, drawing answers without even asking you a question. His thumb touched your split lip, as if confirming what he was seeing was not an illusion. When those dark eyes moved lower, your breath caught in your throat. You witnessed the moment he saw the bruises on your throat. His eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, his body suddenly tense and wound up like a coil, but his touch remained soft on you.

 All the sounds of those around you vanished as he met your eyes once again. It was just him and you in this moment. 

 "Who did this to you?" 

 You flinched at the ice in his voice. Oh, this was far worse than anger. You knew of the anger that could burn through him, especially in battle. This though… the way frost practically coated his breath, the stillness that covered his body, the dead silence after his question. This was not the fire of anger so easily witnessed in others. No, this went beyond that. This was the icy depths of rage and fury. This was not something that would burn out after a quick fight. No, this lingered until the rage thawed away… only satisfied when the blood debt was paid. 

 He whispered your name, sweeping away a stray tear that escaped from your eye. "Who did this?"

 "Some drunk. It doesn't matter. We got away." You croaked out, your throat suddenly feeling swollen as if words and emotions were stuck there.

 He turned to the side, keeping his hand under your chin, baring your neck for all to see, and looked at Uhtred. "Lord… permission to hunt down this bastard and finish what he started."

 "Sihtric, no…" You whined but he ignored you. 

 Uhtred's eyes narrowed, flickering across your face and neck. "Shouldn't be that hard to hunt the bastard down. He'll be limping from a dagger to the leg."

 "Uhtred, Sihtric, no." Beocca moved to stand in front of the door. "We shall bring this matter before the king. Let him decide justice. You cannot commit murder."

 "It's not murder if I'm stopping him from attempting to kill her again!" Sihtric stated coldly, eyes narrowed, body almost vibrating in rage. "That's protection."

 "Sihtric, please, no." You clawed at him, trying to keep him with you. "Stay with me."

 Finan stood up, hands raised in an unnecessary show of surrender. "We'll find the bastard, Sihtric. We'll deal with him but not when ya eyes are seein' red, aye? Father Beocca and I can go to the king right now. Uhtred and Osferth can find that piece of shite. We won't let this happen again."

 "Please." You tried once again. At this point your voice was no more than a whisper, the dull ache transforming so it felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper against your throat. The adrenaline from earlier had drained and now exhaustion replaced it. All you wanted was for Sihtric to hold you, to stay and not race away on a man hunt for that damn drunk. "Please…. just stay with me."

 The Dane stared at you for several long moments, those dark eyes trailing a heat over your exposed skin. Finally, his hard gaze shifted to look at the men across the room. He gave a single nod, draining the tension in the room. Immediately everyone started moving, either to fulfill their duties or to escape from Sihtric's cold fury. 

 "Thyra, come with me." Beocca said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and escorting her outside. Finan and Osferth slipped out quickly with them. 

 Uhtred moved closer, eyes scanning over you. "Did he harm you anywhere else?"

 "No, lord."

 "We'll take care of this. One way or another." He said, but the last part he directed to Sihtric. You could see the understanding in Uhtred's eyes. If someone put their hands on Gisela like that, he would be out for blood…. and no one would be able to stop him. 

 "Thank you, lord." 

 After Sihtric's comment, Uhtred nodded once more to the pair of you then stormed out of the small home, presumably on his way to hunt down the man that hurt you. 

 Once alone, Sihtric whipped around, his hands cupped your face. The desperate fury and fear no longer hidden away on his face. "No one touches you. No one." He hissed out, a hand lightly trailing down your neck. 

 Many times before he had teasingly told you that the only thing to ever adorn your neck should be his lips. You had even stopped wearing any form of necklace because he would complain that it got in his way. Now seeing the bruises marring his favorite place to lavish his affection on you, you knew this only fueled his blood lust. 

 "I know. You taught me to protect myself and I did." You tried to soothe, your hands gripping the front of his tunic.  

 "I should have been there."

 "No, you were doing your duty. You were with Lord Uhtred." You paused. "This is not your fault."

 His voice dropped to a strained whisper. "I can't lose you."

 "You won't. The gods brought us together, they would not tear us apart like this."

 He pulled you against him, wrapping his arms around you and kissed the top of your head. With your head against his chest, you could feel the last of his icy rage thawed away as you sank into his embrace. 

 "I swear you're never leaving my side."

 You smiled, burrowing your head further against his chest. "I could think of worse places to be."

[emilia3546]

Shadowsinger Part 2 - Gwynriel

ACOSF Spoilers! Do Not read this unless you have finished ACOSF and the Azriel bonus chapter

*

*

*

*

*

Part 1

*****

Gwyn hadn't seen Azriel for days, not since she'd found him on the roof, he'd been called away for some sort of emergency, and she hadn't even been able to explain that she wasn't following him, she should never have joined in, he'd clearly wanted to be alone, perhaps that was why she'd run away. She groaned, and tried to focus on the pages in front of her, tried to disappear into her book like usual, but something kept her mind on the Shadowsinger, she found herself reading the same sentence three times while thoughts of him swirled in her mind. It wasn't that the book was bad, it was actually one of the best ones she'd read that month, but she couldn't help but see herself in those pages, herself and Azriel.

She almost threw the book across the room in disgust at the beautiful declaration of love, book Gwyn had no trouble talking to book Azriel about her feelings. She rolled over in her bed and pulled the blankets tighter around herself. She was such an idiot. Each time he'd been at training, she'd made sure to ask him for help, just to be closer to him, but maybe he thought she was pathetic now, that she couldn't do anything. Not that she was perfect, but she probably didn't need one-on-one training for swordplay and hand to hand combat, archery yes, but that had been the first time she'd ever shot a bow. Although if he was away much longer, Mor would have had time to teach her all she needed to stop personal tuition.

Was she so wrong for wanting to spend time with him? He'd seen her at her worst, her absolute worst, and he hadn't flinched, he'd just protected her when she couldn't protect herself. She still remembered the undiluted rage in his eyes when he'd killed the males pinning her down, still remembered the gentleness of his touch when he'd given her his cloak. Perhaps he still thought of her as that scared girl, perhaps all her asking for help was annoying, but how could she find another way to spend any sort of time with him?

*****

Azriel hated Windhaven. He hated Devlon. But mostly, he hated his own cowardice. Gwyn had found him that night because she was meant to, but he had been too slow, he had allowed her to think he didn't want her there. And then he had run away, faking an emergency. He struck the target again, and it splintered under the force of the blow, the sword cleaving straight through the wood, earning alarmed glances from the males around him. It was true that the camps needed inspection, but that could easily wait until Cassian got home, it wasn't urgent enough that he should have made Mor take over training the priestesses. He rotated his wrist, striking the second target with a backhanded blow that almost cleaved it in two.

For hours he worked through his thoughts, leaving far too many training targets in splinters, much to Devlon's dismay, who glared at him when he walked off the pitch. Azriel ignored him, heading straight for Rhysand's mother's old house. He fell into his old routines, dumping his weapons in the rack by the door, checking the house for any unwelcome visitors before a bath. He even left out a bowl of stew on the side for the female who had taken him in when no one else had, muttering the familiar prayer to keep her soul, and her daughter's soul safe in the afterworld. He should get back to Velaris, but even once he had tidied up the kitchen, even once he had cleaned the entire house, by hand, twice, he couldn't force himself to go outside.

He didn't get out of bed the next morning, only emerging at noon when someone pounded on the door. He dressed, and glared daggers at Devlon, standing on the doorstep like he owned the house.

"What?" he snarled,

"I assume you're here for a reason,"

"What's it to you?"

"This is my camp. I don't appreciate spies. The other bastard 'inspecting' is bad enough without you sniffing around as well. Tell Rhysand-"

"High Lord."

"What?"

"Tell High Lord  Rhysand,"

"Whatever, tell him that if you two don't leave me be-"

"What? What will you do? And besides, I'm inspecting the camp, while Cassian is with his mate."

"Poor girl," Devlon muttered, and Azriel's attention snapped straight back to him, anger burning in his eyes,

"What?"

"I said, poor girl, whoever she is, to be mated to that sorry bastard." Something snapped, and Azriel sent a fist flying for Devlon's face, the sense of satisfaction when the camp lord's nose crumpled under his fist dragging him out of his wallowing.

"Do not talk about my brother in that way. Do I make myself clear?" Devlon just glared, and cradled his nose, "Do I?"

"Yes." Azriel snarled again, "I said yes, Spymaster."

"There, how hard was that? If I hear you talking shit about your General again, I won't be so forgiving." Azriel slammed the door in Devlon's face and packed up his kit, he'd finished the inspection yesterday anyway, and winnowed home.

The library loomed before him, but Azriel banked away, aiming for the House of Wind. He left everything in his room before reluctantly flying across the city to the River House. Rhys had said that there would be a family dinner if he was back, and he didn't want to upset him but not showing up.

*****

The shadows in her room flickered, and Gwyn leapt out of bed, almost screaming as they moved towards her. Not like the ones that followed Azriel, these moved maliciously, following her when she darted out of the room. She grabbed the dagger from her training leathers, and tested to see if she could fight them, she couldn't, and the moment she touched one, it spread, trying to wrap around her.

She backed out of the room, grabbing a candle as she passed, which did seem to keep the darkness at bay, but it slowly tested the light, as if trying to see if it could actually stop it. Gwyn  found her way into the main library, finding the whole place wreathed in the darkness from its depths, and the moment she stepped out, all of it shot for her, making a beeline for the candle she held. No one else had woken, and she opened her mouth to scream, but darkness surrounded her, blocking out the sound. She scrambled backwards, sprinting for the light above her head, the moon shone bright, perhaps the shadows were confined to library, if she could just get out, she would be safe. She was mere steps from the door when the darkness clouded again, partially barring her way.

She took a deep breath, marking the exact location of the door handle and barreled through it, sobbing in fear until she burst through to the night outside. Cool air filled her lungs, but the darkness from the library didn't follow, she stared back at it, sobbing again in fear when a tendril of darkness ventured beyond the doorway. She didn't know where she could go, but she ran.

*****

Azriel forced a smile as Mor breezed over to him, glad to see him finally, and ushered him to the dining room. He grinned for real at the sight of Rhys on the couch, holding baby Nyx with one arm, the other wrapped around Feyre, asleep against him. His brother grinned at him when he entered the room,

"Finally decided to join us then, brother." Feyre stirred beside him, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, chuckling as she opened her eyes, squinting in the light, and buried her face back into his chest, "C'mon, darling, dinner." Feyre sighed, and disentangled herself from her mate's arms before joining Azriel at the table.

"Nyx keeping you up?" He asked, and Feyre groaned,

"He always demands a feed like half an hour after I've managed to fall asleep, then won't fall asleep for ages afterwards. And it's not like we can just take it in turns either, Rhys can't feed him, and he won't settle without it." Azriel squeezed her shoulder,

"You're doing a wonderful job, both of you, babies are tough, but he'll only get easier to cope with." Feyre grinned, and laughed as Rhys set Nyx on the table beside her, leaving him to crawl across to his mother, grabbing for her, sighing happily when she swept him into her arms. Amren rolled her eyes, but Azriel could sense the happiness in her at seeing the baby.

Partway through dinner, Nyx started crying and wouldn't settle, no matter what Feyre tried. She was on the brink of tears herself when Azriel sent a shadow towards the child, leaving him hiccuping and giggling as he tried to catch it, but each time it slipped between his fingers. He grabbed for it again, and Azriel sent it twirling around him, earning giggles of joy as he played with the shadow.

"Thank you," Azriel almost lost concentration at Rhys' voice, "She feels like a bad mother when he gets like this,"

"She's not," he said, still watching both mother and son playing with the shadow, Feyre encouraging Nyx to try to catch it, and laughing at his squeals of joy.

After dinner, Azriel made to take off, but something left him deciding to walk up to the House instead. Wandering through Velaris' silent streets, he finally let go of the fear around talking to Gwyn. He would make sure to talk to her at training tomorrow, make sure she knew he wasn't annoyed that she had been there that night.

*****

Gwyn sobbed again as the darkness almost surrounded her, nipping at her feet, trying to trip her up as she ran. She spied a figure through the darkness of the evening and sprinted for them, not caring who it was. The moment she got close enough to see it was a male, he turned towards her, and started to run for her, wings flapping to give him more speed. Wings?

"Azriel!" She sobbed, and crashed into him, shrinking back as he pushed her behind him, the darkness swirling and eddying but not approaching him any further. Shadows swirled around her, but these were safe, protecting, they were there to look after her, not hurt her. Tears slid down her face as Azriel studied the darkness, trying to figure out what it was. She crashed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably when it vanished, leaving her alone in the street with Azriel staring after the darkness, clearly debating whether he should follow it and deciding against it, taking over from his shadows in looking after her.

"Gwyn," she barely heard him, but didn't flinch from his touch when he gently squeezed her shoulder, "I'm going to take you up to the House, is that okay?" She nodded, not sure she could speak without crying harder, and buried her face in his neck when he lifted her into his arms, holding her against his chest as he took off.

The view must have been magnificent, but she was still too scared to even marvel at the fact that she was flying. She was still crying when Azriel landed on the balcony and carried her into the House.

*****

Gwyn's scent was drenched in fear, and Azriel silently swore to end whoever had scared her, whoever had sent that darkness to hunt her, because that's exactly what it had been doing, hunting her. He had wanted to follow it, to find out where it had slunk off to, but with his shadows warning her that Gwyn needed to feel safe, he couldn't leave her, retribution could wait.

She was still crying when he set her down on a couch in one of the living areas.

"What happened?" He murmured, gently brushing her hair out of her face,

"I don't know," she whispered, "I was getting ready for bed, and it just - I don't know,"

"Hey, it's okay, you're safe now, it can't get you here," she nodded, and sniffed again, and he became painfully aware that she was only in her nightgown, and he grabbed a blanket to wrap around her, leaving his shadows to watch over her while he went to fetch her a hot mug of cocoa.

His anger had subsided a little once he returned, just enough that he could fully focus on looking after Gwyn. Her feet were still bare, and the rough stones of the street had torn into them, but she seemed to hardly notice the pain as he cleaned the cuts, and gently wrapped them in bandages. She hadn't said a word since his return, just silently nursed her mug of cocoa, staring into the distance.

Not knowing what else to do, he sank onto the couch beside her and squeezed her hand gently. She drained the mug, and fixed him with her gaze, tears still shining in her eyes,

"What was it?"

"I don't know." He admitted, "But I'll find out, and I'll deal with it. It can't hurt you, I won't let it." She nodded, and another tear rolled down her face, Azriel reached up to wipe it away, expecting her to flinch from him, but she didn't, she let him gently wipe away the tears stating to fall again.

"It scared me. I couldn't fight it. I did try."

"I know, I know," she thought he'd think less of her for whatever had happened, and he couldn't face that, "Gwyn," she didn't look at him, her head still lowered to hide the fear in her eyes, even as her scent betrayed her, "Gwyn." She did look up this time, "You are not weak. You are stronger than most people I know for even trying to fight that. I know many seasoned warriors who would've pissed themselves and gotten themselves hurt or killed. You did everything right. Running was your only option."

"Why did it run from you?"

"I don't know," he said again, "Maybe it feared my own shadows," the same shadows that were now gathering around Gwyn, trying to shield her from everything, twining into her hair, and making her smile from the tickling sensation. "There, do that again."

"What?"

"Smile." She did, and he mirrored the smile, his breath catching when she pulled herself into his side, resting her head on his chest, an arm around his waist. He rested an arm across her shoulders, and allowed a wing to curl around her. She sighed,

"Thank you, Az."

"Whatever for?"

"Not thinking me a coward." She wasn't talking about tonight, he realized,

"I was the coward for not going to you earlier. I'm glad you were there, and I'm sorry I ran away the next day." She mumbled something he couldn't hear, and snuggled into him, the fear in her scent slowly vanishing with each breath. They sat in silence, and Azriel started to absent-mindedly stroke her hair, soothing her gently as he held her. "Do you want me to take you back to the library?"

"No!" she gasped, "Please," she was still shaking her head violently, when he caught her hand,

"It's okay, you can stay here if you want, Nesta's old rooms are still empty. Mine are the level above."

"Can I stay with you?" She whispered, and he froze, "I'm sorry, I just -  I feel safe with you."

"Okay, there's a set of rooms across the corridor from mine that haven't been used in a while." He silently asked the House to get them ready for her, and a warm breeze brushing through his hair told him that his request had been carried out.

*****

Gwyn still held the blanket Azriel had given her as he carried her up to the room she was to sleep in. He set her down on the bed, and offered her another smile, which she returned, before slipping out of the room. Almost immediately, the darkness in the room seemed to creep in on her, and she clutched the blanket tighter. She was being silly, Azriel would never have left her if there was any danger, but she still wished he was there, even the two doors between them were too much.

Despite the darkness, she managed to fall into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning on the bed, until she woke only an hour later, drenched in sweat, and screamed. Moments later Azriel threw the door open, and ran across to her, dropping to his knees next to the bed,

"Are you hurt?"

"No, it was just a bad dream. Just a dream." She repeated, her fear fading as she remembered where she was, who was protecting her. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" He brushed her hair back, out of her face, and she nodded, trying to settle back down.

"Can you stay?" He paused, and she almost let him leave, but she couldn't, "I just - it's dark. I'd feel safer with you here."

"Of course, if that's what you want." he said, pulling a comfy chair across to rest next to the bed, sinking into it, even as he kept a hold of her hand while she drifted back to sleep.

*****

When Gwyn woke the next morning, Azriel was still in the chair, wings drooping onto the floor beside him, his head dropped sideways onto the back of the chair. His hair was all over the place, and she couldn't help but tidy it up, freezing when he opened his eyes.

"Your hair was messy," she said as an explanation.

"My mother used to do that," he murmured, more to himself that her, and she met his gaze, her hands still in his hair,

"Is she who you were singing about the other night?"

"Yes. That was the only lullaby anyone ever sang for me. Your voice, it was like the song was written for you to sing it."

"I was only copying you," she admitted, and squeezed his hands, and he smiled,

"Let's get some breakfast."

Part 3

[upcloseandchaotic]

Girls’ Night

This idea has been bouncing in my head for a while mostly as a distraction from doing my other WIPs. It was also originally supposed to be short.... I don’t know what happened 🤷🏼‍♀️

Summary: After helping Bucky with a rough round of nightmares, you decide that you need to have a Girls’ Night with your friends.

One Shot; 2,478 words 

Disclaimer: Bucky, Natasha, and Wanda are not my characters.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanova, Wanda Maximoff, Female!Reader

Relationships: Bucky x Female!Reader

In the sunlight his hair was a soft chestnut color, but now as you ran your hand through it and wrapped the silky locks between your fingers, the night seemed to darkened it to where someone could mistake it for black, almost as dark as the night sky. You hummed to yourself, imagining what his hair would look like filled with falling stars and circling planets, but then quietened down as you heard his voice start rumbling in his chest, a pained groan building in his throat.

Soon Russian words started falling sharply from his lips. His arms and legs started twitching, his brow furrowing. You quickly grabbed your phone from the side table, pressing the button to open your notes app and started writing down everything that seemed important, like names or locations. It looked as if his nightmare from a couple of hours before was coming back, but this time his dream went more in depth. You were able to pull some ideas of where this “vault” was located, names of people, random words that you think were once used to help program him. It hurt for you to watch him twisting and turning, crying out in pain, it left you feeling helpless even though you knew from experience that waking him up would just make it worse.

The longer it continued you felt a rage start simmering down in the pit of your stomach. It burned as if a coal had finally caught a flicker of a flame and grew until your hands were shaking and you were silently fighting with yourself to stay there with him and not go find the people responsible for his pain. 

Once his murmurs turned into more like whimpers and his twitching started to slow, you started whispering sweet nothings into his ear and gently combing his hair back from his sweating face. Slowly, without waking up from his dream, he started to relax back into the bed and eventually you can hear light snores signalling that he has fallen back into a dreamless sleep. Before you slide back into your spot beside him you grab your phone and send a message to Wanda and Natasha. Girls’ Night soon?

Wanda was probably still asleep, seeing as it was around five in the morning, but you weren’t surprised to see three dots flashing. Natasha seemed to have an uncanny sense of when Bucky was having nightmares and always seemed to be awake.

Yes! I’ll bring the nail polish! 💅

You smiled and sent back a gif before turning your phone off and threw it back onto the nightstand. Reaching out to Bucky, you smiled as he unconsciously moved to accommodate you; his arm wrapped around your shoulders and when you tucked yourself into his right shoulder he turned, curling up around you and throwing his metal arm around your waist. You could feel the warm huffs against the top of your head and his usual scent of spice, leather and gunmetal surrounded you. With the sound of his heartbeat in your ear and the warmth of his body seeping into you you close your eyes and drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

You were standing in the kitchen putting together a cheese and cracker plate when you felt two hands circling around from behind you, one warm and soft and the other cool and hard. They wandered under his shirt you were wearing and started creeping upwards slowly with gentle caresses.

Smiling softly, you put the crackers and cheese down to place your hands over his, halting his movement and . “What are you doing, Buck?”

Bucky’s chin dropped onto your shoulder and he whispered into your ear. “Do I really have to go, doll? You know I don’t care about what you all talk about. I’ll even let you and the girls paint my nails.”

You sighed and twisted around so you could stare into his aquamarine-colored eyes, which were trying to pretend to be charming but actually belied his nerves. He always required some more physical reassurance after having a bad bout of nightmares, and as much as you wanted to allow him to stay so you could comfort him you knew that this Girls’ Night was necessary and that he couldn’t be here. To ease some of his discomfort, though, you pulled him towards you and reached up to cup one cheek. He sighed and leaned into it and you watched as some of the tension in his jaw relaxed.

“Baby, I wish you could. If it was any other night it would be fine, but tonight it really has to be just us girls.” Bucky gave a dejected huff and closed his eyes, leaning a little bit more into your hand, “But I will take up your offer to paint your nails. I have a really pretty blue color that would match your eyes.”

When he opened his eyes again you could see a glint of mischievousness flash briefly and before you could blink he had a grip on your thighs and had you up in the air. You squeaked and quickly wrapped your legs around his waist. He laughed and sat you on the counter next to your half-done cheese and cracker plate. You gave him a mock glare and lightly smacked his chest.

“Don’t be like that, Doll,” Bucky crooned. He stepped forwards so that he was standing between your legs, pressed up against you. Leaning forwards, he hovered his lips so that they were a hairsbreadth apart from yours. You got a clear whiff of his favorite cologne and the mint toothpaste he used. “I was just havin’ a bit of fun. We both know how much you like it when I pick you up like the babydoll you are.”

“That’s true, but the girls are going to be here any moment and I still have a lot of stuff to finish getting ready. Also don’t you have to meet Steve and Sam in about 20 minutes anyways? You still have a 15 minute drive, Buck.”

He hummed, pulling your wrist off of his face to read the time on your watch. When he saw that he was going to run late he grumbled but backed off, allowing you to hop down from the counter but close enough that he could keep his hands on your arms in case you lost your balance.

You hurriedly finished up making the plate of appetizers while Bucky begrudgingly went and collected his wallet and keys and then you both met up at the doorway.

“Have fun with Steve and Sam, baby. Call me if you need me,” You say, leaning up to give him a chaste kiss. Before you could step back, though, he snuck a hand into your hair, keeping you close as he proceeded to deepen the kiss. After a few minutes though someone knocked loudly on the door, startling both of you into separating. When you and Bucky gathered enough braincells to answer the door, Natasha and Wanda were standing there, smirking and giggling at the dazed look on both of your faces.

“Come on, Barnes, it’s our turn with Y/N. You can have her later tonight,” Natasha joked, pushing past you and Bucky to place the wine bottles she brought with her on the living room table. Wanda snuck past too, dropping her bag onto the couch before starting to search for wine glasses in the kitchen.

Bucky chuckled, ignoring the two girls as he dropped another kiss onto your lips. “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Bye, babydoll, I’m countin’ down the seconds until I come back to you.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you heard a mixed chorus of fake gagging and awe-ing behind you. “Go on, Buck, I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t use all of the nail polish, ladies! I look forward to my manicure when I get home!” he shouted as he walked away, smiling brightly as you laughed. You stayed there, leaning against the doorway to watch him until he disappeared on the stairs.

“Hate to see him leave?” Wanda asked as you closed the door and stepped back into the apartment.

“But love to watch him go,” You sighed dreamily. Natasha groaned and threw a pillow at you, causing you and Wanda to break out into laughter.

“Okay, okay! Truce!” You cried, throwing your hands up.

“Fine,” Natasha conceded, “You live to see another day, Y/N… Now, what information did you find the other night?”

As Wanda opened the bottle of wine and set it to the side to let it breathe, you pulled up your notes and explained what Bucky had said during his latest nightmare as well as what you had been able to find from an initial search. Natasha stayed quiet during your explanation, responding with nothing but the occasional nod, and Wanda pulled her laptop out of her bag, starting it up and opening the files you all had compiled and sent them.

At the end of your report Natasha poured the wine into the glasses and took a quick sip. “This place sounds familiar to me, but I’m not 100% sure I have been there. I think maybe they used it as a threat in the Red Room? What were the names he mentioned again?”

When you repeated them, Wanda chimed in with “I think I’ve heard about that place, it’s in Siberia. Pietro and I were almost sent there a couple of times, they told us it was their top training facility.”

“Could you point it out on a map, Wanda?” You asked, quickly pulling up a map of Serbia on your phone.

“I think I could…here let me see.”

Wanda looked over the map and you bit your lip, twisting the wine glass between your fingers, anxious to see if you guys would have a break through.

“Here,” she said, pointing at a spot in the Balkan Mountains, “It’s closer to Serbia and it’s hidden deep inside one of the mountains.”

“I’ll try and see if I can pull some layout plans from the upload you did, Nat,” You said, reaching for Wanda’s laptop. As you did your deep diving into the files, Natasha and Wanda made a quick order for food from the Italian place around the corner.

Right after the food came in and Wanda had refilled all of the glasses, you gave a short cry of triumph and flipped the computer around to show them the layout of the Hydra base, as well as the information needed to get in. The three of you smirked while raising your glasses in a toast, celebrating that for once you were able to get all of the information needed..

The rest of the night was spent making a plan of attack and then double and triple-checking to make sure everything would go as planned.

You slipped into your apartment silently, placing your heels next to the door and padding softly down the hallway. The whole apartment was dark except for the lights of the busy New York street shining through the window. Using the little bit of light and muscle memory you managed to weave around the furniture, setting your jacket and purse gently on the living room table on your way to your room.

You could see Bucky, sprawled on his side of the bed, body facing the door as if he had tried staying up so he could make sure you got in all right. You sighed, letting your body sag against the door frame briefly even though you winced as your sore muscles ached, a reminder of what you had gotten up to tonight. Even though, originally, it was supposed to be just Wanda and Nat infiltrating the base, you had had to go in to hack some computers. It was just bad luck that those computers were guarded by some giant, beefed up Hydra goon who seemed to be immune to effects of a fucking taser. Needless to say, it was extra satisfying when he did eventually succumb to Natasha’s famous thigh chokehold.

Bucky was snoring lightly, but it seemed as if his sleep would be undisturbed tonight, almost as if his body sensed that one more nightmare was no more. You stepped forwards and cursed loudly as you tripped over his combat boots and went sprawling across the floor. As Bucky startled awake and flipped on the light, you sat there hissing and briefly wondered how satisfying it would be to just throw them in the trash right in the moment.

“Babydoll?” he asked, his voice rough and low as if he were still half asleep, “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” you huffed, wincing as you climbed back up,, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, Buck.” 

“Don’t worry about it, I was waiting on you anyways.” Bucky pushed himself up the bed and sat back to watch as you started to gather all of your supplies to get ready for bed. “How was your Girls’ Night? Did you get some free drinks tonight?”

“You know it,” you shot back, winking over your shoulder. You heard his breath hitch as you drew your dress up and off, revealing your black lace thong and push up bra. You turned around and before he could say something you know would lead to both of you not getting any sleep that night, you pointed a finger at him and said, “Not a word, buster.”

Bucky raised his hands in the air with an innocent expression on his face that was quickly overtaken by a charming smile, “I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’, doll….but now that you mention it, that set does looks stunning on you.”

“Ah ah!,” You cried, wagging your finger once more, “It is 2 AM, James Buchanan Barnes, and we are both exhausted. We’re getting some sleep before anything else, ya hear?” Bucky laughed but agreed, sinking further into the bed the closer you got to finishing your nightly routine. By the time you were climbing into bed yourself his eyes his body had sunk into the bed and his eyes were slowly blinking. Once you were comfortably resting on your side facing him he tucked an arm across your waist and pressed his hand between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer to his body until you both were unable to figure out where one started and the other ended.

“I’m glad you had a fun night with the girls, babydoll,” Bucky whispered into your hair groggily.

“Thanks, baby,” You whispered, smiling as you heard the soft huffs of his breath above your head. You kissed the shoulder closest to you and sighed as you sank into the warmth of his body, the bed, and the knowledge that Bucky was now safe from one more nightmare.

tags: @babiiface95

Dividers by: @whimsicalrogers

[caandlelit]

Tokoyami takes full advantage of the darker parts of his quirk when he threatens you. You feel trapped in an eternal darkness, like the air was being stolen out of your lungs. He speaks simply, but full of venom. He's shrouded by this aura of calm vexation. He feels toxic to even be around and his apparent apathy makes it more scary. He feels no guilt when he's reached that point. He's one of the slowest to get angry, and when he does, there's no stopping him. You'd never been scared of the dark until that day.

Momo says how she can buy everything you own. How she could take everything that gives you happiness until you're a shell of what you once were. How she has connections, and could ruin your life with a simple phone call. She radiates pure, controlled rage and you want to get away as fast as possible. You feel as if you're going to die at any moment and from that day forward you'll always look over your shoulder, too scared to sleep.

Uraraka is right next to Shoto in scary, and beside Izuku in surprising. She threatens in smiles. Her usual cheery attitude and excitement don't fade as she happily tells you how she'll make your life a living hell. She laughs as she says how she'll make you watch everyone you care about die before you, knowing you could have avoided it. She doesn't raise her hand, but she leaves you trembling and wetting your pants. You'll have nightmares. Sounds like Toga? It's because they're girlfriends.

Shoto is incredibly blunt with his threats. He somehow corners you alone, and calmly tells you how he could kill you, make it look like an accident, get rid of the body, and get away with it. In excruciating detail. He'll leave you sacred for your life, and regretting the day you got on his bad side.

Tsu will stare into the depths or your soul, daring you to piss her off. Being incredibly blunt, she will, just to make sure you get the message, just walk up to you and threaten to slit your throat or something.

Izuku has, after the first year, gotten into the habit of outright threatening pro heroes. It's blackmail more times than not, he has the info to ruin them. It started with Endeavor, then slowly All Might, after he got sick of beings pushed too hard, and extended until all pro heroes that weren't Aizawa, Present Mic, or Fatgum were doing his bidding.

Tenya regularly subtly threatens to call Japanese CPS on Endeavor to knock him down some rankings on the hero list. Nothing he can be charged with, and nothing that anyone out of 1A can trace back to him, but threats to keep him in-line. Have to make him know his place every now and then.

Izuku and Shoto would be the heroes parents want their kids to look up to. Momo and Mina would be the heroes parents want their female kids to look up to, specifically.

You know how 1A all want to be like All Might (mostly)? When they find out what being a 'Symbol Of Peace' really entails, I don't think they'd want to be on anymore. So they'd become beacons of hope, with Izuku shining the brightest out of all of them.

I know they don't technically have to live together if they're all part of one big hero agency. But like. It would be so fun if they did. And with the local rich kids (Momo, Tenya and Shoto), God knows it's gonna be some big-ass mansion. And it'd be sort of a throwback of sorts to the dorms. And I feel as if they'd the be glad for that familiarity, with how much change is occurring. And also, Bakugo and Monoma under the same roof would be fucking hilarious.

I want to see Shoto deck a fellow UA student for saying the wrong thing. Like maybe they'd say "Bakugo acts like a such a villain, no wonder everyone is scared of him." And Shoto would just look around to see Ochaco holding Izuku back with identical looks of rage on their faces. He'd see Bakugo looking down at his feet, trying his best to look unbothered, but his frown is more sad than his usual one. He'd see the Bakusquad trying to convince him it's not true. He'd see Tsu with her fist clenched, and Tenya glaring daggers at the person, and just deck the guy. Incases his fist in ice, to make the blow harder. Kick him a few times too. And would look up at their shocked faces and shrug, "No one fucks with my family. And Bakugo? He's family. All of you are." Deku just starts bawling there and then.

There's no UA traitor, and they just forgot to remove Touya from the family group chat.

After Monoma realizes that no one stops Bakugo from coming after him when he says dumb shit, learns to control his mouth by their first year of working/living together. Interviewers would ask him, "How do you manage with number 2 (tied with Shoto) pro hero DynaMite trying to 'kill you the time?" And Monoma would just answer, with deep tiredness in his voice "Speed, self control, and not sleeping."

HC that Uraraka's quirk isn't zero gravity. It's gravity manipulation, so zero gravity is just a subsection of that. Her quirk exceeds the rules of zero gravity, and it's plausible that because she didn't have much money growing up, she wasn't able to get it properly tested, which should have been free, but we've established hero society is fucked up. This means, essentially, that she should be able to create a black hole. It'd take a lot of training, and a crap ton of effort, and she'd never do it, but she could.

The heroes should be glad 1A (Shinsou and Izuku especially) are good people. Because they could ruin them. They could take down hero society by themselves, and they all have been given reason too! They're just good people, and the heroes should appreciate that. Because the moment they stop being good people? It's all over.

HC that Aoyama is one of those kids that has known he was gay since birth, and never had to come out because people just knew.

Just realized something, feeling sad so you must too. Shigaraki could have been Touya's Izuku in another world. In a less fucked up universe, they could've been friends. Shigaraki- Tenko could have saved him.

Monoma is trying to start an enemies to lovers with all of 1A, Shinsou included. He obviously knows nothing about social interactions, maybe the poor boy is just trying to flirt the only way he knows how: being a prick.

In the Combined Hero Agency, fans and other heroes wonder how Mei keeps up. She's the only support hero, makes (though her interns help) and designs hero costumes AND support items for everyone in the agency, while also making them for her interns when asked, AND has time to participate in family game night every other week.

She really has no secret, just a love for what she does, hard work, dedication plus a lot of time and patience. That doesn't mean she doesn't endorse the rumors she has some secondary quirk or something, she actually enjoys fuelling the fire and watching it unfold. Fucking with the media is her favorite pastime.

At some point, Class 1A convinced Shinsou to make Endeavor to say "I'm a giant piece of shit" live on TV. And that was only after they swore up and down that he wouldn't be kicked out of the hero course, and promised to take the fall if anything goes wrong. The worst thing that happened was All Might trying to say what he did was wrong but he was told to fuck off.

The boys in class 1A like lending their jackets/sweaters/hoodies/jumpers to the girls. And the girls don't return them a lot, and only Mei, who feels bad if she keeps them, returns them, surprising the boys. You leave yours in the common room, don't expect it to be there in 30 minutes. And it didn't stop there. The boys also take each others' cover-ups (Shoto started this by asking to borrow Tokoyami's), and take the girls'. They find them comfortable and soft, and they nice-smelling. Basically everyone's wardrobes (private stuff is kept separately) is up for grabs by second year.

1A and (most of) 1B (+ Mei) are just like so, physical affectionate with each other. So much that even when they're pro heroes, the media isn't sure which relationships are which. Even when they clarify, they don't do anything to stop the rumors and even revel in it, fuelling them from time to time. Like, Ochaco would show up to an interview wearing Izuku's gloves, and the next she'll be in Tokoyami's sweater. Not to mention that her and Tsu are dating a (former) VILLAIN.

What if Momo like, buys a house. But not just a house. Like when they're still UA students, she buy a house for all her friends that don't want to go home over the holidays/weekends. It's (surprisingly) a lot of them.

Katsuki because he doesn't want to get yelled at after almost dying a crap ton. Denki because his parents will be mad about his grades, and he's trying, but it's so hard, and he can't focus. Ashido because she gets made fun of back home for her looks. Shoto because Enji. Tenya because he wants some time away from the pressure of his family to "live up to the Ingenium name", and don't get him wrong, he wants to be the new Ingenium, but he also when he just wants to be Tenya for a bit. Ochaco because she's tired, and wants a break. She loves her parents, but it's so much stress. Tsu because she'd rather be with her friends. Shinsou because he doesn't have a home. And much, much, more.

I think Dabi would've turned out more like Shoto if he had an Izuku. They were incredibly similar, in mentality and around the same backgrounds. The main difference is that Shoto has people to support him now, Dabi didn't. If Dabi had someone like Izuku to help him, help break down his walls, to make him feel validated, and seen (which, as I stan Shiggy and Izuku being siblings because AFO, could have been Tenko in a different world) he wouldn't be a villain.

Kids that are worried that they'd lose their friends when they become heroes would be So happy too. Like "I want to become a hero, but what if my friends and I lose touch? I don't wanna leave them behind, even if we're pros!" While they'd just be there like "we've been with each other since high school bro. they don't have to go nowhere lol"

HC that their fans would start to believe God is a woman, because Momo.

And like, they would be regular visitors at schools and orphanages. None of them ever got to be kids, and very few of them had good experiences with school, so they would want to inspire more kids. That they can become heroes, too. They'd definitely keep all the gifts they got, plus Momo and Izuku seem like the type to pin up every drawing they get from their kid fans in their offices, no matter how good/bad. It'd be good morale, and the kids of the next generation of heroes would have perfect role models to look up to.

It'd be cute if 1A didn't go on to start their own hero agencies. I mean, they'd have to figure something out with Tenya and Shoto, but I feel as if they would go on to make one, big hero agency instead. They have the perfect selection of quirks and personalities, from rescue heroes to support ones! With a bit of help from their friends, of course. (Yes, Mei is included. I love her too much not too)

Sero and Denki seem like the type to get (platonically) married, though Sero is aroace (personal HC) and Denki is dating Shinsou. No one even blinks an eye anymore, too used to their BS.

I HC that Shoto was previously very closed off with his siblings, even after he was allowed to spend time with them. I want to see, after spending time with 1A, him open up. Slight things at first, like offering to go for a run with Natsuo, or giving Fuyumi a kiss on the cheek, to going to amusement parks with Natsuo, and talking about his day and friends with Fuyumi. They not sure what caused this change at first. But then they meet Izuku, and the rest of the IzuCrew, and 1A, and suddenly it all makes sense, and God do they love these kids.

I want to see 1A actively antagonize Endeavor, but only when there's no one that would tell around. Like, anything they can get away with legally, and somethings they can't, but they make sure to not get caught. Natsuo loves it.

I have this HC that around the middle of the year, 1A just gave up on sleeping separately, or the "everyone sleep in your room" rule. After the horrific bullshit they'd been through together, they figured out that sleeping in the same room as each other helped the (inevitable) night terrors that came. And setting a time that everyone should be in their rooms was disastrous. So now it's common to see Shoto or Izuku in Tenya's room, or Mina and Kirishima in Bakugo's, or some nights they all just sleep in whoever has the most space at the time.

I want to see 1A when they're in 2A move into the dorms again. Like, Enji would go "Shoto I don't want you in the dorms this year." And Shoto, who's been waiting to go back since the dorms closed and has already packed all his shit goes ". . . You've gotta be shitting me, old man. I'm gonna go see my friends, who I value more than you. Fuck you." Then freeze him, grab his bags and run to the spot where the rest of the class agreed to meet, to get food then got to the dorms.

Shoto is constantly being used as the class portable heater, and has learnt to accept it, not without making the occasional "I went through years of abuse and trauma for this" comment though

Hatsume and Izuku should be friends. I feel like they'd understand each other. The others try, but they're the only ones who can keep up with how fast each other's brains go.

I want to see 1A visit Rei in the hospital. It started as Shoto introducing his friends to his mom, but they grew fond of her, and now visit her regularly to talk, and update her on what's going on with like Shoto, or school

Imagine if there was no UA traitor, and they just forgot to remove Touya from the family group chat.

Rei should be introduced to Izuku as "my best friend", Tenya as "the friend who stops me from doing bad things", and Kastuki as "my other best friend, though he denies it". Shoto with his lack of social skills would just go "Oh Bakugo? We're friends. He's like that with everyone."

Rei doesn't need to know about the murder, what she doesn't know can't hurt her. And whenever Shoto tries to mention it to her, Tenya just slaps his hand on his mouth to shut him up, or nudges him aggressively until he (after a long time) gets the message .

After a while, when Izuku is asked what hero he wants to be like, he responds All Might. Why wouldn't he? All Might is bold, courageous, strong, and always saves people with a smile. The perfect hero.

But in his mind, he only has one true answer. Eraserhead. Mr. Aizawa is the perfect hero, maybe not to the public, but to his problem children. He's always there for them, and hasn't failed them like a lot of heroes and the society at large has.

Aizawa-sensei is the epitome of everything they strive to be, and though they'll always give different answers: All Might, Hawks, Powerloader, Cementoss, Lunch Rush, there'll always be one true answer. Something only they know. Mr. Aizawa is the ideal hero.

Dark Shadow uses they/them or it/its pronouns. Just makes sense, considering Dark Shadow isn't human, and likely doesn't conform to the same rules of gender we do

Considering Shoto (canonically) trauma dumps to make best friends (Izuku and Katsuki), it's only a matter of time until he does the same for Tenya. Especially after the Stain arc. And I feel like it'd just SHATTER his world view of heroes and hero society. He sees it through even more rose-tinted glasses than Izuku, so the realization that someone wildly viewed as a hero could so such things and get away with it would be totally new to him. Especially because the only experience he had was with Tensei, who is the ideal hero.

Back on my 1A and 1B hero agency bullshit, all their interns love them. They're always so kind to their interns and treat them really well, despite how they normally are or treat their fellow heroes. They remember what it felt like during their own internships, being scared and on their toes. They don't want their interns to feel like that around them.

In their shared agency, Kota and Eri intern there of course, but so do a bunch of other hero students. Some from Gen Ed too, anyone they feel like have potential, application or not.

The Combined Hero Agency (I don't have a name yet) most definitely teach their interns quirkless self defense, for all the times their quirks have failed them or made things more difficult. Hand to hand and using a variety of weapons.

1A is used to Mei and Izuku (Sometimes Tenya tags along. Very rarely, Denki) meeting up to talk costumes and mad genius shit, with Izuku's quirk analysis and Mei's skill in building, 1A would have the best costumes.

these are all so extensive and thought out .......... i love this anon uve put work into these they're so excellent .......... i love 1a family dynamics :( godddd i love them theyre lovely i love this AHHHHH MAN

[derekfoxwit]

Doctor Dorpden’s Critical Tips of Prestige

Note: This post was made with satirical intentions in mind. I’m only emphasizing because I’ve had a couple of comments on previous joke posts I’ve did take it seriously. With that said, here we go.

Tip 1: For starters, remember that when looking at the work, if the Mystic Knee twitches fast enough to punch a hole in a wall, this suggests that the work should be near the lowest of the low. No further development of opinion is needed.

Tip 2: For an equal degree of sophistication, give the warm comfort of nostalgia at least 5 times more chances than the new thing that MAY seem actually poggers.

Tip 3: If you have the anecdote of encountering shitty fans, then use them as a scapegoat for the show they flaunt over being shitty. Clearly, they’re always making the show the way it is.

Tip 4: If you haven’t heard much about a newer film or show you’re yet to watch, there’s an 85% chance that film or show is actually not worth your time. The Father (2020) isn’t as widespread as Joker (2019) for a reason.

Tip 5: At this point, just go for the Asian Artist Dick. I’m actually in the mood to see merit in that because I want to look edgy against cute doodles. Stop attacking Uzaki-Chan, you cowards!

Tip 6: Avoid the electronic tunes. They’ll make you smell like a bum, for there’s no structural in a music album that’s nothing but wubs.

Tip 7: If you see a Tweet that looks dumb, use it as a means of generalizing all the fans of a work as sharing that same opinion.

Tip 8: If the cartoon I’m given doesn’t provide me with mature ideas such as slicing an Arbok in half or fake boobs, then the cartoon might as well be on the same level as Teletubbies.

Tip 9: You know the music is (c)rap when it brings up drugs, regardless of lyrical context.

Tip 10:  Raw mood is the indicator of quality cartooning. If you’re quick to assume the worst in the newest HBO Max original cartoon, then you got thyself a stinker. Same thing if you were super bummed out when watching a new thing, regardless of anecdotal context.

Tip 11:  When you’re not given continuous throwbacks, ensure you’re as reductive and over-generalizing about the works shown as possible.

Tip 12:  If your hazy and imperfect as hell recollection of a children’s film, whether it’s Wall-E or Lilo & Stitch, would describe said film as “too sugary” or “key-waving schlock”, then that HAS to be the case. No meat on that bone whatsoever.

Tip 13: Simpler, more graphic style that isn’t as realistic as old-school Disney or Anime? You got yourself a lazy style with zero passion put into it.

UPA? Who’s THAT?!

Tip 14: Don’t trust anyone saying that western children’s cartoons had any form of artistic development after 2008 (with, like, TWO exceptions). If it did, why didn’t we go from stealing organs in a 2001 cartoon to showing opened stomachs in a 2021 cartoon?

Tip 15: Big booba is always important to the strong female character’s quality.

Tip 16:  Only MY ships count, for they provide me with a feeling of intelligence.

Tip 17: “PG-13″ and “R” rating just simply mean you’re not caring for expressing themes in a sophisticated manner. It’s just THAT simple until I dictate otherwise.

Tip 18:  In this age of smelly radicals, “Death of the Author” is more important than ever. Without it, this’ll imply that a classic like The Matrix was secretly toxic, due to what the Wachowskis have to say about it being an “allegory of trans people.”

Tip 19: Turn the fandoms you hate into your torture porn. Ask in Tweets to Retweet one sentence that’d “trigger” them. Go out of your way to paint all of them as blind consoomers. That’ll show them, and it’ll show how much more intelligent you are compared to those clowns.

Tip 20: Whatever the Mystic Knee dictates upon the first viewing of a work is what shall indicate the full structural extent of the film.

Tip 21: The mindset of a 2000s edgelord is one that actually understands the artistry of the medium of animation. Listen to that crazy but ingenious man.

Tip 22: Because sheer ambition makes me feel manly, the high pedestal you bestow upon a cartoon work should be based mostly on the mere mention or mere suggestion of serious topics. This means that pure comedy is smelly.

Tip 23: Is the new work tackling subjects that you’ve loved a childhood work of yours for covering? Just assume it’s super bare-bones in that case compared to the older case, for there’s nothing the older work can do to truly prove itself otherwise. Seriously, Letterboxd. Stop giving any 2010s cartoon anything above a 4/5

Tip 24: If the Mystic Knee is suggesting that the work is crummy, then consider any explanation off the top of your head for why the work in question is crummy.

Tip 25: Sexual and gender identity is inherently political, so don’t focus on them in the story. It’s no wonder why Full Metal Alchemist has caught on more than the She-Ra reboot.

Tip 26: Since I got bothered by a random butt monkey type character in a crummy cartoon, I’m now obligated to assume that having a butt monkey will only harm the writing integrity of the cartoon.

Seriously, Mr. Enter....what?!

Tip 27: We’re at a point where pure comedy for a kids’ cartoon is doing nothing but dumbing down the children. Like seriously...... I doubt Billy and Mandy would ever use farts as a punchline, unlike these newer kids comedies.

Tip 28: The difference between the innuendo in kids’ cartoons I grew up on and the ones Zootopia made is the sense of prestige they give me. Just take notes from the former instead.

Tip 29: Wanna make a work of artistic merit? Just take notes from the stuff I whore out to. It’s just THAT simple until I dictate otherwise.

Tip 30: Always remember this golden rule: If the newer work, or a work you’ve recently experienced the first time, was truly great, why isn’t it providing the exact emotions from your younger, more impressionable years?

Tip 31: If the Mystic Knee aims to break the bones of a character doing certain things (.i.e. having body count of thousands; lashing out to character; etc.), that means the character is bad and deserves no redemption.

Tip 32: If you want me to believe there’s any intrigue or depth in your antagonist, give them redemption, for I am in need of that sorta thing being spelled out. Looking at you, Syndrome. Should’ve taken notes from Tai Lung.

Tip 33: In a case where you’re going “X > Y” (.i.e. manga compared to western comics), ALWAYS CHERRY PICK! Use the recent controversies of the “Y” item while pretending that the “X” item has never had anything of the sort.

Tip 34: BEFORE you bring up those comments that shat on the original Teen Titans cartoon back when it was new, whether for making Starfire “more PC” or whatever.......the DIFFERENCE between them and me is that THEY were just bad faith fools that couldn’t see true majesty out of blind rage. I, however, am truly certain that calling any western TV cartoon from 2014-onward a work that transcends its generation suggests a destruction of the medium.

Tip 35: Based on fandom growth, it shows that any newer show isn’t being watched much by kids, but rather loser adults that act like children. Therefore, there’s more prestige in what I grew with.

Tip 36: The focus on children is bad at this point since the children of today have attention spans that flies would have.

Tip 37: A select few screenshots (or even one) of either a less elaborate attacking animation, less realistic game graphics, or a less on-model image in a cartoon indicates EVERYTHING about the work’s quality.

Tip 38: Consuming or writing media where characters go through constant suffering is little more than gaining pleasure out of it. YOU SICKOS!

Looking at you, Lily Orchard!

Tip 39: Whether it’s a sexual awakening story or just simply a romance, focus on a character being lesbian, trans, bi, etc., then it shouldn’t be in a kids’ work. It’s too spicy for them by default. Kids don’t want romance anyway.

Tip 40: The very idea of a western cartoon with no full-blown antagonist (i.e. Inside Out) is a destruction of animated artistry. Sorry, but it’s just THAT simple until I dictate otherwise.

Tip 41: Unless it’s my fluffy pillow, such as Disney’s Robin Hood, it should be obligated to assume the inserting of anthros is only there to pleasure the furries. Looking at YOU, Zootopia!

Tip 42: With how rough and rash The Beast was, it shows that he was more of an abusive lover. Therefore, I refuse to believe that Beauty and the Beast has any of the meticulous moral writing that most of Disney’s other 90s films has.

Tip 43: When you suggest one work should’ve “taken notes” from another work in order to do better, BE VAGUE! Those who agree will be shown to be geniuses.

Tip 44: Remember how morally grey Invader Zim was? That really goes to show how little the Western Animation scene has been trying since that show. Really should just be taking notes from that series (and of course anime).

Tip 45: Even if I have a radar that clearly indicates such, hiding the item I look for inside an enemy is always bad, for I refuse to believe it would be inside the enemy.

Goddamn it, Arin!

Tip 46: People struggle understanding your gender identity or pronouns? All there is to see in that is a giant cloud of egotism that reads “My problems” zapping another smaller cloud that reads “other people’s problems”. Seriously, kids are starving, so WHAT if you identity confused someone. Grow a spine!

Tip 47: Stop pretending that adaptations should colorize how a story or comic series should be defined. No way in FUCK can a cartoon or film incarnation become the definitive portrayal of my precious superhero idol.

Tip 48: Enough with your precious “limited animation” techniques, YOU WESTERN HACKS! All you’re doing is admitting to sheer laziness and lacking artistic integrity. Now if you excuse me, I’ll be watching more anime, since that gives me a sense of prestige.

Tip 49: If getting five times more detail than the 2D animated visuals have requires someone getting hurt, so be it. No pain, no gain after all.

Tip 50: Yes, I genuinely struggle to believe there’s this majestic level of layered material without having the most immediate yet still vague re-assurance practically yelling in my face. But that’s STILL the work’s fault, not mine.

Tip 51: Every Klasky-Csupo cartoon has more artistic integrity than any of them cartoons with gay lovers such as Kipo or the Netflix She-Ra show.

Tip 52:  If Sergio Pablos’ Klaus is anything to go by, we have no excuse to utilize those smelly as fuck digital animation “styles” found on Stinky Universe, Suck-Ra or Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turds.

Tip 53: Stop projecting your orientation onto works of actual talent. Seriously, how does Elton John’s I’m Still Standing expel ANY rainbow flag energy?

Tip 54: Hip hop and electronica have been the destruction of music, especially the kind that’s actually organic and not farting on the buttons of a beeping or drumming gadget.

Tip 55: The audience for cartoons has become significantly less clear over the years. We should just go back to Saturday mornings of being sold toys or shit kids actually want.

Tip 56: PSAs for kids shouldn’t be about ‘woke’ content. They should be actual problems such as doing drugs; not playing with knifes / outlets / matches; or acceptance.

Tip 57: The instant you realize a detail in a childhood work that’s better understood as an adult, you’re forced to paint that work as the most transcendent thing in the world. It’s just THAT simple until I dictate otherwise.

Tip 58: Before you lash out on ALL rich people, remember this: #Not All Rich People.

Tip 59: There’s nothing to gain out of the (c)rap scene other than becoming a spiteful, gun-wielding thug that sniffs weed for breakfast.

Tip 60: Since the Mystic Knee told me to get anal about prom episodes in several gay cartoons, this shows that writing about one’s younger experiences just makes you look pathetic.

Tip 61: Another smelly thing about Zootopia is how it was painting a police chief as stern and exclusive. #Not All Chiefs

Tip 62: Me catching a glimpse of Grave of the Fireflies as a kid and turning out fine shows that you may as well show kids more adult works without worry. No amount of psychological questions being asked will suggest otherwise.

Tip 63: There’s a reason why the Mystic Knee keeps leaning more toward the 90s and early 2000s than most decades. That knee KNOWS where there’s a sense of true refinement.

Tip 64: The BIG difference between rock and electronica? Steward Copeland actually DRUMS. All that the likes of Burial, Boards of Canada, Depeche Mode and several others did was push drum buttons.

Tip 65: One exception to the golden nostalgia is when the work in question doesn’t stuff your face with fantastical, bombastic stories. At which point, there can only be rose-colored blinds covering Nickelodeon’s Doug. Nothing of merit or personal resonance to be found.

Tip 66: Remember that the sense of nuance in the work comes down to there being everything including the kitchen sink, whether it involves multiple geographic landscapes; giving us hundreds of characters; etc. Only through the extremes will I be able to tell there is nuance.

Tip 67: Once you see a joke that has an involvement with sexual or violent content, just ignore the full picture and just reduce it to having nothing to it but “sex, violence, gimme claps.”

PKRussel has entered the chat

Tip 68: With all the SJWs messing up the art of comedy, lament the times where you could be called a comic genius, NOT a monster, for shouting out the word “STAB,” calling a gay weird, painting Middle Easterns as inherently violent, etc.

Tip 69: Guitar twang will always win out over (c)rap beats. There’s a reason your grandma is more likely to listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd than Kendrick Lamar.

Tip 70: Once the Mystic Knee notices a lack of squealing at the video game with linearity, that shows there’s more artistry in going full-blown open world.

Tip 71: Related to Tips 66 and 68, ensure your comedy gets as much information and mileage out of each individual skit as possible. EMPHASIZE if you need to. Continuously spout out your quirky phrase of “STAB” if needed.

Tip 72: Based on the onslaught of TV shows with many seasons and episodes, animated or otherwise, it shows that there’s more worth going for that than simply having a miniseries or a 26-episode anime.

Tip 73: Building off of the previous tip, you’re better off squeezing and exhausting every little detail and notable characterization rather than keeping anything simple and possibly leaving a stone unturned, especially if there’s supposed to be a story. 

Tip 74: Playing through the fan translation of Mother 3 made me realize how much some newer kids’ works just try too hard to get serious. Why even make the kids potentially think about the death of a family member?

Tip 75: The fear I had over Sid’s toys from the first Toy Story and similar anecdotal emotions are the be-all indicators of what kind of show or film is fitting for the children.

Tip 76:  Seeing this British rapper chick have a song titled “Point and Kill” just further exemplifies the fears I’ve had about rappers being some of the most harmful folks ever.

Tip 77: The problem with attempting to make a more “relatable” She-Ra is that kids aren’t looking for relatability. They want the escapism of buff fighters or something similar. This is why slice-of-life is so smelly.

Tip 78: Based on seeing the rating of “PG-13″ or “R,” I can tell that the dark humor is little more than “hur dur sex and guns.” Given the “TV-Y7 FV” rating of Invader Zim, the writers should’ve taken notes from that instead just so I can sense actual prestige.

Tip 79: The original He-Man has more visual intrigue in its animation than any of those smelly glorified doodles found in the “styles" of the 2010s and early 2020s.

Tip 80: It’s always the fault of the game that my first guess (that I refuse to divert from) on how I have to go through an obstacle won’t work.

Tip 81: Zootopia discussing prejudice ruins the majestic escapism I got from my precious childhood films from 1991-2004. Them kids might as well be watching the news. Now to watch some Hunchback after I finish these tips.

Tip 82: There is no such thing as an unreasonable expectation, and there’s especially no wrong way to address the lack of met expectations! For example, if you expect some early 2010s cartoon on the Disney Channel to be a Kids X-Files, yet you get moments such as some girl getting high on stick dipping candy, you got the right to paint the worst out of that show for not being “Kids’ X-Files.”

Tip 83: Related to my example for Tip 82, if you get the slightest impression of something being childish, you know you got yourself a children’s work that does little than wave keys and has basically nothing substantial for them. In this situation, those malfunctioning robots found in Wall-E are the guilty party.

Tip 84: Without the extensive dialogue that I’m used to getting, how can one say for certain there was any amount of characterization in the title character of Wall-E?

Tip 85: Ever noticed yourself gradually being less likely to expect an upcoming work or view a work you’re just consuming as “the next best thing”? That’s ALWAYS the fault of smelly “artists” (hacks really) and their refusal to give a shit.

Tip 86:  It’s obligatory for your lead to be explicitly heroic just so there is this immediate re-assurance that they’re a good one.

Tip 87: Without the comforting safety net of throwbacks, one cannot be for certain that there has been an actual evolution of a series or the art of animation and video games.

Tip 88: Don’t PSA kids on stuff they give zero fucks about. That means no gender identities or pronouns, race, etc.

Tip 89: Don’t listen to Mamoru Hosoda saying that anime women tend to be “depicted through a lens” of sexual desire. He’s just distracting from the superior prestige found in anime women.

Tip 90:  If you’re desperate to let others know that your talking points are reasonable, just repeat them over and over with little expansion on said talking points.

Tip 91: 7 or more seasons of art is better than 26 episodes of art.  EVERY TIME!

Tip 92: Always remember to continuously talk up the innuendo and mature subject matter of the childhood work as the most prestigious, transcendent thing of all time. With that in mind, there’s a high chance that your favorite childhood work will be better known than Perfect Blue (1997), and there’s likely a reason for that.

Tip 93: An art style that gives many characters relatively more realistic arm muscle details will always shine through more than any sort of art style done for “simplicity” (laziness, really).

Tip 94:  Seeing a few (like, even VERY FEW) people show more enthusiasm for Steven Universe over Invader Zim really shows the lower bar that has been expected out of the western animation scene compared to anime.

Tip 95: Electronic music makes less conventional time signatures cheap as hell. REAL music like rock makes them the exact opposite.

Tip 96: If your Mystic Knee suggests that the 90s cartoon being viewed doesn’t showcase a vague sense of refinement or artistic integrity, then every related assumption of yours is right. EVERY TIME!

Tip 97: Doing everything and the kitchen sink for one series or movie shows a better sense of refinement and prestige than any form of simplicity. THIS includes character design as well.

Tip 98: The advent of that Star Wars: Visions anime really shows just how stinky western cartoons have become.

Tip 99:  For those wondering, no, Europe isn’t being counted in my definition of “western animation”. Doing so is a complete disservice to prestige.

Tip 100: If even less than half of these tips aren’t being considered, you can kiss that prestige badge goodbye. After all, I SAID SO!

[drunkhemingway]

Sorry, did someone say “A Zutara selkie AU that nobody asked for?”

I thought I heard that, so find it on AO3 or below the cut.

sealskin and saltwater

Summary: Katara wonders, for the first time in her life, if this is what drowning is like.

There is a storm the night she is born.

Outside the caves, the sea rages and the wind howls in times with her mother’s cries. The aunts and grandmothers gather around and pet her mother’s hair as the labor wracks her body. The storm quiets for only a moment as she slips from her mother’s womb. Her mother baptizes her in saltwater and names her Katara.

***

For the first long span of her life she knows nothing but the warm caves where the tribe sleeps and the joy of playing in the waves and the lazy contentment of sunning on rocks. Her father teaches her to hunt in the shallows where the fish are plentiful, and her mother teaches her to weave shells into her hair, and her brother shows her the places where the shiniest rocks can be found. When storms toss the waves high above her head and lightning spikes and twists in tempestuous patterns, Katara is not afraid.

“The sea keeps us safe,” her father tells her. “And the sea will always bring you home.”

Katara and Sokka go to a beach covered in sea glass and shed their pelts while they collect blue and green pieces of sparkle to bring back to Kya.

She hugs them fiercely close, and tells them, “Never leave your pelt unguarded. Never, never.” Katara does not understand why this is important, but she promises anyway.

She understands, later, when Kya sheds her pelt and then does not return. Hakoda searches the beaches for weeks, and it is only when the winter storms come that he returns to the caves and admits defeat.

Katara and Sokka sing a mourning song. Hakoda listens to their cries and refuses to hunt.

Days pass. Kya does not come home.

Hakoda sings a song of lamentation and loss and unbearable pain; then he slips into the sea, and Katara does not see her father again.

***

The world of men is cruel, and rough, and unyielding. Katara knows this. But the best sunbathing is on the beach where men’s scent lays heavy, and the winter has been long and harsh.

She tells Sokka she is going. He cannot drum up the energy to care. He is wooing a female from another tribe, and he is focused on that. “Sure,” he says, and she takes that as permission.

Katara sheds her pelt when she hits the rocks. She hides it carefully, always. She remembers her mother, remembers the whispered words of caution while Kya brushed out her hair. Katara remembers her mother, who was strong and brave and beautiful and never came home. Katara will not be captured.

She sunbathes on the beach that is heavy with the scent of men, and does not fear them. It is the cold season, when the storms rage and the surf beats angrily against the shore. They are almost never on the beach during this weather; and if they were, Katara knows that she can grab her pelt and dive into the sea, and the sea will take her home. She is never unsafe while her toes dangle in saltwater. The sun is wan and thin and gray, but it feels warm and nurturing after so many months in her tribe’s caves. Katara basks in the glow of the winter rays and thinks that she should go across the sea, where she hears there are golden beaches that are warm and drenched in sun all year round.

It is then, naked and relaxed and daydreaming, that she sees him. He is tall, pale even by the standards of men. His hair is dark like the ink of a frightened squid, like the depths of the sea trenches where fish with long teeth hide. But his eyes are gold like sunset on shallow waves, gold like early morning, gold like the underside of a shell. Katara decides, on impulse, that she trusts him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and his voice is low and husky and concerned. Katara tries to meet his eyes, but he is looking at the ground and blushing. She frowns. Is he afraid? He removes the outermost layer of his clothes — a jacket, she thinks — and offers it to her. “It’s alright,” he says. “I won’t hurt you. Maybe put this on, though?” Katara does not take the proffered layer. She tilts her head, considering the boy before her. Her pelt lies in a small hole some feet away, covered by a rock. She could reach it before he drew his next breath, if she needed to. She does not want to.

“You’re a selkie,” the boy says, and Katara turns and disappears into the water.

Men are not to be trusted.

***

The next time she sees him, he is on a boat.

“He’s just a human,” Sokka says, when she leaves to follow the boat out to sea. Katara does not respond. She does not care to.

The boat hits rough waters while it pulls in its fishing catch. Katara sees her human near the bow — he is not in danger, and she is oddly relieved. A different human, one she does not know, falls from the boat. The sea, Katara thinks, will have its due. This boat of humans cannot stray this far from the shore without paying the toll.

But the boy is at the side of the boat, and he is yelling and throwing ropes and floating rings and wooden rods overboard, and suddenly Katara finds herself pushing the fallen human upwards and back towards the boat. They break the surface of the water, and he yells, and ropes fly, and Katara ducks back under the waves. Hakoda would be incensed to learn that she had saved the life of a human. But she could swear that she saw her human, the boy, right before she dove; and he looked like he wanted to say thank you.

***

She goes back to the beach. He is not there.

She sheds her pelt, day after day, and sunbathes naked on the sand. She cannot understand what keeps him away. She cannot understand what keeps drawing her back.

It is months and months and months before she sees him again. It is sunset, and the sand is bathed in red and gold when she sees him walking towards the water.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he says, when he finally finds her. “I didn’t want to hope.”

She says nothing, only pulls him towards the sea. If she can shed her pelt, surely he can sprout gills — and she has wanted nothing in her life so badly as she wants this human boy with ink-black hair and haunted eyes.

“I can’t,” he says. “But you should go back. The people I’m with will trap you, if they can.”

Katara tugs him towards the water once again.

“I wish I could,” he says, and sinks down to sit on the sand. He holds out an arm to her, and says, “Sit with me? I’ll tell you the story my mother told me about the very first sunset.” Katara sinks into the sand beside him, and listens.

***

“You’re obsessed with a human,” Sokka says.

“I can be obsessed with whoever I want,” Katara answers.

“Just don’t get hurt,” he responds.

“I won’t,” she says.

“Don’t let him take your pelt,” Sokka says.

“I won’t,” she repeats.

***

“Shall I tell you about the creation of the first lily?”

Katara nods.

“Alright. When the world was young…”

The tale does not matter as much as the voice that tells it. The story does not matter as much as the mind that spins it.

(His name, she learns, is Zuko.)

She speaks little, on the nights that she meets him on the dunes. He is there every night. She knows, because on the few nights that she did not come to greet him, she watched him from the waves. He waited, patient, for a long while, until finally he followed the dim light of the early-morning moon back to the world of men.

(His world is a world of men, and she does not belong there.)

His voice when he tells her stories is rich and sweet and full of life. Katara longs for a world that she has not seen or touched or heard of, when he tells her stories. She wants it; she wants to walk on streets paved with stone and buy candied fruit. She can only imagine it. He knows what she is; stepping away from the sea makes her heart seize and her brow bead with fear. She cannot leave her pelt. She cannot leave the sea.

Zuko asks for her name; then he never questions her again. He never asks after her pelt or her tribe or her cave; he simply tells her stories. She sings for him, sometimes, hunt-songs and songs of change and newness and wonder. When she leaves, he watches her until she slips out of sight beneath the waves.

There is some small, reasonable part of Katara that tells her not to return. She does not listen.

He tells her stories, night after night, of the Good Neighbors and the Fair Folk. He does not ask about selkies. He does not ask about the sea.

Katara returns to the caves and does not answer Sokka’s questions.

“What does he know?” Sokka demands.

She says nothing.

“You put us all at risk,” he accuses her.

Katara does not argue, and she does not speak of her human.

***

“I want you to stay with me,” says Zuko one day.

Katara does not answer him.

“I won’t ever make you,” he swears.

He is lying. Katara knows this. Humans lie. If she gives him her pelt, she will never see the ocean again.

She flees.

***

“You haven’t gone to the beach lately,” says Sokka.

Katara shrugs.

“What happened to your human?”

“He’s just a human,” Katara says. “You were right.”

She hunts with her brother, and sings the tribe-songs, and dances in sun-dappled waves. Just as she has always done. But her heart longs for the small rocky beach, and a boy with ink-black hair and golden eyes.

***

“I think I met the son of a seal-wife,” says one of the aunts one day, while they brush out their hair on the warm rocks outside the entrance to the cave. “He did not look like us, but he stood on the sand and sang a hunt-song. His mother must have taught it to him.”

Katara looks up, her heart clenching with an emotion she cannot name.

“How sad,” says another. “To know that part of you belongs in the sea, but having no pelt, no way to come home.”

Katara thinks of Zuko, standing alone on the shore, singing a song for her. Asking her to come back. She thinks of Hakoda, who sang his death-song and let the sea take him away, far from the tribe and their caves. Katara has always wondered if the sea had taken him back to Kya, in some way. If that was its way of taking Hakoda home.

She wonders where the sea will take her if she lets it.

***

She goes back, many nights later, when the moon is full.

He is asleep.

There is a hut on the beach now, a little ramshackle makeshift thing made of driftwood and covered by sailcloth. It is hardly more than a lean-to, something to keep the rain off of the camp he has made, with a sleeping roll and a fire pit. He is asleep now, breathing deeply and evenly beside the gentle glow of the coals that are all that is left of his cook-fire. He has built this, she knows, because he has been waiting for her.

(His hair is longer. Has she truly stayed away from him for so long?)

She sheds her pelt and lays beside him, content for now to watch him dream. Moonlight turns his skin to silver; his hair falls like a shadow over his face. She reaches out to touch it, and it is as smooth and silky as her own pelt. She strokes him gently, running her fingers lightly through his hair, fascinated with the way it slips through her fingers and falls back against his cheek. He does not stir. Katara hums softly, a song of longing and wanting and needing, a song of apology, a song of thanks. When she looks back down at his face, his eyes are open, and he is watching her like a man who is dying of need, like a sinner looking at their god, like a sailor seeing home after months adrift at sea.

“You came back,” he whispers.

She nods.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” he says. His voice is low, just a murmur, as though she is an illusion that will shatter and fade if he speaks too loudly. His hand comes up and strokes her face, once, gently.

Katara leans into the caress, and Zuko repeats it, touching her with soft, reverent fingers. He traces the line of her cheekbone, her jaw, her temple; he threads his fingers into her hair and smooths it away from her face. “I waited,” he says. “I think I would’ve waited forever. I came back every night, hoping you would return.”

She thinks of the long days since she has seen him, and the endless longing for their beach and his voice and his shy smile, and is glad that he missed her too.

“And you came back,” he whispers reverently. His finger traces the shape of her lower lip.

“For you,” she murmurs, and leans forward to press her lips to his. He pulls her closer, and she rises over him and fits her body to his, and the feel of his skin on hers washes over her like crashing waves. He feels like the sea, like the endless depths and steady pull of the tides. His skin tastes of saltwater, and when she cries out his name it sounds like waves breaking on the shore.

Later, they sit close to the water, huddled together in a blanket, naked limbs tangled together under the wool. Katara is amused at Zuko’s discomfort with nudity; his body is beautiful, long and rangy and silvery-pale in the moonlight so he looks nearly as fey as she. But he is human, and they are odd about things like this, so she lets him wrap the blanket around them before he pulls her against him and holds her close.

“Come back to me again,” he whispers as he nuzzles her hair.

“Always,” she murmurs back.

***

She comes back to him, again and again.

He never asks her to stay, but his golden sunset eyes are sad when she slips back into the water. Katara thinks that she would give up more than the sea to prevent his sorrow.

“I think I love him,” she tells Sokka one day.

Sokka’s eyes are full of heartbreak as he looks at her. “Do I have to lose you, too?”

She curls close to her brother and does not answer.

“He’s a human,” Sokka tells her. “If he can trap you, he will. They can’t help it. They don’t understand what it means to be free.”

Katara thinks of Zuko hiding his body beneath a blanket, of the tribes who still sing the mourning songs for brothers and sisters who wandered ashore one day and never came back. She thinks of her pelt, always hidden close at hand. She thinks of her human, her lovely gold-and-silver boy, and the look in his eyes when he said, I want you to stay with me. I won’t ever make you. She wonders what he would do if she placed her pelt in his hands.

“I think I love him,” Katara repeats out loud.

“You belong in the sea,” Sokka replies.

“What if I can have both?” Katara asks.

Sokka only puts an arm around her and holds her close.

***

She gets tired of waiting.

Zuko watches her dive into the water, as he normally does; then he turns to walk away, back to the world of men. Katara waits until he cannot see her, and then she emerges from the water and sheds her pelt and follows him.

She holds her pelt wrapped around her like a cloak to cover her nakedness, but she has no clothes. And beyond that — she has seen enough humans to know that she does not quite look like one of them.

(She is a selkie, and there will always be something a little uncanny about her. She belongs to the sea. It leaves its mark.)

It is dangerous. If she is caught, or seen, she is too far from the water to flee the grip of men. She trusts Zuko, but not all humans are like Zuko. If she is seen, and someone takes her pelt, they will take her away and hold her captive and she will never see Zuko or the ocean or her brother ever again. She follows Zuko anyway.

He goes to a cottage that she assumes is his home. The door is unlocked; Katara lets herself in, and curls her toes against the unfamiliar feeling of wood floorboards beneath her feet. She drapes her pelt over the back of a chair, deliberate.

“You’re here,” he says wonderingly when he sees her. “How are you here?”

She smiles at him, shy now. “You let me leave,” she says. “I got tired of you letting me leave.”

He reaches for her, and she curls into him, easy and gentle like the morning tide.

“Ask me to stay,” she orders.

“Stay,” he whispers into her hair. “Please.”

She does.

The next morning, when she wakes in Zuko’s bed, surrounded by blankets heavy with his scent, her pelt is still on the chair where she left it. He has left her a note —

 Working today. Come back to me tonight?

She only smiles, and slips her pelt over her shoulders, and goes back to the caves, to the scent of saltwater and damp rock, to tell her brother that he was wrong.

“You’re staying with him,” Sokka says.

“I love him,” Katara answers. “And he does not try to tame me.”

“Come back when you can,” Sokka tells her, and it is the gentlest kind of goodbye, because she sees in his eyes that he truly does understand.

Katara thinks that this is what love is, a letting go, a come back to me, a kind benediction and a farewell. She kisses her brother on the brow, and softly hums a song of love and gratitude and belonging. Sokka weeps when she leaves, and she hears a song of farewell and heartache and pride and boundless, boundless love echo over the waves behind her. Katara reaches the beach, and sets her feet on the path toward the world of men.

Toward Zuko.

***

His love keeps her safe. Her pelt hangs in the closet, next to his coats and her skirts, and Zuko never touches it. The closet is locked when strangers come to visit, and Zuko laughs off the idea that his wife is anything more than human.

(The neighbors know she is fey, but by their way of thinking, Katara makes the best smoked fish in the village, and if Zuko wants to pretend that his woman is not a seal-wife, then that is none of their business. They whisper behind their hands, and wonder how he has kept her happy for so long, and how long it will be before she finds her pelt and disappears into the waves forever.)

Katara dives into the sea sometimes, when Zuko is gone on the fishing boats and she misses the pull of the sea. Then she returns to the caves, and hunts with her brother, and dances between the waves, and sings the tribe-songs. Sokka kisses her brow when she leaves, and commands her to come back when she can. He does not weep when she leaves. She returns to the little cottage, and Zuko is always waiting. There is a fire in the hearth, and a place for her to hang her pelt, and a warm pair of arms waiting to welcome her.

His love keeps her safe, and his love guides her home.

***

There is a storm the night their daughter is born.

Katara insists on going down to their beach. Zuko protests, but takes her anyway, and holds her hand while the aunts and grandmothers gather around and pet Katara’s hair and sing the birthing-songs as the labor pains wrack her body. They grumble at Zuko’s presence, but he refuses to leave.

Finally their daughter slips from Katara’s womb into the world as a particularly demanding crack of thunder sounds above them. Katara baptizes her in saltwater.

“We’ll call her Kya,” Zuko whispers into Katara’s hair. Katara smiles, and kisses her daughter’s tiny webbed toes.

fin.

I’m gonna tag a few folks who I know enjoy Zutara fics because I thrive on attention but PLEASE let me know if you want to not be tagged and I will remove you!

@firelxdykatara

@rllyjohnrlly

@markedmage

@grumpyzutara

@purelyzutara

@bluelady-atla

@lilylizard