#ive also read mercy!

[random-kido]

Ough I've been trying to figure out how to word this but I'm just gonna try to wing it if that's ok fgfgfh

I think that if the decepticons had won the war the scavs would more than likely still have been in the same predicament they were in when the war ended in the comics.

My minds kinda blanking right now on exact instances, but anytime the cons were at their strongest, megatron was never at his kindest. If he had won I think he'd send out a similar "war is over" message with the addition that thry had won it, and the simple "come home" attached at the end. I don't think he would have sent anyone out to go look for stragglers or for their dead, more than likely making people stick around to ensure his continued rule and to help rebuild cybertron how he saw fit.

The scavs would still be on a graveyard planet, only their post fulcrum awakening conversation would be a lot different I think. Probably more talk about how things are finally gonna get better for them only for a question (from fulcrum probably) of when someone was gonna be sent out to go get them followed by them having to explain no one was coming for them and they'd still have to find their way back home on their own.

I think their hijinks would still happen and they'd still be stuck wandering space facing obstacles to get back, but I feel the only main difference would be that flywheels would still be alive and grim probably wouldn't be there as I don't think the djd would have missed the opportunity to go see megatron claim cybertron as his own. Actually maybe they'd take grim with them anyway. Sign of loyalty to megs or whatever but thry befriend him on accident and are left with a conundrum.

Due to the cons winning though I think the djd would be a lot more hell bent on catching anyone on the list to ensure megstron's continued rule, so I do think that eventually thry would have to face off against them, one way or another. This would be their big stand off instead of skorponok I think.

But due to how much shit they faced trying to get back, seeing how their fellow cons are just becoming worse and worse, and how the closer they get to home, the bigger their opponents are (from their own team no less), I think they'd still ultimately come to the decision that maybe going back to cybertron isn't for them. Maybe they'll just decide to stay on the nearest con outpost where no one cares that grim is with them and settle there until they decide they want to keep wandering space.

Unfortunately the scavs are ultimately bottom of the barrel cons and even with the win being theirs, I do believe they'd stay down there even if their expectations were much more different

Saw a post on here not too long ago about certain IDW guys in a Decepticon-win scenario and one of the guys on there were the Scavengers and I'm just like... how WOULD that actually work like its intriguing but I genuinely have zero clue how that would go, they're like of those tf things that can only really be done properly in a post-war thing yknow?

[ludojudoposts]

RIP Andre Braugher ~ 1 July 1962-11 Dec 2023

[wordto-thewise]

The first time I read Time War, I decided right away that the world building was too convoluted and ultimately irrelevant to the love story. That was years ago and now I am a different woman, salivating at the very first chapter and the description of a dying earth.

[androjello]

after I finished ancillary justice I looked up the reviews and was surprised it was so...divided...on if people liked it or not because it won all the awards?? so I looked at the reviews for 2 and 3 and was kinda worried because they were all THIS WAS SO AWFUL EVEN WORSE THAN THE FIRST or glowing reviews and normally I find that the negative reviews are more accurate when its so either or. except not this time because I LOVED ancillary sword and ancillary mercy. maybe even more than ancillary justice?? absolutely living for fleet captain breq and her shenanigans. I miss awn but <3 <3 <3 mercy of kalr and sphene

[thursdayg1rl]

actually kind of excited for the actual learning on my course :3

[miraclewoozi]

EXCUSE ME. WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT—

one of my favourite tropes for one of my FAVOURITE dudes by one of my F A V O U R I T E writers!!!!!!! i’ve been blessed. i’ve been healed. i have very real feelings for this, oh my god.

🙏🏻 This is my first time submitting a request because I can’t stop imagining Dino helping his drunk BFF home while secretly being in love with her 🧎🏼‍♀️Please if you have time!

superpower

summary: not all heroes wear capes, but chan would probably do so if you asked. pairing: lee chan x reader type: drabble genre: fluff au: friends to ?, pining word count: 1.4k (oops) rating: pg15 — still, minors do not have my consent to interact. cw: alcohol/drunkenness, obvi; no pronouns or gendered language is used for reader. a/n: not even remotely proofread (double oops), but i still love this down-bad doofus, so i hope you do, too!

“I’m not saying I have superpowers, but I’m not not saying it.”

Your eyes are blinking a little more slowly than usual, but the unimpressed look you fire off at Chan can’t be missed.

“Can you just —” A hiccup cuts your question in half. You frown with your whole face just to make it clear how serious you are. “Hold my hand? It’s wobbly.”

Chan knows you’re referring to the sidewalk — where you stand and sway along to music that isn’t playing — but that description fits his knees, too. 

He hopes you’re too busy pouting at him to notice the way he wipes his palms against his jeans, afraid you’ll notice how nervous you make him. You start to lean a bit too heavily to one side for his liking, though; and he thinks it’s safe to bet that you’re not noticing much of anything.

That settles it.

The second he envelopes your hand in his, you take it a step further, tugging him close enough that you can slot yourself under his arm.

“Smell nice,” you mumble from his side. “‘s that the new stuff? From the place?”

Now, Chan is the one that’s blinking slowly. He was as drunk as you were until you needed him, and despite his sobering up on a dime — which is a superpower, thank you very much — his processing speed is lagging. You nudge him with your elbow, as if that’ll make what you just said make sense.

“Ahhh!” He plays along, making a big show of realizing things. “Yes, that place. By the thing, right?”

You nod. “Exactly.” 

Behind you both, the Uber that dumped you back at your place pulls away from the curb. Three beats later, you tilt your head and cheer “goodbye” at a long-gone Kia. He feels his heart swell three sizes in chest.

“You like it?” He redirects you because he’s a little bit greedy for your praise — and also because he bought this cologne with the hope that you’d compliment it. Chuckling, he notes, “Considering how much I’m propping you up right now, you’ll probably end up smelling like me.”

When you smile and mutter, “Good,” Chan suddenly feels weightless.

It takes some concentrated effort, but he manages to guide you up the front steps to your apartment building. It takes significant concentrated effort to corral you into the elevator once you clear the threshold. You would’ve spent your night talking the doorman’s ear off, otherwise, providing a dramatic retelling of every single step you took over the last few hours. It takes everything Chan has not to laugh at the relieved sigh he gets in thanks for intervening, although it’s hardly altruistic to want your rambling to himself.

Surrounded by the metallic walls of the elevator car, you point to your joint reflection and muse, “Someone’s awful smiley this evening.”

Chan makes eye contact without having to tilt his head. His brain works overtime to churn out a response that isn’t self-incriminating, but the only thought ricocheting around his brain relates to how cute you look, nestled into him.

With a ding, your reflection is gone. The moment goes with it, and without a barrier in front, so do you — like a bat out of hell.

“Oh, my god,” you wail when your apartment door comes into view. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

Chan chases after you, arriving embarrassingly out-of-breath — and more than a little fond — just in time to watch you wrestle your keys out of your pocket. They clatter to the floor the second they’re free. You groan, bereft at the loss.

“Stay here,” he says firmly with a finger pointed because he knows you, knows you’ll take one or both of you out of commission if you don’t heed his warning. 

Your eyes cross a little bit as you stare down the barrel of it, but you listen, thankfully; and he’s able to pick up your slack without anyone receiving a concussion. He’s able to usher you into your own home without further incident, too.

Once again: superpowers.

The task of kicking your shoes off is apparently too much to ask of you, so you wander off to your bedroom without even trying. His Nikes are discarded so hurriedly that they barely hit your mat by the time he takes off after you. The second he catches up, he wins the pleasure of watching you flop backwards onto your mattress.

Funny, he thinks. His heart makes a similar thwump when you smile at him the way you are right now.

Gesturing to the feet dangling off the edge of your bed, he laughs. “Can I please help you?”

You shoot him with dual-wielded finger guns. He takes that as a yes, please, and gets to work on the triple knots you managed to install in your laces.

“Chan?”

He hums in acknowledgment without looking up, too confounded by your drunken rope-work to take his eyes off his fingers.

Were you a sailor in a past life?

A little louder and a lot more pathetically, you whine, “Chan,” adding several seconds’ worth of the vowel sound in the process.

Chan has no option but to look up at you. As far as he’s concerned, he’s got no choice but to smile with all of his teeth, too. “You rang?”

“You’re so nice.” It’s supposed to be a whisper, he suspects, but it sounds much more like a shout. “How?”

His bemused snort is disguised by the sound of your right shoe hitting the floor.

“I mean it!” You laugh — like he’d ever doubt you — and smack your palms against your duvet for emphasis. “Like, hello? Good boy alert!”

That — well, that does something to Chan that he’s not willing to unpack right now. Instead, he shucks off your other shoe, bites back his smile, and sits back on his heels.

For a minute, the two of you stay that way: you gazing at him, him gazing right back at you. In every second that slips by in comfortable silence, he works to convince himself that the twinkle in your eye is a byproduct of the shots you took, nothing more. You’re smiling at him like that because you won’t have to sleep in your shoes tonight.

Right?

You nibble thoughtfully on your lower lip before your smile turns sheepish. “Chan?”

He’s not thinking that an angel gets its wings whenever you say his name, but he’s not not thinking that.

“The one and only,” he says with a nod, and he only cringes a little bit at his words, after the fact.

Whatever you want to say next seems to be stuck on its way out. In fact, you open and close your mouth twice to no avail. Patience is a virtue, and you are divine, so he waits there — on his knees, no less — and lets you take the lead. Your eyes flick from his face to the fidgeting fingers in your lap, then to the blank space at your side.

“It’s cold out,” you finally declare.

It’s July, but that’s neither here nor there.

“You shouldn’t have to walk home in this weather.”

The sky simply couldn’t be clearer, but Chan would take your word for it if you said that it was green.

“Maybe you should stay.”

He tries not to let the giddiness overtake him. Really, he does. He attempts to shrug nonchalantly, but it's more of a shiver than anything else, and he’s scrambling to his feet before he can chide himself for it.

You laugh — with your whole chest, no less — when he leaps into the spot beside you, settling flat on his back and grinning up at the ceiling. You’re still giggling when you mimic his graceless movements, still beaming when you turn your head to look at him. The air still feels electric, somehow, even after the laughter peters off.

A few moments pass, probably. He doesn’t notice them on their way out.

In a whisper that is actually a whisper, you say his name again, and it kicks off that wild thwump inside his chest.

“Yes?” He responds, much more quietly than his pulse in his ears.

You tug gently at the pillow under his head to draw attention to it. “You’ll probably end up smelling like me now.”

[authorhjk1]

I loved reading how each member of Aespa would give blowjob. Please also do one for ITZY and IVE

Already did one for Itzy

Gaeul

Gaeul isn't a big fan of giving blowjobs, so you don't really ask her for them. But since you eat her out regularly, she feels the need to return the favour.

But only at home, where you can't get caught. She usually makes you sit on the bed, the couch or a chair and kneels in front of you. She likes to do it in a soft, caring manner.

Yujin

Yujin is almost the exact opposite of Gaeul. She loves giving head. Actually, she seems to love to give head almost more than you like receiving it. Which you never thought was possible, until you met her. Yujin loves it so much, she doesn't care where and when. And that also means she doesn't shy away from putting your cock in her mouth, when her members are present.

"I should lead by example."

That was her response, coupled with a mischievous smile, to your question after the first time she suddenly just pulled your pants down, while you were sitting next to her and Wonyoung on their sofa. Wonyoung is completely used to it by now, occasionally even joining Yujin, when she is in the right mood.

Rei

Rei loves to deepthroat you. She is not a fan of anything public. But at home, she goes all out. You swear her members can hear her gag almost every day. It's not like she can't control her gag reflex. It's more like she likes to play around with it. It's a tool for her to make you go crazy, while you're at her mercy.

Wonyoung

Wonyoung loves to roleplay. Even when she is just sucking you off. But only one specific kind. The bratty princess act. Which involves teasing you and leading you on, until you finally punish her. And the punishment usually results in you, face fucking Wonyoung, while she chokes on your cock, spit falling into her lap. She liked to be punished hard. You cum on her face most of the time, but when her mouth just feels too good, you can't help but paint her throat.

Liz

Despite getting better at it, Liz is still shy. That's why she only ever gives you a blowjob inside her room. With the lights off. She says it puts her under pressure, when you look at her while she does it. You are fine with it, but you'd prefer it if you could see her gorgeous face while she gives you head. But then again, this nice, unfamiliar feeling is also kinda interesting. Never really knowing what she does next, because you can't see her.

[nebbyy]

Please write a fanfic about King Baldwin IV from KoH, where he fell in love with female reader. The plot is up to you. Please make it a serious love story with slight fluff 🤗🤭

Baldwin IV x reader - Life always comes down to a game of chess

A/N: You have no idea how much I love you anon, this was one of the prompts I already wanted to write omgggg!! For this fic I kinda got inspired by this painting (which, for everyone interested, it’s “La belle dame sans merci” by Frank Dicksee), and you’ll see how and why reading it;)

Summary: King Baldwin IV receives an offer from an Italian nobleman to marry his daughter; unsure of whether to accept or not this compelling offer, Baldwin decides to do what he does best…

Warning: there are some mentions of christianity and religious references along with some hints at the misogynistic ideologies of the time (about the woman being “owned” by the dominant male figure in her life) ((I don’t condone this ideology at all but I thought it’d be fitting to add it anyway to give some accuracy to it)).

Word count: 2637

King Baldwin couldn’t quite wrap his head around you. The day that he was informed of your engagement, he felt himself quite skeptical of the idea of marrying someone. After all, ever since his leprosy had been diagnosed he had to get used to the idea of living a life of solitude, forced into a lifelong chastity, for no sane man would ever marry off their daughter to a leper. With time, he had found solace in nurturing his own knowledge and virtue, elevating himself to a level of wisdom that very few could boast at his young age.

During the following days, the young king's mind was plagued with thoughts, considerations he was making to weigh the choice. The benefits of marrying Lady Y/N were many, first and foremost securing a connection to the land of Italian speakers, allowing for easier trafficking of crusaders arriving in the Holy Land, not to mention the abundance that would be the young lady's dowry. And not only did marrying her mean strengthening the economical side of his reign, but it also meant giving the impression to the public that the king's health condition was improving to such an extent that he considered that to be an ideal time to marry. His most trusted men and all of his advisors kept repeating to him, marrying Lady Y/N would’ve been  comparable to a blessing.

But despite all the benefits this union seemed like it would bring, Baldwin continued to hesitate to make a decision. What left him so undecided was the possibility that this was some kind of deception, a conspiracy orchestrated against him, hidden in the form of the most convenient of marriages. It was up to him to decide whether it was worth taking these risks in favor of the benefits that would come if his concerns turned out to be unfounded. 

Like everything else in his life, this choice came down to a game of chess…

It was this idea that prompted him to make a decision. Baldwin had a messenger called, to be sent to Pisa to give the news to Lord Y/F/N that the king wished to report his decision to him live, at his court. For the lord to arrive it would have to wait, but Baldwin has always been a man of exceptional patience.

Four months passed, when at the dawn of Lent it was announced by a Pisan messenger that Lord Y/F/N and his daughter had come to Acre, and would soon be coming to Jerusalem. Another week passed before father and daughter, riding two white horses and accompanied by an escort of knights arrived at the royal palace.

When he first saw you, Baldwin could have sworn he saw Mary himself. You walked with such grace that you almost seemed to float. Your face looked serene, despite the anxiety that had been devouring you from within ever since the day the invitation from the king of Jerusalem reached you; a blue veil covered your hair, framing your face and falling over your shoulders. You bowed to Baldwin as was proper to do before a king, yet he felt so tempted to interrupt you, prevent you from bowing to him, perhaps even bowing to you himself.

At that moment he felt like Lancelot before Guinevere, completely mesmerized by your beauty, one who seemed more fit to an angel than a woman. But, he gave no sign of his true emotional state; after all, a gorgeous woman does not mean she can be fit to serve as queen. Her answer will be decided when she has had a chance to hear you speak, away from the judgmental stares of the court, free from any influence that might change what you really think.

As the sun shone bright in the sky, the banquet took place inside of the palace. The king excused himself before going to eat by himself in his chambers as usual, leaving his guests in the company of his sisters and his court. Loud chatter filled the room, goblets were raised to get more wine poured, courses flowed onto the set table, a tribute to thank Lord Y/F/N for making such a journey to fulfill the king's request. All this noise, yet in your ears all became quiet when a servant approached your chair, whispering a few simple words, "The king has requested your presence at dinner."

Your blood froze in your veins in surprise, and you could almost feel your father's thrill as you rose from your seat, having the servant guide you toward the king's study. Walking through the halls of the palace, you could do nothing but feel so small in comparison, you almost seemed to disappear, enveloped by the magnificence of everything around you that, if all went well, you would have called your own.

You were brought back to reality when the heavy doors of the king's room were opened by the two guards who stood at his sides. An enveloping fragrance, a mixture of myrrh and frankincense filled your senses with a feeling of serenity, an almost familiar feeling. In the center of the room, a hooded figure, dressed in silk as white as snow. "Come forward, my lady. I apologize for my absence at the table but," she interjected for a moment, rising from her seat and revealing her face-or at least, what was not covered by the veil-"many might find my appearance somewhat...disturbing during a meal." He chuckled a little at that last part. You wondered if irony had become a kind of means for him to soften his own hellish condition. 

As soon as he turned around you could not help but study the appearance of what will hopefully be your future husband. Rumors about his condition had been swirling since the day he was crowned, so you had been prepared to be confronted with a horrifically disfigured man. Instead, although part of his face was covered by the thin veil, it was like an instinct for you to try to study his features. You could vaguely make out the golden hair that adorned his face, although it was covered by the veil. His voice had intrigued you; it sounded so jovial and yet so deep. A melody that sang of the young monarch's endeavors. It intrigued you, you wondered what his lips looked like, whether they matched the sound of his voice.

But what really caught your interest were his eyes. They were blue, but of a color so deep, so intense, it reminded you of tales you had heard about the northern seas, of the waters that dark and deep seemed to beckon sailors, to lead them to drown within them. Likewise you felt mesmerized by such intensity. And you wondered, how much of this would remain the same as his illness progressed.

You recovered from that momentary trance, wasting no time to bow, but this time Baldwin stopped you before you were able to bow more than your head: "Don't bow, please. Such reverences are not necessary here." You looked at him a little dumbfounded, but despite the king's unusual attitude you did not object. He stepped to the side, revealing a finely decorated chessboard, with all the pawns already set in place. "Do you play?" he asked softly, and you finally mustered up the courage to speak "It's been some time since I last did," as you approached the table, taking your seat opposite Baldwin. He took his seat again, and for the first time in your life you found yourself face to face with a king. 

You quickly realised that he had assigned you the white pawns, the small courtesy of moving you first. You took a moment to think of an initial strategy, and moved your first pawn. A horse. Baldwin raised his eyebrows, surprised by your decision. "Aren't you going to move the pawns first?" You kept your gaze on the chessboard, partly out of respect and partly out of fear, still unsure why the king would call you to his chambers, if indeed it was all just to have a playmate. "I always prefer to start with the horse. I like to think that the pawns would be frightened to charge against the enemy without a knight to guide them." You looked up, meeting his eyes that studied you intrigued. Chuckling at what you had just said, you continued, shaking your head slightly, "Forgive me, it was just a silly thought."

"Not at all, my lady," he replied, studying your every detail, "I find it fascinating." It was his turn to move, and as per rule, he moved one of the pawns, the one in front of the queen. "So you think good leadership is better than letting the individual decide for himself?" There was a spark that had lit up in his eyes, something playful. It was clear that you were intriguing him, surprisingly in your eyes, since you had been instructed to stay behind your father's shadow, not to express your thoughts or externalize your ideologies.

Everything had to be perfect, one could not risk the futile mind of a young woman ruining the marriage that would have been so beneficial to her dukedom, but above all to her family. Yet at that moment she felt that expressing what resided in her own mind was exactly what Baldwin wanted from her. Something lit up in her too, and he in turn caught the same spark in her eyes. Could it be that she had figured out the trick...? 

Another pawn moved, it was Baldwin's turn to move again. Your eyes seldom parted from each other, just for that moment necessary to make your own move. "Independence is not always what benefits a man. Certainly, it is tempting, but in moments of indecision it risks leading to oblivion. An infantryman needs a leader, a young man who is lost in the woods needs a hunter to guide him out..." Another move, the white bishop points directly at the black king "...an indecisive man needs an outside opinion to make his decision."

You smiled, and like the sweetest of plagues you infected him too. You had deciphered his little deception. An innocent deception, with the purpose of seeing with your own eyes how you, in a condition so similar to what is the duty of a sovereign, would have acted. 

After all, his life always came down to a game of chess....

"So you understood..." Baldwin whispered, again sitting in his place. For the first time in his memory, someone had managed to leave him speechless. His witty mind seemed to have died out all of a sudden, the knight in him unarmed by the woman sitting in front of him. Maybe the deception wasn’t as occult as he had planned, or maybe this young lady was really able to stand up to him.

You smiled at him proudly, be proud of your intuition but also relieved that your thought had not turned out to be foolish. Your pride had removed from your mind every rule, every admonition that had been given to you from the moment you set foot in the Holy Land; your mind was now like a river in flood, finally free to flow out according to its natural course. "I do not blame you, my lord. I realize that this is a difficult choice for you, and that the factors at stake go far beyond your individual will."

"And what do you think about that?" Your smile acquired a bittersweet scent, and you answered without almost hesitation: "I am only a woman, my will is that of my father and it will be of my husband. My family prays that this role will be filled by you, and for this to happen I have been instructed to be fit to reign at your side."

“That I can clearly see, but what truly urges me is to know what your own will says. If we were to marry, you would be the bride to a wretched man, one whose fate has already been announced by God. My demise won't be far off, you’ll be left a widow in a foreign land. And before this… curse gets the better of me, there is no saying that it won’t get to you too. If it did, you would suffer the same fate I had been given.”

It took you a moment to let his words sink into your mind. He spoke the truth, a future with him would be filled with sickness and uncertainty; you would have to live in a court far from your home, where everyone was waiting for the king’s death like a flock of crows flying above a dying man. You took a deep breath, feeling as everything came down to this very moment. “I won’t lie to you, my lord, the future that awaits me while standing by your side is not an easy one by any means, and I’m very much aware of that. I do not expect my future to be easy, for it would be an excess of greed. So if I can have a saying in my own future, I’d like to say that I would much rather all the time that is given to me by the Lord standing by the side of a man filled with virtue, than by the side of a man too full of himself to see anything just an inch away from his reflection. There would be no greater honor for me than to stand by your side, for as long as you still have to live, my lord. And if I ever was to catch this disease as well, then I would have no other words to say other than God wills it.“

At your words, the young king had to shake himself up, now more than ever necessary for him to say something, anything really. “For you, my lady, I shall always be just Baldwin.” His tone was softer than ever, a soft breeze that reached to you and whispered I am but yours now. It was unsaid, but decided. Once this meeting would be over, the king would come to your father, and confirm his decision to accept the proposal. Only problem was, this meeting seemed to have become endless. What was supposed to be a quick meal, accompanied by a game of chess, turned into a lively exchange of political views, then silly childhood anecdotes, then again into a walk in the inner courtyard of the palace. Baldwin tried hard to keep you in his presence for as long as was deemed decent for an unmarried man and woman. He kept you with him as long as he could, and when that was no longer possible, he led you back into the great hall, gently holding your hand over his. Soon after the announcement of your engagement, the wedding was set to happen during the following Easter, and the banquet made in honor of his guests was prolonged until the sun had been long set, this time in honor of his betrothed.

You think back to that day fondly, as you lay on your bed, in the comfort of silky sheets and soft pillows. One of your hands holds your head while the others traces the patterns of the scars in your husband’s face that have considerably worsened during the years. Aside from the bed, sitting on a table, forgotten as long as the night reigned over Jerusalem, were two crowns, along with two chess pawns. A white queen and a black king. Both came from the set that had been used the day the two of you met, a reminder for Baldwin of the day God had merged your destinies in one.

A/N: wowww that came out longer than I though oopss. ANYWAY, this was my interpretation of your request, anon, hope you like it!! Also, for everyone who’s gonna read this, feel free to leave any constructive criticism since this is my first fic and I would like to improve a looot more in my writing skills. That’s it now have a nice day y’all <3<3

[punk-in-docs]

A song of liars and beggars: part II

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 5.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter; mainly violence and cruelty and mentions of death/imprisonment. also this has turned long winded im so sorry- i wish i could just bang out some gratuitous smut but noooo i need 7k of angst before penetration apparently --

The cell you are thrown into is poky small.

When the guards push you into it, you stumble and you fall. Stone breaks your landing. Collapsing in the dusty dirt. Soiling your pretty blue dress. The sea blue churned into mud. Into filth. Spoiled tide.

Bloody grit and sand sticking to your chin that still drips blood. Ichor dripped on your silk chest. Lip throbbing. Body bruised into the colour of nightshade petals.

You twist back, eyes blurred with tears, to see the dark expression under the Roman guards helmet.

Who spits at your feet and calls you a traitorous whore. He was the same one whose ring of fingertip bruises now circled your upper arm. Even though you were in chains.

Your surroundings are grim. There’s no window. No bearings. A bucket with filthy stagnant water sits in the corner.

The air is stale. Packed close and scorching. It reeks of piss and decay. Necrosis. Festering. Yellow bleached skulls. You hear the wailing shouts of men. The rattle of chains. You will be left down here until they come to take you. In whatever form that may be. Beheading. Or a stoning.

Maybe the Emperors really are gods. Those twin golden growling wolves. And now they’ve thrown you down to the underworld. Left you down here with the dying and the dirt and the vermin for company.

The walls are grimy stone, and strung with chains. Torches the only lick of civilised orange light in these otherwise miserable caverns. Rats creep along the floors - the scurry and click of claws. Not that they’ll find any scrap of food near here. There’s none to be had. Not even corpses. Death isn’t merciful enough to visit here.

Bile coats the back of your tongue. Sour and acetic. The men in the cells opposite you m, sneer and call filthy propositions in the dark. Dark so thick it was like wool. Ask to see under your pretty dress. Leering at you. Puckering kisses.

You are a rare drop of clean ocean in this savagery to them. Pure. A blue crocus blossoming in a crack in the barren dessert. Wash away the sin. Their rotten teeth shine in the dark like knives. Hungry and waiting.

You curl into a ball in the corner. Bring your knees to your chest. Cower in the shadows as the rats run past your feet. Clammy tails flicking over your toes.

You sob quietly. Arms folded. One smashed elbow drying to sticky blood, stuck with grit from your collapse.

Your father was torn away before you could see what happened or where they took him. You heard his shouts at Macrinus, his begging, but couldn’t see where he was taken. You couldn’t bear thinking about the alternative.

Your brothers body will be laying in a paupers grave somewhere you’ll never know. Never be able to go and lay orange gladiolus flowers before his headstone. Forgotten. Your mother will be told nothing of this- of you. Of the supposed treason-

Or maybe a garrison of soldiers were already marching on their way to deliver news. To slaughter the traitors family in that white villa by the sea. Smear crimson up the walls- droplets of red splashed on the jasmine petals. You think of the linen shifts your sisters ramble around in. You think how the perfect hues of soft blues and olives greens will be ruined with the garish red of blood-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Drops of salty ocean squeezing down your cheeks. And even that is of no use to you now. Landed sea nymph. Away from the oceans call. And now you’re bound for desolation. Gasping. Dying. Dragged to land by men who want to pick at your scales and leave you raw, bare.

You never should’ve left home. Not for a distant hollow man and his even emptier words.

Sleep doesn’t come to you. Nor are you awake. You slouch, curled on the cold dirty floor and envelop yourself into the grit and dirt. Abrasive on your soft milk-and-honey skin. The cornflower blue of your dress matted with mucky earth.

You enter a state between waking and sleep. A shallow one, spliced with sliced necks, pooling blood on biscuit coloured sand, and your brothers final cry.

Sounds start chipping at you. The slap of metal. Clicking and shuffling steps.

A jolt across your cell rouses you from your purgatory. Head snapping up on your shoulders. When you accustomed your eyes to the dim, the sight of the person unlocking your cell, makes your stomach plummet.

General Acacius.

There’s no mistaking him for another. That unmistakably noble profile. The firm set of his brow. His aquiline nose. The curl and bend of his greying hair. The way he looks at you - it might just be the kindest thing you’ve been awarded in this abrasive hell you find yourself in.

You raise to your wobbly feet. Heart felt like it had taken to thudding in your throat. Choking tempo as it beats there. Muscle thick and ticking on the back of your tongue.

One thought echoed around your mind; this was to be the path to your death.

You were being led by the General of the armies of Rome. It seemed a grand imposition for escorting a mere slip of a traitor to her death.

War has thickened his body. Muscular arms swing from a wide back and shoulders. Sun weathered skin which spoke of his time out in the elements, fighting for the glories and victories of Rome. Age lay in the silver threaded though his hair. The muted pain in his gait of past injuries catching up with him. Body littered with scars that probably ache and tug. Mars made flesh. Glory for Rome. Victory.

You swallowed. Throat dry. Easing your way to the door on uncertain feet. Hands clasped in chains still. They feel heavy as mountains to carry along. He’s come with guards. Four of them. Armed and marching to the beat of his strides. A valorous man indeed.

You step close to the heavily armoured man. Salty tears leaking down your cheeks that you don’t care to bat away. Atleast one spec of home will cling to your skin when life is gone. Even if it is only your silly scared tears.

He leans close to you when you come to the door

Suddenly a warm hand - calluses and hard furrows that only come from years of grasping a sword hilt - is around your forearm to steady. He unlocks the iron heavy chains and cuffs that surround your wrists. The chafing welts they left circling your wrists as the only impression of your imprisonment.

It’s the kindest touch you’ve felt in what seems like years.

You look at him with incredulity. He claims it all off you so easily. You were easy to devour. Every emotion worn open on your face.

Your lashes glued together with tears. Eyes so wide. Big and shining and they must reflect spring sun off beaded waves like a blanket of sapphires. A question lingers, tucked back shyly behind your teeth. Unable to wander off the curl of your tongue.

Why are you unlocking my hands?

He tilts his head at you. It’s almost chiding.

An unexpected warmth flows from his dark eyes. It’s too dark down here in this filthy stuffy pit to discern their colour. They swing somewhere between bronze and amber.

There is a mercy in them, a mercy to him, you’ve seldom seen anywhere else. Let alone a man as slaked in blood as he is.

Maybe it’s mercy- more likely that it’s pity.

He throws the shackles aside to the guard. Eyes for a long moment the way the iron has cut into your wrists. Raw skin. Damaging such a fine beautifully untouched creature.

He’s certain there’s worse damage to come to you.

His voice when he speaks is honey thick. Deep as it carved down all the rock walls around you. Louder than the clanking of chains and the wails from prisoners. Whom, you noticed, suddenly quieted down. They were whipped when they spoke up, you guess. So they go quiet. Like cowed dogs.

“I’ve slaughtered many a traitor in my time. You don’t seem a danger to me, or my men.” He observed. It’s both a warning and a comment.

It’s ridiculous really. The thought you could be a threat. All slippery, skin soft and coveted as a purely formed ocean pearl.

When you are in fact shivering in a silky thin dress the colour of harmless cornflowers. Huddled in your cell corner gently spilling tears. No hint of resistance or fiery hatred. No storm to be found here in your veins that houses entire oceans and their tempestuous wrath.

He knows innocence when he sees it. That rare, very rare, taste that clings to his tongue like sugary sweet ripe fruit. Something to cut and slice through all the ichor and viscera he all too well knows the flavour of. There’s a calmness to you. A damned sort of acceptance. Calm as still waters.

“Come.” He tilts his head. “The likes of you doesn’t belong down here.” You with your stock of noble blood, shouldn’t perish forgotten in these filthy caverns.

He walks to the pathway that you vaguely recall you were led down. The one that ascends steps and up into daylight. Out from the dust and the dirt and the still living bones of the trapped and the damned.

“General. Pray tell me. Is my father dead?” You ask. Whisper a pathetic imitation of your voice. Raw and weak. Choking on the unknown.

His face is stiff. He doesn’t seem inclined to reply.

“I cannot give you answers.” He chides. He turned his back to you. And his brute tone slaughtered any further enquiry you may have felt compelled to make.

You shrink down as you fell into step. Being led in your dirty dress, littered in cuts and scrapes.

Numerous guards form a metal lined wall around and behind you. Shields and swords and the metal clink of their steps. Trapping you. Armoured cage for a pretty captive. You wince when the new sunlight hits your eyes. Bright and acidic. Gulp for thick air that meets your lungs like ambrosia.

You walk and follow, silently. Waiting to come to the place you’d die.

Expecting to be led to gallows. Or an executioners block. Maybe even a court lined with people, one where you’d be trialed to death for a plot you’d no idea even existed. Maybe you’d be shoved into the coliseum on the next fight to be mauled to shreds by lions. Gouged by teeth and claw. Die screaming in the same dirt as your brother did.

It doesn’t come. None of that comes.

Your surroundings change again and you find yourself outside the grand walls of the coliseum. Looking up at the huge enormity of its powerful walls. The golden stone standing proud against the searing blue sky.

You’re marched across the dusty dirt of a yard, to yet another cage; this one held bars just like your previous one. A cage built on the back of a cart that has two horses ready to pull it along the capital roads. The general opens the barred door and gestures guards in around you.

One of the soldiers hit you forwards with a harsh shove. The back of his sword hilt. A hard enough shove for you to know it would purple to a bruise soon enough. Mulberry purple staining your skin at the back of your hip. You barely even yelp.

The general admonishes the soldier harshly for his rough treatment. You were to be brought - unmolested.

A word the Emperor had ordered with a growing wolfish grin.

“Where am I being taken?” You dare ask. Words crack out your throat. Unused. Thirsty. Timid. Ocean starved. All this dry land is making you dizzy and miserable.

He explained. Tone grave. Before you are pulled inside the bars. Caged once more.

“You’ve been summoned.”

“By whom?” You seek.

His eyes weight into you. Wrapped in pity and severity. His words clang around your head. Coffin nails. Just like bars he shut around you.

“You’ve been requested by the Emperor himself.”

~

You struggle to comprehend the enormity of the palace before you.

Palatine hill boasted of the richest and finest palaces in all of Rome. Including the imperial palace. The huge sprawling building. The importance and grandeur of these halls weighted on you like tonne heavy rocks.

You feel like a smear of dirt among these polished white walls and halls. Crawling with servants and guards. Stuffed with so much riches and finery. You’ve heard tale of how Emperors were hand picked by the gods. They were gods to the people they reigned over.

You are escorted once again out of a yard and into this place you’d heard only grand things about. Marched along corridors longer than you’d ever known. You saw fountains spitting streams of clear crystalline water and imperial gardens with huge tropical plants. Statues of marble and tiled mosaic floors that shine as if recently scrubbed.

Guards at every door. Servants clad in cloth finer than you’ve ever owned - or touched - they carry huge platters of bread or bowls spilling over with plump fruits. Large amphora jugs of wine held aloft in careful hands. This seemed like a luxurious heaven. You wondered if you’d see clouds, goddesses and sun beams even from your lowly mortal perch.

The guards keep you in step. Hauled along so fast you feel blisters aching at the balls of your feet. As you’re traipsed in. Bloodied and low. Beaten down. Your split lip has dried to a cut. You worry it with your tongue. The little whip cracks of pain a reminder of your mortality - one you’re certain you will be relieved of soon.

You are brought to a set of huge imperial doors by the general. Who is bid to enter right away.

Your eyes don’t know where to settle first; the room is one of the richest displays you’ve ever seen. Orange fabric the colour of vibrant mandarins, hangs in drapes over the open arches and doorways. Mosiac floors polished to a shine. There’s gold and marble statues and plinths. Paintings in dark deep colours of battle scenes. Swords and blood and male glory. As if it had come to life right before your eyes. This room is threaded with gold and devotion to male gods.

As is the man who sits leisurely awaiting you on a padded lectus. One spilling with tasseled silken cushions to soften his seat. Emperor Geta.

His robes were the same as when you last saw him. Dark jewel colours of black and blue. Gems cast in gold on each finger. Dark cloths with gold items of jewellery on his breast in the form of a broach. So much gold you don’t now where to test your eyes first.

Maybe he is a god. He certainly has all the riches of one. Stood before you as if he were Jupiter and all his delights. Thunderbolts seeping from his powerful fingers.

A golden crown of laurels ringing his light waved hair. His eyes was where true darkness laid; dark kohl ringing eyes the colour of the darkest Umbrian. Earth of shadow.

He was idly picking at food laid on a rose petal strewn table before him. You’ve never seen an offering of food so large and all for one. Cups of wine. Bread. Dried Fruit and a tiered stand flowing with fresh fruit. Some cheeses. Meats and fish. All laid on plates for him to pick over and discard, or saviour at his behest.

You wonder which category you’d fall into- the former appears the more likely.

Your stomach pangs for the smell of the freshly baked bread. The sweetness of the fruit. The tart wine. Tongue dry as sand and sluggish in your mouth.

“There you are. My little sea nymph.” He sneers over at you. One side of his lip curls upwards.

In panic, you bend the knee and bow your head, subservient, meek, and that makes him smile more.

He’s snapped his regal bejewelled fingers and had you bought to him. Bloodied and blinking dust out your eyes. Dirt stroked on your once fine dress. It now hangs in shredded tatters at the hem by your sandals. Blood spots dried like rusted petals. Brutal handling from guards lay in the bruises now scattering your lovely arms and the welts banding your wrists.

You want to cower behind the wall of guards. But you are rudely thrown forwards. Those shadowy eyes trace over your poorly clad form; you do feel like a minuscule scrap of dirt. A crack in a looking glass. A tarnish on something gleaming golden. The smear of imperfection allowed to exist in this heavenly palace.

He sees your hands are loose by your sides; unbound.

“Why is she not in chains, General? Have we stopped chaining our prisoners” He asks. Ire woven into his words. Eyes unflinching and hard and he scowls at Acacius. Who remained unmoved even in the face of his petulant wrath.

“I saw no need to chain her. Emperor. Such a woman in her position could surely not be a threat to you.” It’s a barb. A small sensible thorn, perhaps.

You flick your eyes across to the General.

“I didn’t even have to draw my sword or threaten her. She came willingly.” He tells his Emperor.

Like a sweetly led fool. A sacrificial creature led blindly to her own slaughter.

The guards stand to attention. Unwavering. Wall of armour and swords around your back as you cower. Eyes cast to the floor as you’re being discussed like a slab of meat. Something without autonomy or feeling.

You can feel Getas eyes on you still. Hard and weighty as warm metal. Searing into your skin. The way livestock are branded.

Those eyes are unrelenting. Violating. Scouring you up and down some more. Inspecting the span of your hips. The dip of your waist. The fall of your chest. Plump of your breasts and hips. The once pristine coil of your knotted hair.

Goddesses would envy you. The furies would want to tear down your beauty and goodness in wrath. Scratch out your eyes. Shear your hair. Anything to steal the golden thread of goodness from you.

Juno had blessed you and kept you indeed. Like you’re fresh out of her temple and sparkling with promise. He knew it the second he saw you. He made up his mind to have you then.

You had something. Something wrapped inside yourself like a shell protecting a pearl. Something good and virtuous. He wanted you all for himself.

If he was good as a god, then blessing himself with a wife who was a gift from the most beloved goddess was his right.

He can smell lemons and salt. And wondered if he inhaled the nubile skin of your neck and hair if then he’d find the source of it. Made him want to bite down on that supple neck and leave his mark-

“An unlikely source for a traitor do you not think so, General?” He asks.

General doesn’t answer but his expression is very telling. “My spies tell me she was not in the capital for two days before the suspected treason.” He offers.

Your stomach lurches, manages to tie itself into knots. Clammy sweat prickles your brow and your neck.

“Maybe she wasn’t aware of the plot. An unwilling participant dragged into the sordid scheme.” Geta speculates.

No answer comes from you still.

“Is she mute? I certainly heard her screams well enough at the coliseum.” He mocks. Impatient.

“Speak. Your Emperor demands it.” The General barks at you. You flinch at his sudden raised voice. Finally trailing your eyes from the mosaic tiles.

“I am not mute. Your majesty.” You explain. Feeling the tickle of humiliated tears at your eyes.

“I can offer no plea for innocence, except the truth that I had no knowledge as to my fathers schemes.”

Because no such schemes existed. Macrinus should be here in chains instead of you. The lying snake. He orchestrated the whole thing.

Geta savours your words. Drinks them in the way he’d taste wine. Rolls them around in his mouth.

He merely nods slightly. You hold your breath for his response.

“Come.” He sneers. “There’s something I want you to see.”

He guides you across to the huge marble pillars which guarded the open mouth of the balcony.

You walk behind him and come to the balustrade of white marble. Peering over the ledge. Out into the courtyard below where a cluster of soldiers and horses are gathered close.

“The soldiers will ride on my command.” He tells you. Sick delight in the power he wields.

When they pull away, and the sight below is exposed to you, your entire body wrenches forwards. Desperation grips you violently. A cry shattered out your throat.

They were going to quarter your father before your very eyes.

He stood, small and beaten, blood pouring from a gash to his head, in a filthy cloth tunic, because they’d humiliated him. Had him stripped of his noble senate robes.

His limbs each tied to separate riders on separate horses. When they galloped off in different directions, he would be torn to pieces. Barbaric.

Through a blackened eye and a swollen brow your father gazes up at you. Despair on his face. A once strong man brought so very low. It wounds you.

Geta is drinking in your every expression. The full horror and pain writ across your pretty face.

“No. No, mercy, please. Your majesty. I beg of you. Mercy.” You babble.

Eyes wide with desperation. Voice breaking as surely as your heart was. Cracking in two in your chest. Sharp as glass shards. Clinking to pieces sharp enough to make your insides bleed anew.

“Why should I spare a liar? Salacia?” He asks you. “Why should I not make an example of what happens to traitors in my court…” He demands. Eyes locked on you.

“He’s offered me things I don’t want or need to delay his death. Money. Information. I cannot help but feel it’s inevitably drawn him closer to it.”

He raises his hand, calmly. You sob. The riders bolt to attention. One more move and that would be it.

You flew for him. Unrestrained. Desperate. Willing to beg on your knees if needs be. You put yourself in front of him. Put your hands to him.

The General and his guards drew swords and came close. Geta turned and and ushered them back with a harsh wave of his fingers. He was enjoying this too much. The nature of despair- the clammy stench of desperation pouring off you like ocean waves.

You could only think of one instance that might appease his lust for blood-

Dying in the place of your elder for his crimes was all you had. All you clutched in your empty injured hands.

“Let me take his place. Put the bonds on me instead. Let me take his punishment. Make me the example.” You beg. Tears shiver and fall down your cheeks. Burning drips of salt spear at your lash-line.

In your desperation you cling to Getas chest. Your nails raking gold and the fine threads of the fabric coat he wore. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed amused by it.

“Little Salacia.” The way he used your name with a brazenly satisfied smirk altered something in you.

An arm winds itself around your hip. Cups the back. Pressed a bruise that you want to hiss in pain at. But can’t.

His other hand rings your neck. Ghosts his thumb over the curve of your chin. Smearing tears with the gold and jewels on his fingers. You gasp. Air emptying out your lungs in one fell swoop.

“You have so much more to offer your Emperor than your death.” He says quietly. His meaning became intimate. Wrapped in insinuation.

Your mouth opened, no sound came. Your lower lip trembles. You glance down at your father who is crying. Straining, wrenching forwards at his bonds. Desperate to keep you from this.

Geta takes his hand and runs his hand through one knotted lock of it for a moment. Leaning in to savour the smell of you. He moans with it.

Definitely lemons. Mixed with something briny salt, the ocean. In odes to your name.

Your father sees this. The closeness. The insulation that this man would take you. He shouts from his bonds below. Begging.

“By the gods, spare her.” He cries.

“Not my daughter. It is my crime. Take me. I am here. Take me!”

With your father and oldest brother dead, your mothers and sisters would be destitute. They would be reduced to beggars. Brought low. With him alive they were respectable- reduced in honour perhaps, but at least they’d live.

Tears bite at your eyes. You let them. Blink them away.

“What’s say you? My patience is wearing thin…” Geta bullies. Hand dropping from your hair.

It pushes you to act.

“Servitude of my body. I will enslave myself to your every whim. Emperor.” You say through tears. Every sordid whim.

“Exile him.” Youoffer.

Geta’s eyes gleam to that. Intrigued. You would exile and dishonour your own father?

“Exile him from Rome and the Senate, and send him back to Corsica to be with my mother and sisters. Where he is needed.” You implore.

“And what of you, how will you serve me?” He drawls.

“I will stay here and act as your servant in whatever manner you wish.” You accept.

“I have servants. Little nymph. I don’t require any more servants. I don’t need whores or courtesans. What I do require, however, is a wife. One who will give me strong heirs.” He smiles. Clutching your hip in a strong, thick fingered hand.

Your throat constricts. Tears squeeze. As if he’s fisted a hand around your throat and squeezed and choked until you gave. Melted into his hands pliant.

Geta has you exactly where he wanted you. As he planned.

“I need your word you’ll spare him if I agree.” You counter. Eyes hard as diamond tips. Still watery and half logged in tears.

“My word is bond. He will leave this city unharmed.” He assures. Displeased at your doubt.

Clever little nymph, too. To bargain with a god.

Asking an Emperor like him to pledge his fealty. Were you any other commoner he’d have your tongue cut out for that insolence.

Then again, cornered creatures will snap and bite and claw for survival. They will do anything.

“Then I agree.” You cry. “I accept.”

His smirk grows. Wolfish. Unsticking a coil of hair from the blood on your cheek. And he’s close. Too close for your comfort.

“You will be my Empress.” He decides.

“My wife and my property. I will own you in every manner there is. You will give me healthy sons that will dethrone my brother.”

Those words make you shrivel inside.

What have you just agreed to. You may have delayed your fathers demise. But it appears you’ve just turned the sword aimed his way to your belly. Chalked a target on your own back instead- an eye for an eye-

He turns, keeping you in his hold, he lowers his hand.

“Exile that snake out of Rome. This instant-“ He orders sharply. “Take him to the city walls and tell him never to return or I will have his head on a platter for me and my wife.”

You watch with thinly veiled relief as the guards come in to cut his bonds and drag him by the collar.

You want to run to him. You want to embrace him and tell him to return to mother with kind words and love. He is dragged away out of sight.

Bleeding and battered. But safe.

You lock eyes. Same colour as yours, shaded ocean, surrounded by bloated skin and blood sheeting his face. Cut with paths of tears rolling down, before he is gruffly marched away. Dazed, bound, and bleeding. He is choking on his sobs too.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Nothing. No familial words. No kindness.

He was torn from you. Now your every whim is stolen away. Dictated by this man. This cruel stranger. One who would bed you and keep you cowed like a broodmare.

You stood there. Watching down on the scuffled marks in the dirt where he’d once been. Dust clouding. Now empty. It seemed like an illusion. Had it all just passed like air. Like a warm sea breeze. Your life altered in one brief moment of mercy and begging.

Geta turns to his General. “You are dismissed. Leave. Go win my wars.” He sneers curtly.

Acacius took his leave with a frown and a bow. Look directed to you as he did. “Emperor. Empress.”

The Emperor snapped his fingers. And within seconds, servants scurried silently from other rooms. A handful of maidens came. Long hair unbound. Robes of orange and blue. He snapped his orders at them. They folded their hands in front of themselves. Heads low as they obeyed.

“Escort my new bride to her chambers. Have her bathed and made presentable. Put her in something decent. We will marry at dusk.” He informs. Glancing you up and down with a leer.

“Then she will grace my bed. Doing her duty like a proper wife.”

He strides over to you where you stand on the balcony, the marble thing holding you up. All strength sapped. Your knees and arms and bones were water. Not marrow.

It was always foam whipped off the waves that made you up. And now you sagged with it. Plaint and drowning. A sad drowned maiden in her brook. A doomed saint of the sea.

“Leave her hair unbound. I like it down.” He orders. Wrenching his hand to the back of your neck. You wither under his touch. He senses this.

“Be grateful. I spared your filthy treasonous father. But I can still make your existence an unpleasant one if I choose.” He warns.

He leans close to claim your mouth in a kiss so sudden and brazen it makes you weak.

His lips are pillow soft and anything but delicate. His tongue seeks your mouth, licks the blood off the healing cut. Moans sordidly when he does. He kisses like a starving hound.

A trail of spit connects your mouths when he pulls away. He smears it to your chin with a finger. Rubs his essence into your skin to stay forever stained.

“I eagerly await to taste more of you later. Empress. Don’t disappoint me. It’s not a wrath you want to risk.”

“Yes, Emperor.” You sigh.

He leaves you so quick, you almost keel over. The servants wait patiently to escort you out in his absence.

In the faraway sky, over the capital, new clouds sag and bloat. Darkly stalking across the once clear blue. The sky turns to grey and churning clouds. It’s too bad you couldn’t see the sea. You had a feeling there would thrashing, heaving storms and waves double the size of these damned palace walls.

Thunder crashes in the distant gathering dark. The ocean wanted you back. Neptune’s rage for the loss of you. You picture home. Humble white walls. The wind so fierce it ripped petals clean off the climbing vines of jasmine. The lemon trees swaying and rocked violently. News of treason and abduction reaching your sisters’ horrified ears. Your mothers cries in situ with the storm.

You watch at the sky until rain pelts the marble walls like lashes. Rain dots your skin. Cold stroking your hair and shoulders. Marring dark blue arrows down your ruined dress. Maybe you’re grieving-

A servant girl has to hook a hand on your shoulder and kindly try to urge you inside. Your tears entwined with the howling rain. It feels like that’s all that’s left of you.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[whinypuppi]

thinking about satoru gojo thrusting in and out of you without mercy—not even giving you a chance to breathe as two of his fingers are stuffed down your throat and you're forced to choke on them. he has an absolute death grip on your hair and refuses to let go, craning your neck up so you stare into his eyes as he fucks you.

when he hears you constantly groan and mumble on his fingers, he finally lets you greedily intake air and speak your peace. “*huff* 'toruuu—please...gotta go s'bad. c-can't hold it!.. *huff*”

“isnt that just too damn bad, huh, sweetheart? you've been—hah...cockblocking me all day.” he struggles to get his words out with how fucking tight your little cunt is that hugs him so well with each sloppy thrust. and aren't you just breathtaking? (literally.)

“noooo! ca—can't...that isn't f-air...” your voice cracks as his thumb goes down to abuse your clit which makes you writhe under him as overstimulation takes ahold of you. “it's more than fair. think twice next time, angel.”

what your too-broken mind doesn't realize is that he gets off to your suffering, panting and muttering all sorts of disgusting things in your ear as he slaps your ass and only continues. “g-go if you must, pretty. 'm not stopping anytime soon.”

this makes you choke out another broken sob as fresh tears run down your cheeks—the uncomfortable mix of embarrassment and arousal overcoming you as you let out a gut-wrenching scream and finally piss and cum all over his cock, (i'm nasty as fuck for this) panting as your eyes roll back.

“there we go. that w-wasn't too bad, right, pretty? 'm almost there myself. just a few more hours.” he inhales deeply, and you almost swear he likes the scent of your pee. that's probably just an intrusive thought, but the of it makes your stomach churn. whether in a 'it-gives-me-butterflies' way or a 'that-makes-me-sick-to-my-stomach' way, you weren't sure.

AHHHH THIS WAS SO GROSS IM SORRY I JUST NEEDED TO GET MY THOUGHTS OUT AND IVE BEEN ABSOLUTELY INFATUATED WITH GOJO

school and overall life has been KICKING MY ASS so i do apologize this wasn't what i normally write and it's on the shorter side ♡

also i swear to FUCK if you guys don't start requesting i'll like quit tumblr and never feel motivated (* >ω<)

but thanks for reading!!! xoxo from creep!

[agendabymooner]

"slut" ! charles l. x ofc (filo!celebrity!ofc)

"we'll pay the price, i guess."

summary: charles leclerc's ex trashed on his new girlfriend, who was his friend first before she became a lover. charles and the fans didn't stand for that kind of behaviour.

OR his ex tried to compare herself to louella lourdes villar, but even charles knew that no one could compete with her. after all, he wouldn't write songs with anyone unless the melody fit perfectly with his rhythm. (based on this request)

content warning: use of explicit language, ofc's discography is based on taylor swift, toxic!fictional ex (maddie lisandro) is not a girls' girl, hateful comments from ex, charles and ofc being each other's "homie hopper", wingman!arthur mentioned

note: i've tried my best anon 😭 it's my reading week so i'm gonna get one more homework out of the way and try to write as much stuff as a girl can do!! enjoy xx

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

i. "homie hoppers" but it's just a vice versa thing

ii. charles the muse

iii. haters gonna hate, shake it off

iv. made in monaco

tagged charles_leclerc

liked by pierregasly, estebanocon, arthur_leclerc

arthur_leclerc when the songs aren't depressing and not charles-coded >>> liked by louellalourdes

lorenzotl congratulations ella bella!!! i hope you do well in the job! ❤️ liked by louellalourdes

louellalourdes merci enzo!

pierregasly new best friend on the grid 🤩 liked by louellalourdes

estebanocon see you soon mon ange! liked by louellalourdes

user1 she's doing side quests what-

user2 how tf do you go from being an actress in the philippines to writing and making songs to working for formula one? 😭

user3 connections. connections we don't have

user4 if girlie is a barbie she'd be a "you can do anything" type 😕 liked by louellalourdes

alpinef1team have fun controlling those two 😩 i believe in you lou! liked by louellalourdes

louellalourdes i already got them on a leash don't worry admin! 🥰

alpinef1team stan lou villar for clear skin 🙌

charles_leclerc glad to work with you, bebe ❤️ liked by louellalourdes

louellalourdes my favourite co-writer 💅

[translation: i'm very proud of my darling.]

tagged louellalourdes

liked by lorenzotl, arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1

user1 CHARLOU ERA 😩

user2 my guy went from wanting to hop his homie to writing love songs with his homie-turned-lover ❤️

arthur_leclerc too many Ls and none of them belong to ella bella 😩

user3 it's okay you can say maddie lisandro

arthur_leclerc hehe

user4 BRO WHY YOU BEEFING WITH THE EX ARTHUR 😭

landonorris tell her that i love her new album please 😳 liked by charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc she said she can also sign the vinyl

landonorris can she give me new merch too?!!!

louellalourdes how much money do you earn per year again landonorris?

user5 YES BBY HUMBLE THEM

alex_albon i just want an autograph 👉👈

charles_leclerc since you asked nicely 🤩

maxverstappen1 charles stop exploiting her

charles_leclerc she has all of the clout 😕

user6 these millenials are making me cringe actually stfu charles 😭

user7 no deadass i'm actually physically cringing- don't say "clout" ever again

louellalourdes merci my love ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc

[hazelfoureyes]

Ugh. Fuck. You set the Alastor smut bar pretty fuckin high, ya know?

At that point I'm at mercy of two smut authors, you being one of them.

I try to find m o r e, but everytime I start to read something and see Alastor OOC, I'm just like "oh for fucks sake. I can't fap to this... *opens your master list and mumbles to herself* fuckin' Hazel... I swear to fuckin' god..."

Are you aware that you're wielding the power of writing one of the best smutty Alastors on that side of tumblr? Not only character-, but also situation-wise.

A great, captivating reads overall.

I shook your hand, now I'm damned forever.

Fuckin' smut chain 'round my neck, and your hand holding the other end.

And I hate that I love it so much.

I feel powerful! Alastor has Husk and Niffty, Ive got you 💖⛓️ okay so it MEANS ALOT TO ME because I’m the same! I settle into a smut and it gets crazy OOC and I’m like “well I can’t get off to this 😩”

You flatter me and got me all giddy over here 🥺

I’m your smut dom??

ଳ⊹₊ ⋆ masterlist

[4pfsukuna]

I uh have an announcement.

How would yall feel about about a satosugu threesome with reader? Like itll be the filthiest smut youve probably ever read… honestly ive already written 3k words and im only 1/4 of the way done heres a tiny piece.

“Shes also been extra angry lately all she wanted was some fun time with us—“ Gojo begins to guilt trip him but Suguru being the sly talker he is cuts him off moving to the table in front of you watching as another finger gets added inside of you.

“Oh ‘m sorry sweetheart, can you forgive me” he coos pulling his hair into a bun and you knew what that meant.

“No!” And while Gojo smacks your clit telling you to play nice Suguru dangerously licks his lips enjoying the sight of his two brats teasing him and toying with another. His dick twitches at the sight and it doesnt go unnoticed Gojo slaps your clit with more force making you squirm until your hips spasm and youre moaning his name indicating youre the first of the 3 to cum.

“Suguru why dont you show her how sorry you are and lick her clean” and neither of you are sure when Gojo took control but the sexual charge in the room was thick and if you two were working together then Suguru was happily at your mercy.

He rushes forward tongue darting out to lap up your juices while Gojo plays with your nipples through your tshirt. He moans as his lips wrap around your sensitive bud and you nearly lurch forward but Gojo keep you tightly against him pulling your chin to lock lips with his puffy ones. Getos tongue flicks against your clit as he pushes in two thick fingers your legs almost locked around his head which never bothered him but gojo forces your legs open with his right hand and adds two of his own long skinny fingers in your tight whole with Suguru. 

Your hips begin to buck madly against both of your lovers fingers a crazed smile on your face as you chase your orgasm both men in a trance at your sexual bliss. Sugurus left hand grips Gojos length matching the pace making sure you both knew how sorry he was  as he sucks harder on your nub.

“Youre doing so good princess, taking both of our fingers so well.” Gojo praises watching how you falter. Oh you were such a whore for being praised and an even bigger one when they both worshiped your body. 

“Oh you like having both of our fingers in your tight little cunt, huh? I can feel you clenching…shit… you look so pretty like this fuck i want to be in your pussy so deep and feel you squeeze around my cock like that fuck” he groans and satoru was always vocal but right now his words were going straight to your core at the complete filth he was spouting. You needed him badly. 

“Fuck Suguru” he groans in your neck at the way suguru squeezes his length precum spilling onto his hand.

[suzannahnatters]

Some weirdly specific tropes that I absolutely adore but rarely see: Platonic Love Triangle Two attractive people will battle to the death over the right to be friends with you (I wrote this in A Day of Darkness and otherwise have only seen it in the kdrama Tale of the Nine-Tailed 1938)

The UnChosen One In the magical fantasy world, everyone has super awesome magical powers, except the protagonist (A Dream of Fire by JR Rasmussen did this SO WELL and it made me SO HAPPY; I also plan to do it myself in an upcoming project, A Lord of Thorns and Teeth)

Dying Baby King Terminally ill teen boy should be asking out his crush and having fun, not killing himself running a country (I wrote this in The Lady of Kingdoms with my squishy darling Baldwin IV, and I've only ever seen it done otherwise in the Trevor Nunn movie My Lady Jane)

Disabled Love Interest Put your romantic male lead in a wheelchair you cowards (Stella Dorthwany's Song and Flame and @rj-anderson's Knife have two of the best disabled love interests I've seen)

Sword in the Bed You've heard of Only One Bed but this is the superior medieval variant: before they bunk down together one of them draws a naked sword and lays it in the bed between them (IIRC, it happens in the Welsh Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, and apart from that and some other medieval legends and fairytales, I've only seen it in an unfinished work by @rj-anderson auuuugh)

Fake Divorced Exactly what it says on the tin (I've never seen this? but DV I'll be writing it into the 5th Miss Dark book)

Bad Fictional Matriarchy What if the patriarchy was a fantasy matriarchy? It'd still be bad, obviously. I see this so rarely but it is always an opportunity for fantastic, layered social criticism (Greta Gerwig's Barbie movie did it well; I'm struggling to recall the one (1) other fantasy novel I read that did it!)

Sad Wet Puppy X Righteous Female Warrior ETL Enemies-to-lovers, but he's a skinny waterlogged little weirdo and she's the righteous paladin who is going to hound him to his destruction without mercy on the strength of her own heavenly wrath (it's the one thing in common between the kdrama Flower of Evil and the cdrama Till the End of the Moon and both of them sent me absolutely feral, plus I have an untitled project on the backburner that will give me the chance to do my own version of this...)

[tinydefector]

I like your human effect so much that I literally go to your blog every day and check if there is a new chapter, and could you add another chapter about Drift, thank you for your attention💓

Of secrets - Human effects

Warnings: talk of past events, hint to nudes.

Word count 2.7k

Before reading!: this piece follows very closely to Labratory Logs as they are part of the same universe and play out at the same time. For context behind this, you'll want to read chapter 5 of Labratory Logs.

Masterlist

Labratory Logs link

Prev Human effects chapter

Next

Ask and request are open

________

The Ambassador is rather worried as they walk down the corridors, they had been looking everywhere for Traxies after the young mech had taken off, they knew he was upset after the revelation he just had but they were still worried for him. Drift paused mid-stride as he saw the Human Liaison walking around

"Ambassador. You appear distressed. Has some trouble arisen?" Trouble often found its way aboard the Lost Light, but for the liaison to look this worried had him wondering what could have happened.

"Drift.. have you seen Traxies? Is he with Ratchet?" They ask worriedly. They really hoped the speedster hadn't taken off and disappeared on Thora 4, Drift shook his helm gently. "No he wasn't in Medical while I was there, has something happened?."

The ex-con is swift with sending a quick comm, he pinged Rodimus and Ratchet simultaneously. ::Traxies is missing. Ambassador is panicked, please keep an optic out for him:: Turning back to the Ambassador, he kneels down in offering for them to climb onto his servo. "I'm sure he will be alright, sometimes Mechs need to blow off steam."

Drift gently boosted the Ambassador up onto his shoulder, stabilising them with a servo as he continued striding purposefully through the halls, scanning corridor junctions with swift sweeps of his visor. "What caused Traxes to flee, if I may ask?." He spoke softly, Drift himself sadly didn't have a lot to do with Traxies, he adored the young mech but being an Ex-con he felt it was better to not get involved with the young mech.

The Ambassador sighs. "He.. he found out some information that he wasn't aware of, He was on a Comm with Optimus due to his time jump incident in the lab, because it really roughed him up and they got talking and Traxies learnt some information about his Past he wasn't aware off and just bolted" the Ambassador explains, they are worried about him that much Drift can see.

Drift nodded slowly, visor gleaming soothing sympathy. "I see. Ive let Rodimus and Ratchet know, they will keep an eye out for him, you look like you could use some food, and don't try and lie i can scan you, when was the last time you ate?"

The human lets out a nervous laugh. “Don't think I've had food since dinner last night, ended up staying with Traxies so Ratchet could Get recharge, and well now I've been looking everywhere for him” they just barely whisper.

“Let's get you some food and then we will see if anyone's seen Traxies, he could be hiding over with Megatron, the mech does have a soft spot For the little speedster and He also seems to know the best places to hide for when you need time alone” Drift explains as they begin heading towards the cafeteria.

Its quite between them for a while before the Liaison speaks again. "Drift what can you tell me about a Mech called Shockwave?" They inquire, even if they couldn't find traxies right now they could atheist try and get some information for the young mech.

At the question, a mild frisson of unease disturbed Drift's field. Memories arose of the hulking purple plating, that singular optic Mech who was that cold and calculating he had caused so much destruction during the war.

He vented softly trying to settle the memories. "Shockwave is... a mech not known for mercy or warmth. His methods in the name of progress, he harboured little regard for individual sparks." Carefully Drift continued. "During the war, he oversaw many brutal campaigns for the Decepticons. What horrors occurred beneath his watch, I dare not guess." His field pulsed bleak shadowy recollections, memories he'd long sought to distance himself from.

Halting, Drift knelt and faced the Ambassador fully, taking their hands in his own. "Why do you ask of such a mech?" Gently he probed. The Ambassador slowly melts into his side As they make their way into the nearly empty cafeteria “From what I could understand, Shockwave is Traxies Sire" they inform him. It's almost shocking news, not something the Decepticon turned Autobot had expected. Traxies the sweet little speedster who adored Rodimus was Shockwave's Sparkling. The fact the Shockwave had a sparkling was even more news to him. He had heard rumours but hadn't put any thought into them, he knew the mechs on ship were showing off pre war Photos of Shockwave and a Human but for Shockwave to also have a sparkling, it was shocking.

For long moments, Drift could only stare in stunned silence as the implications struck him. It defied comprehension. How had such a mech, who valued function over feeling to the greatest degree, come to spark new life? At last finding words, Drift vented shakily. "Primus have mercy...no wonder the poor bitlet has fled." Rage and sorrow twisted in his optics before he banked them sternly.

Drift has the ambassador placed on a table and he places food, drinks and energon on the table. He intended to stay with the Liaison For a little while, sharing a meal and finding out more information. They let out a small thank you as drift hands them a much smaller drink compared to his cube of Energon. Both of them quietly having their meal together.

Setting aside his energon, Drift turned his full focus upon them with a soft chime. "My friend, I can see turmoil continuing to weigh on your mind." He's gentle as he laid a servo over their leg, hoping it would bring some sort of reassurance over the situation.

"Drift, do you have access to pre war files from Cybertron?" They inquire there's something about Optimus' story that just doesn't make sense to them. He mentioned Shockwave and a Human had Traxies but that's not possible, humans didn't exist then. They take a sip of their drink and slowly eat their food as more thoughts flood their brain, so much about what Optimus said didn't line up or make a scene.

Drift on the other hand knew many of the bots would freak out if the humans found out about their secret forum, but at this rate Drift wanted to help the best he could. "I'll do some hunting and see if I can find any information for you, and I will sift through its , its not like I have much else but time on my plate." He chuckled slightly amused, it would give him something to do and also wouldn't have every mech on ship after him for giving them access to files in ‘those Forums’, but even talking to Brainstorm might give him some information.

"You'd do that?." They asked, eyes looking up into his optics and it nearly made his engine nearly stall for a moment. He could see why so many mechs were intrigued and interested in the Ambassador. “I'm more than willing to help however I can, But I have one request. Please don't tell anyone about this, Shockwave there's a lot of Mechs who would do a lot to get back at him, and I don't want to risk Traxies Safety, I'll let Ratchet know but please don't tell anyone about Shockwave.”

It makes the ambassador's eyes go wide in horror for a moment as they realise the severity of the situation. “I won't tell a soul” they promise. It makes Drift settle, it was the lease he could do to try and protect the Bitlet Ratchet adored so much. “I'll let you finish your rations, I'm going to head back and have a talk with Ratchet and see what information I can find about Shockwave for you”

That's how Drift found himself back on the holo sending messages and looking for information about Shockwave's past from before the war, back when he was a Senator.

Drift sighed as he scrolled endlessly through scavenged datapads and hocoblogs searching for any scrap of intel. He wasn't willing to go to Brainstorm yet because the scientist would ask too many questions, Swerve was too mouthy so here he was.

Most records from pre-war Iacon had been thoroughly scrubbed or destroyed. And trying to parse through the endless dreck filling every corner of the holonet these days was exhausting. And it was even harder trying to find the Particular forum that Brainstorm spoke of from the night of getting overcharged at Swerve's.

He found himself drifting back to the obscure rumours from back before he had become Deadlock, he knew Optimus and Ratchet were friends before the war but how did Optimus know Shockwave. “Ratchet, can I talk to you for a moment?” He calls out to the medic.

Ratchet looks up from the medical report he was reviewing and nods to Drift. "Of course, what can I help you with?" He sets the datapad aside and gives the swordsmech his full attention. Drift seems uncharacteristically hesitant as he steps over. His field is pulled in tight, aura flickering with hints of anxiety that instantly puts Ratchet on alert. He gestures to the seat beside his desk in an effort to help Drift feel more at ease.

"Is everything alright? Nothing amiss with your systems I hope?" Ratchet asks, concern seeping into his tone. Medical issues he can address directly, but he suspects this may be a more personal matter plaguing Drift. Nonetheless, he keeps his expression open and inviting.

Ratchet waits patiently for Drift to gather his thoughts. "Ratchet, I want to ask about Traxies, I've found out some information about him" Drift begins, it makes Ratchet vents deeply, old pain flitting across his optics. "I see. So you've uncovered Traxies origins."

He had known this day would come eventually, though he'd hoped to spare the young speedster the burden of that knowledge a little longer. "It's true, Shockwave is Traxies Sire," Ratchet says heavily.

"When Optimus first brought him to me I had no idea. The poor sparkling was damaged and traumatised after an attack on the Academy, Frag he was so young cried alot." Ratchet's gaze grows distant, remembering holding that tiny bot, so small and afraid. Watching Optimus weep and cry while he held such a small bitlet. Looking back to Drift, Ratchet gives a sad smile. "But it didn't matter to us. He needed protection, so we took him in. And over the vorns, he became as dear as any foundling could." Reaching over, Ratchet lays a servo on Drift's arm.

"Ratchet, Traxies Knows, Optimus told him.." Drift starts trying to find the right words. "The Ambassador was there for it, Traxies took off after. The liaison worried about him, after his Outlier abilities and now this, they are worry" Drift lets out a deep vent.

Ratchet curses softly under his breath. Of course Optimus, in all his wisdom, saw fit to divulge the truth to Traxies directly. And no doubt in his typical blunt, tactless manner.

"That glitched fool," Ratchet mutters, shaking his helm. "Optimus means well but he has all the emotional intelligence of a Petrobbit sometimes."

He looks back at Drift, expression etched with concern. "I should have been there, to help soften the blow." Drift squeezes Ratchet's arm reassuringly. "But what's done is done."

"The Ambassador is trying to find Photos, they think it would be nice for Traxies to at least have some sort of imagery of Shockwave, I'm trying to find Pre-war photos before he was 'That' back when he was the Senator and Head of The University of Science and discovery." They both knew what Drift was talking about.

Ratchet nods grimly as Drift explains the Ambassador's idea to find old images of Shockwave. He can't deny the logic behind the act, though it still sits uneasily with him.

"I understand the intention - trying to give him a connection to the mech Shockwave was before the war twisted him," Ratchet sighs. "But I worry seeing that past life will only hurt him more."

"Here. These are some of the forums that were going rather crazed when they found out about Human and Cybertronian compatibility, kept them in case I had any patients stupid enough to try and interface with a human. It has photos of Traxies Carrier too” he explains and it makes Drift stiffen in shock, Ratchet gives a sad smile. "I want what's best for the bitlet."

Drift gives Ratchet a smile before pressing his helm to the medics. “I believe thats what the ambassador wants too. Thank You Ratch” he hums softly before pulling away.

As Drift searches through the rather not safe for work, human/cybertronian forum it gets to the point he still can't find what he's looking for.

Hymns_Haven: Anybot save those files from the Shockwave/human conjunx phenomenon?

He stretched and cycled a ventilation, hoping for once luck might be on his side. His search had led to more dead ends than answers so far, but giving up wasn’t in his programming.

Drift hadn't expected a reply so soon, but within a groon another comment appeared

Con_Spiracy: Hey mech, think I actually have what you're looking for saved it when Commlink nearly had a crash due to it. Probably the same "Human Fragger" thread you dug up, right? I remember that mess, everybody was losing their minds over it!

At first we all thought it had to be a joke, I mean Shockwave? Really? But then some archive braniacs did some digging and actually found official Senate records to back it up. Would you believe the glitch was bonded to a human back in the cycle?!

Let me pull up that folder, I'll send you a link. Hope it's worth the wait ;)

Drift's spark pulsed rapidly in his chamber. An actual lead! And from the sound of it, not just rumours after all. He typed a quick reply:

Hymns_Haven: No slag, you've got to be kidding me. That's unreal, thanks for looking - couldn't be more grateful for pointing in the right direction. Anything you can send would be much appreciated!

Within a moment, a private link pinged in his messages. His digits shook slightly as he opened it, images and files spilling out before his optics. Drift dove in. It's nearly shocking how many mechs start coming out about the photos. But one message with a vid that caught Drift's attention.

It was Shockwave, an Emputra mech and the human man from the other standing together as they fiddled with the recorder. Laughter is heard from all three as they move around the lab laughing and poking fun at each other.

Titled 'Lab friends' just as soon as it appeared the sender had disconnected.

Drift's optics nearly blew a fuse at the image that appeared. There, in living colour, was Shockwave standing at casual ease between a grinning human and an Emputra mech. The timestamp on the file dates it back to before the war. “You two are fiends! stop ganging up on me” Shockwave's voice filters through the video Followed by more laughter.

He read the caption "Lab Friends" over and over in disbelief. It was real. Undeniable proof.

The Ambassador made their way back to the human quarters, slightly sluggish and worried about Traxies but the others had said they would do their best to find him. But the moment they are stopped by Millian, Nadia and Taylor who look rather excited thry know they are in for problems. "Hey boss we have some juicy intel for you" Nadia nearly sings.

At the excitable greeting, the Ambassador couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh? And what 'juicy intel' have you rascals uncovered this time?" They smiled fondly at their crew.

Millian spoke up with a gleam in their eye. "So it turns out Cybertronians have these kinda... underground forums. Where they talk about- well, us."

Taylor nodded, grinning. "Yup. Seems the big metal guys have had a thing for flesh, We found all sorts of sexy stories and art they've been sharing!"

Nadia laughed, giving the Ambassador a playful nudge. "Who knew we were such a kink for giant robots, huh? Think anyone onboard got a little soft spot?" The Ambassador shakes their head in amusement.

“Oh, oh don't forget, seems like quite a few have a thing for you Boss~” Nadia sings again. “we decided to you know give them a little content” she teases.

____________

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[evans23]

Daughter of mine V

Pairing : Judge Turpin x Daughter OC

Summary : Richard's daughter fell ill just before Christmas and he can only pray for a miracle.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : A bit of angst. Mention of prostitution and death. Awkward father. If I forget something, please mention it to me !

A/N: Hello dear 😁 Merry Christmas to all of you !

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

It had not taken more than one day for Catherine to fall ill after having spent the whole day outside, playing in the snow. Not a small cough or a low fever. No. A severe pneumonia.

Richard, beside himself, had threatened to fire the governess for having let his daughter rolling in the snow like a dog. Snow angels ! Only uneducated children enjoyed making snow angels. Not his daughter who had then stayed out the whole day with her damp clothes until his return.

If it hadn't been for the intervention of Anne and the butler, Richard would have fired her immediately.

"My lord, think with care how much Catherine likes her. it would break her heart to know that because of her and her illness, her governess was fired," Anne said, among a hundred other pleas that had had no effect on Richard decision.

This one, however had shaken him a little bit. Enough to make him change his mind. He didn't want to upset his daughter, not at a time when she didn't even have the strength to hold a glass of water in her hands.

It had started with a slight cough at the end of supper, a cough that had turned into an interminable coughing fit before bedtime. By the time it was time to go to bed, Catherine was burning with fever and Turpin had ordered for his doctor to be fetch urgently. The man had arrived in a hurry and had ordered that Catherine stay in bed until further notice.

"If she doesn't feel better in the morning, send someone to fetch me," he told Richard.

In the morning, Catherine was shivering, her fever had not gone down and she couldn't even stand the light of the day as her eyes made her suffer.

"Dad, it hurts everywhere in my body. Make the pain ebb away, dad," she begged Richard.

He had pretended to be indifferent to his daughter's plea in front of the servants, but as soon as he had reached his office in the Courthouse, his usual mask of coldness and stoicism had fallen, letting the worry etched on his features.

A servant had come during the day to tell him what the doctor had said. What should have just been a cold had evolved in less than one night into pneumonia. The child had to stay in bed and drink as much fluids as possible. She also had to eat a little, even if it was painful for her sore throat. It was the only way for her to keep her strength and recover.

That day, Richard had been more severe than usual, if it was possible. He had not temper justice with mercy at all. And if the man summoned to the bar had no good excuse for being sent to the Australian colonies, or better yet, hanged, he trusted The Beadle to make up an excuse so that he could administer the harshest sentences. However, for the first time, lashing out his anger in this way had done no good to him.

On his way home, he had stopped at the doctor's place to hear from him what he thought of Catherine's condition.

"Richard, she is frail, smaller than a child of her age should be and her constitution is much more fragile than normal," he had kindly answered.

"What does that mean ? She's not the first child with a weak constitution to fall ill. Many of them recover and reach adulthood. Look at that idiot of James, not only has he reached the more than respectable age of eighty years, but on top of that he has managed to reproduce himself and his son managed to do so after him, forcing me to have to put up with that bumbling of Matthew !" Turpin fumed.

It wasn't in his habits to let his emotions dominate him, but he knew that the doctor was right. Catherine was weaker than children of her age. No doubt it was due to the poor conditions in which she had grown up until she was seven, the lack of food that could have helped her grow and strengthen her immune system, the lack of time spent outdoors breathing fresh air and being in contact with other less serious diseases. Or maybe it was simply bad luck. After all, some children, even in the upper class, were born more delicate than others. At least in a rich family they were lucky enough to be treated by the best doctors and to have the best possible care. Catherine didn't sleep in a bed with rags for a blanket but in a big warm bed, in a room with a fireplace that her maid made sure to keep lit day and night. She would recover. She had to recover or Turpin wouldn't survive it, he knew it even though he tried so hard to lie to himself.

"The truth is, Richard, I cannot predict whether Catherine will recover or not. She is very young and the disease has spread in no time. It is one of the most severe pneumonias I have ever seen."

Richard looked at the doctor, disillusioned. The man had decades of experience, if he said that Catherine's condition was more than worrying, then he was telling the truth.

"But can she recover ?" Richard asked, his mask of stoicism still in place even if inside he was boiling with fear and rage.

"Of course. But I can't promise anything. Only time and the evolution of her condition will tell us if we can hope or not." the physician replied while handing over other bottles of a syrup that was supposed to help Catherine feel better.

Richard plunged his steely gaze into the doctor's ones, to probe his sincerity, but he saw no deception in them. When he returned that evening, Anne told him that the little girl's condition had deteriorated a little more and that she had swallowed nothing, neither water nor food, as her throat was causing her horribly pain.

Richard immediately went to her side, only to find that his laboured breathing and coughing were making it impossible for her to fall asleep.

"Da...dad," she spluttered.

"Catherine, you need to eat," Richard ordered as he saw an untouched plate on the nightstand.

"Not...not hungry," the sleepy child replied.

"My informants also told me that you have been refusing to drink. You will not recover if you do not hydrate yourself properly and regain your strength by eating."

With that, Richard took one of the toasts that rested on the plate and brought it to the child's mouth.

"No, daddy, please," she whined.

Helplessly, Richard put it down, but when he brought a glass of water to her mouth, he remained unyielding until she finished it. He then placed a hand on her forehead to see that it was burning, even more than in the morning. Her nightgown and sheets were soaked with sweat, so he ordered the servants to prepare a bath and change the bedding.

Catherine's maid took care of her in the bathroom, putting various essential oils including peppermint in the bath water to try to relieve the child's muscular aches and milder symptoms.

When she took her back to her bed, Richard was still there, a pitcher of water at his side. He was determined to see Catherine hydrate herself properly and eat a little. This took a great deal of patience, a patience he didn't know he had. He finally managed to coax her by promising to read for her if she ate half her toast, finished the whole pitcher of water by the end of the day, and took her medication without complain.

Later that evening, when she interrupted his reading to complain that her head was killing her, Richard rubbed diluted peppermint oil on her forehead and told her to sleep. Unfortunately, the poor child got no rest that night, the cough keeping her awake all night, making her vomit, and making the pain in her chest unbearable.

By the end of the week, Catherine's condition had not worsened, but it had not improved either. She was paler than the snow that had delighted her so much a week before, and her wheezing did not bode well.

The doctor was still unable to say whether Catherine would make it or not and could only give her the proper medication and ordering that she be kept in bed, kept warm, and forced to drink plenty of fluids and eat a little every day.

"Would a trip to the seaside do her any good ?" Richard asked.

He remembered his mother being sent to the coast when he was a child to recover from a similar pneumonia. But his mother was much better-built than Catherine and had a strong will.

"If it were summer, yes, but travelling in this changeable weather is not advisable. You might get stuck in the middle of the English countryside in the snow. Besides, the journey might be too tiring for her," the doctor had replied, "it would be best to keep her nice and warm here."

Two weeks later, Catherine was still not feeling better, and Richard was a bundle of nerves. Anything could send him into a fiery rage, even The Beadle had experienced it several times. At the manor, none of the servants dared to upset him. They scattered like mice as soon as they heard him arrive, only to disappear before suffering his wrath. To add to his bad mood, the festivities for the end of the year were beginning to be in full swing throughout London.

Richard had always hated Christmas. This holiday was linked to too many bad memories. Only bad memories. Despite Catherine's presence, it had not occurred to him to celebrate this cursed holiday or to decorate the house. He might have done so if she had asked him to, but she hadn't had the chance since she had fallen ill before. And now she might not even survive Christmas.

"My Lord, you need some rest," Anna said authoritatively.

Turpin gave her a dark look that didn't disturb him in the least.

"You will be of no use to anyone if you fall ill too. Catherine needs you by her side, in good health. Go and get some sleep, My Lord."

Richard told her coldly to mind her own business and the old maid left, but after she had gone he sighed heavily and listened to her. She was right, if he continued like this it was not one Turpin but two who would need to be taken care of and he couldn't afford to falter when his daughter needed him most.

Catherine would ask for him whenever he got home from the Courthouse. For the first time in years, Richard made a point of coming home before eight o'clock, his daughter's official bedtime, although she only slept fitfully now, when her persistent cough offered her some respite.

He would read her a few pages every night, put a few drops of peppermint on her forehead and a few drops of eucalyptus on her throat in the hope of helping her breathe to go better. He would kiss her on the forehead, wishing her some rest before retiring to his own rooms, where he would doze off like a log every night. Every morning, he would wake up hoping that she would be feeling a little better, but so far his hopes had always been dashed away.

However, there had been a glimmer of hope one morning, two weeks before Christmas, when her cheeks were slightly flushed and she seemed more awake than she had been before. She had eaten, not that much but at least three meals and had drunk water and tea with lemon and honey throughout the day, much to the relief of the household and her father who thought this was the beginning of her recovery.

That evening, when Richard had gone to join her to read her a few pages of a new book he had specially bought for her, she had talked to him about the hated holiday, as he had dreaded.

"Dad, when are we going to decorate the manor?" she had asked in a hoarse voice.

He hadn't answered. Instead he had asked her if she usually celebrated Christmas with her mother. She had answered that she had and that she had received gifts every year even though she knew that it was her mother who put them under the tree and that it was not much. A comb, an old second-hand book, a dress that her mother had taken up for her. Nevertheless, on Christmas Day, Elena didn't work and spent the whole day with her daughter making gingerbread cookies and reading her stories and that was all it took to make Catherine happy.

Because that day Catherine had been a little more lively and because she had worried about whether Christmas would take place or not, to her father's great disappointment, the whole Turpin manor had thought that the following days would see the child's recovery.

Unfortunately, the next day, her fever was higher than ever and she was coughing so much that she had ended up coughing up blood. The doctor had been called immediately and his diagnosis was not good.

"Richard, I don't want to be a bad omen, but you have to prepare for the worst..."

The doctor didn't have time to add anything before Richard's voice thundered throughout the manor as he ordered him to leave the premises immediately, which the man did but not before entrusting a list of medicines and herbs that should relieve the little girl to Anne.

Richard, who was drowning himself into his work to forget that his daughter was dying, hardly spent any time at the manor anymore. It was now Anne who took care of reading her stories and making her take her medicine. Catherine hardly ate anymore, and she, who was already not very thick, was now nothing more than a pile of flesh and bones. All the employees of the manor prayed to see the little girl recover while she did not stop asking for a father who didn't have the courage to see her waste away.

Colder and harsher than ever, Richard's judgments terrified even his colleagues, but not one of them would dare to make the slightest remark to him. Even The Beadle trembled when his boss called him into his office for fear of incurring unjustified wrath.

"You're an idiot," Anne told him one evening when he came home almost past midnight.

Richard had frozen, his eyes flashing. Anyone else would have shrunk in fear before him, but not the old woman who had seen far more worst.

"It's very cold outside and fresh snow will probably fall in a few days, it's to be feared, but trust me, I will have no mercy in throwing you out if you speak to me like that one more time," he had hissed coldly.

"I have no doubt. You have no heart, my lord. Only a heartless man would let his child call him in vain day and night."

And with these words being said, she had left him on the threshold of the still open door. Indeed, day and night, Catherine cried, screamed, begged for him to come and join her, but he couldn't bear to see her like this. He was going to lose her, he knew it and he cursed himself for having allowed himself to let her cross the walls he had erected all around him and the barrier of ice around his heart that had protected him all these years from the sorrow of life.

"Sir ?" said the butler's voice.

Richard, who was in his parlour, raised his head to acknowledge his presence. The butler brought him something to eat and a brandy, his favourite. He placed the tray and the bottle of alcohol on Richard's desk, but as he was about to take his leave, he hesitated, biting his lip.

"Something askew ?" asked Richard arching an eyebrow.

Upstairs, Catherine tossed and turned, her fever having soaked her sheets once again. She had vomited several times after having uncontrollable coughing fits and her fever was making her delirious. She had called her mother several times and had even mistaken her governess for the late woman several times, begging her to relieve her of her ordeal.

"Sir... I believe you must know something," the butler finally said in a cautious voice.

"And what ?" Richard thundered.

"You should ask Anne about that night in March when your mother asked to meet your Elena," and with that, the butler left without asking for more.

Surprised, his mouth hanging open, Richard remained unresponsive. The butler couldn't know about his past with Catherine's mother, since he didn't work for him yet. What on earth had Anne told him about ?

"You asked for me ?" asked the old maid he had immediately summoned.

"I don't know if I'm mad with rage or just disappointed. A bit of both, I guess," he hissed, his voice cold and sharp as a blade.

"What do you mean, my lord ?" asked the old woman, confused.

"What right do you have to talk about my private life with the employees ? You're not paid to spread gossip !"

Anne immediately understood what he was referring to.

"No one else knows except your butler. I told him because..."

She fell silent, hesitant, but Richard's look made her understand that she had no choice but to tell him the truth.

"He and I are having an affair. I know he can be trusted, and I confided to him because my heart ached for you, my lord, and for little Catherine," she said in one breath.

Richard, stunned by the news, might have been amused about the new of his head maid and his butler having an affair if his daughter were not struggling and losing the fight for her life upstairs.

"And what did he mean about that March night?"

"That night, my lord, I confess, I eavesdropped at the door..."

Richard was not ready to hear the maid's confidences. Because they called to question everything he had believed until now.

That March night, Richard's mother had had Elena brought by force to the manor where she lived with her husband near Windsor. There, she had threatened her on the purpose to force her to leave Richard. She, a girl of nothing, from a family of nothing, without a name, without a title, without money. Never could the Turpin name have been more sullied than with this whore who had given herself to their son without even being married. But the young woman, unyielding, had refused to accede to her mother's request. Elena had resisted, even when she had been threatened to be brought to Turpin's father, a violent man who would beat her until she listened to reason, or who would have killed her.

Seeing that nothing could convince Elena to give up Richard, her mother, perfidious, vile creature, had adopted another tactic. It was not Elena she was going to attack but her own son. She would have him disinherited, something she would have had no trouble to convince his father to do, she would have him disowned and he would lose everything. His title, his prestige, his job at the Court of London, his brand new wealth and his brand new manor whose he was so proud. If Elena refused to leave Richard, then she would destroy her son. And Elena, madly in love with Richard, had agreed to sacrifice her own happiness for the man she loved more than anything in the world. More than her own life.

"You know your parents would have done it without a regret," Anne said at the end of her story.

Oh yes, he knew it. His parents, those cold and distant beings who only lived for appearances would have had no regrets in throwing their one and only heir in poverty, only because he didn't meet the standard of his rank.

"Did she know ? About the child ?" Richard asked, his voice betraying his dismay.

"I do not know, my lord. No pregnancy was mentioned that night."

"Thank you Anne."

Without a glance at the maid, Richard, his gait stiff, left his property without even bothering to put on a coat as the wind whistled all its rage outside, making the windows of the manor shake.

Air, he needed air. Elena. His Elena. The one he had cursed every night since she had left him without a word, disappearing like a shadow in the night, his Elena had acted out of pure love for him, to protect him. And when he had the chance to help her, to bring her back on the right path, to give her a roof over her head and a decent life, that night when he had seen her in that brothel, he had preferred to look the other way and leave her for what he thought she was then : a common whore who deserved nothing better than the life of a slut she was leading.

Richard fell to his knees on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral.

"Oh, Elena ! What have I done !"

For the first time since he was eight, the age at which, after having been beaten to a pulp by his father for having stolen a cupcake from the kitchen, he had sworn he would never cry again, Richard began to sob.

His Elena had died because of her family. Because of him. And now his daughter was going to die. Turpin, that name was cursed ! It was cursed ! Everything that was beautiful and brought him a little joy and love was destined to wither and die at his side.

"Sir, are you all right ?"

Richard jumped. In front of him stood a priest.

"I... I..." he stammered.

It was the first time Richard was speechless. The man of God invited him to go inside the cathedral to get out of the rain.

"Do you want to talk ?" he offered.

"No. Not with you," Richard replied coldly.

"With him then ?" the priest offered, pointing to the cross of Christ.

He gently squeezed Richard's shoulder before leaving him alone with himself and his thoughts. Richard didn't know if he was a believer or not. He had been raised as an Anglican, but his profession had long since led him to believe that he himself was a god, with the power of life and death over those brought before him in the Courthouse.

No, Richard did not believe in any god. If there was a god, he would not let gentle women like Elena end up selling their bodies and dying in poverty. He would not let children be beaten for things they did not do, he would not let women be raped in the dark streets of London. He would not take his daughter from him. But just in case he was wrong and a higher power was there, ready to listen, he prayed for Catherine. Just in case.

He returned to the manor several hours later, soaking wet, and Anne immediately ordered a bath for their master while she brought him a hot drink and wrapped him in a thick bath towel.

"Anne, ask the servant to have the manor decorated," Richard asked, his voice less steady than usual;

"My lord?"

"Catherine asked me if the manor would be decorated for Christmas. It will be. Ask the servant to get to work on it tomorrow," he ordered before heading to the bathroom.

"Yes, my lord," the servant replied, amazed.

Never since she had worked for him had she seen the manor decorated for the holidays. Yet, the next evening, when Richard had returned from the Courthouse, the entire manor was breathing the festive spirit.

He had gone to his daughter's bedside, a plate of gingerbread cookies and a cup of warm milk in his hands. Too happy to see her father care about her, she had made the effort to eat a little and drink the whole cup, just to please Richard.

"You must try to sleep now," Richard told her, placing a kiss on her forehead.

He shivered as the fever that had been gone for the last two days and had now returned. During the night, a servant came to wake him to tell him that Catherine was vomiting blood and was barely breathing. The doctor had come as quickly as he could, but there was little more he could do.

"If she makes it through the night, then there's a chance she'll live," he had told Richard before leaving.

That night, Richard had returned to St. Paul's Cathedral. It was the day before Christmas Eve. Two days before that cursed day he hated more than anything in the world. His daughter, the apple of his eyes, could not die on the day she loved so much. She would not be one more bad memory to bear during this cursed holiday.

He came home late that night and went straight to her side to watch over her. Richard must have fallen asleep because the last thing he remembered was covering Catherine with an extra blanket after she complained about being cold, and now something was shaking him. He groaned in displeasure, cracking his eyes open to see what was disturbing his sleep.

"Catherine ?"

The little girl's eyes were wide open and the gray veil that had accompanied them for the last few weeks had faded. Beautiful colour had returned to her face and her fever had definitely broken.

"I'm hungry, dad," the little girl said hoarsely, her throat still scratchy from her days of coughing nonstop.

Richard laughed heartily, the joy invading him almost too much to bear. Food was immediately brought in and he watched her eat with gusto to his delight. The doctor had come once more, only to state that the worst was behind them.

"She must not go out. She must stay warm, but she can leave her bed. But no strenuous activities. And she must continue to take her medication until I say she can stop," he had ordered.

That afternoon, wrapped in a thick dressing gown and a woolen blanket, Richard had carried her around the manor to show her the decorations, Hector trotting happily beside them. The little dog had not left his little mistress's room during her bed rest and he seemed as happy as the rest of the household to see her recover.

Catherine's eyes lit up when she saw the many gifts waiting for her under the tree. She had never had so many presents just for her.

"But you can't open them until tomorrow," Richard reminded her kindly.

"Thanks, dad," she said, pressing her head against his neck.

Richard laughed, telling her to wait and see what the packages contained before thanking him. After all, she might be disappointed.

"No, I'll like them. I've never had anything new before."

Once again, Richard's heart sank at the child's words. He held her a little tighter, then carried her back to her bed. Early in the evening, she was again allowed to get up and accompany him to the parlour, where he made her comfortable on a sofa in front of the fire. He read her a Christmas Carol until she fell asleep.

When he had finished the book, he carefully lifted the frail, undersized body and carried his daughter back to her bed. He pulled the blanket up to her chin, making sure she was warm, Hector at the foot of the bed was watching over her. The fire crackled in the fireplace and fresh water had been brought along with more gingerbread cookies.

Richard stood for a moment watching his daughter sleep when the sound of bells startled him. He walked over to the window to watch London spread out before him, the moon reflected in the Thames, the church bells announcing Christmas. The bells of Christmas, which brought him good news with the unexpected recovery of his only child.

"I will take good care of her Elena," Turpin whispered into the night, "I have failed to be the husband you needed, but I will be the father Catherine needs. I will take good care of our daughter."

With that he turned, walked briskly to Catherine's bed and kissed her forehead. He blew out the many candles, leaving only one lit, and left the room, not without one last glance at the child's sleeping form.

"Merry Christmas, daughter of mine."